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Archive for February, 2014

        Love And A Question 

A Stranger came to the door at eve,
   And he spoke the bridegroom fair.
He bore a green-white stick in his hand,
   And, for all burden, care.
He asked with the eyes more than the lips
   For a shelter for the night,
And he turned and looked at the road afar
   Without a window light. 

The bridegroom came forth into the porch
   With, “Let us look at the sky,
And question what of the night to be,
   Stranger, you and I.”
The woodbine leaves littered the yard,
   The woodbine berries were blue,
Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
   “Stranger, I wish I knew.” 

Within, the bride in the dusk alone
   Bent over the open fire,
Her face rose-red with the glowing coal
   And the thought of her heart’s desire.
The bridegroom looked at the weary road,
   Yet saw but her within.
And wished her heart in a case of gold
   And pinned with a silver pin. 

The bridegroom thought it little to give
   A dole of bread, a purse,
A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,
   Or for the rich a curse;
But whether or not a man was asked
   To mar the love of two
By harboring woe in the bridal house,
   The bridegroom wished he knew.

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Some men are a field that lies fallow,
Not useful to man or to God.
They are not a light but the tallow. 

The sun leaves their faces still sallow.
Like horses that pull plows, they plod.
Some men are a field that lies fallow. 

They’re leaves that are dried and not aloe.
There’s form but no life, just façade.
They are not a light but the tallow. 

They’re vulgar, and earthy – not hallow.
They rise not above the rough sod.
Some men are a field that lies fallow. 

Self-centered, they’re callous and callow.
All others are outside and odd.
They are not a light but the tallow. 

Their view of this life is quite shallow.
Their ignorance keeps them a clod.
Some men are a field that lies fallow.
They are not a light but the tallow.

——————————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

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Silver Threads Among The Gold

Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold,
Shine upon my brow today,
Life is fading fast away;
But, my darling, you will be
Always young and fair to me,
Yes! my darling, you will be
Always young and fair to me. 

   Chorus:
   Darling, I am growing old,
   Silver threads among the gold,
   Shine upon my brow today;
   Life is fading fast away. 

When your hair is silver white,
And your cheeks no longer bright,
With the roses of the May,
I will kiss your lips and say:
Oh! my darling mine alone,
You have never older grown. 

   (Chorus) 

Love can never more grow old,
Locks may lose their brown and gold,
Cheeks may fade and hollow grow,
But the hearts that love will know;
Never, never, winter’s frost and chill,
Summer warmth is in them still. 

   (Chorus) 

Love is always young and fair,
What to us is silver hair,
Faded cheeks or steps grown slow,
To the heart that beats below?
Since I kissed you mine alone,
You have never older grown. 

  (Chorus)

———————————– 

Sung and played by Foster & Allen (4:23)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVCHCwtaxoc

 

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Pigeon Play

Game over:
I’m number one.  You’re
Number two.

——————–


The Lifeguard

Beginners,
But they’re naturals.
Relax, Mom.

———————


Spider Wealth

In the web,
A morning treasure –
Dew diamonds.

———————

Pigeon – photo by Kevin Tuck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mvX6u1q/White+pigeons

Lifeguard – photo by Mirna Sentic at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mzMC3KU/duck+and+ducklings

Wealth – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mEcYA1I/Spider

——————–

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
——————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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           Barbara Frietchie

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about the orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall; 

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down; 

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

“Halt!” – the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!” – out blazed the rifle blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

“Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word; 

“Who touches a hair of yon grey head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said. 

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet: 

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of freedom and union, wave! 

Peace, and order, and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

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                Last Freeze

The long, gray winter’s cold we bear
With caps and coats our daily wear.
In patience, face the wailing wind
And waves of snow that never end –
            We stoic stones.   

We set our soldier’s sights in fall
To face the duty of our call.
We double dress in double time
Against the months of hoary rime
            With our cold groans. 

We bear up well against the brunt
Of blizzards from the northern front
And hold our lines like seasoned Joes
Amid the frigid bitter foes
            That bite our bones. 

And then, at last, the hint of spring
As some snow melts and robins sing.
Our hearts soar up from roads to skies
Like kites to-ward the sun can rise
            For warming loans. 

But winter always has a last
Cold breath – a laugh, a freezing blast
That takes the wind from sailing soul
Just as it thought it reached the goal –
            Instead, bemoans. 

The last cold-hearted winter freeze
That nips the bud on tender trees.
Is harder than the whole before
Since budded heart has spring in store –
            The hope it owns.

———————————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

                              

                                          

 

 

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                    The Pasture 

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan’t be gone long. – You come too. 

I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother.  It’s so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan’t be gone long. – You come too.

—————————————————

analysis, summary, comments:

http://poetry.about.com/od/poems/a/frostpasture.htm

http://www.humanities360.com/index.php/poetry-analysis-the-pasture-by-robert-frost-2-1554/

http://poemshape.wordpress.com/2009/05/05/robert-frosts-the-pasture/

http://www.scribd.com/doc/29412773/The-Pasture-Robert-Frost

 

 

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It’s Not Football Season
 

All it takes
For this circumstance –
Full stomach.

 

Consider:
What more can man ask?
Or a dog?

——————–

illustration by Billy Frank Alexnder at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dRXCHI/man+in+chair

——————–

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

——————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

 

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The Passionate Shepherd To His Love

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit upon the rocks
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks.
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

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I ate my way through Texas
   One Christmas season past.
All it took was an appetite,
   And driving hard and fast. 

I breakfasted in Corpus;
   Ate lunch in San Antone;
Had peachy cream in Fredericksburg,
   The biggest ice cream cone. 

I darted up to Llano,
   And ate some barbeque.
I still felt rather perky
   As I drank some Mountain Dew. 

I snacked a bit in Abilene;
   In Snyder, I ate steak.
I passed on a second piece of pie –
   ‘Twas all that I could take. 

In Post, I drove through the Dairy Queen,
   Had a burger and some fries.
I began to see a line of food
   Rise in me to my eyes. 

In Amarillo, I chug-a-lugged
   Three liters of some coke.
I think it was the salty fries
   That made me a thirsty bloke. 

The Oklahoma border was
   Then not too far away.
And I was glad, for my stomach had had
   A fairly busy day. 

My car was tired; I’d driven far –
   Nigh seven hundred miles.
But I found a place, bought a root beer float
   And I was full of smiles. 

I had them fix a gallon
   Which I drank till Perryton.
And I paused to rest, with a sudden pain –
   Well… – there was more than one. 

I stood outside my resting car;
   Then faced toward Lubbock – south.
And all of a sudden I let a belch
   That blew off half my mouth. 

And I watched in awe at the wind I saw
   That blew down ‘cross the plain
And kicked up the dust and the tumbleweeds
   Worse than a hurricane. 

They said it turned the day to night
   The dust storm was so bad.
And the boom of the belch was an atom bomb
   (They thought, from Stalingrad). 

They had it rough, but the belch was enough
    To change me and my mood
I hit the border of Oklahoma
    In search of a little food.

—————————————————

The route in the poem is from the Texas Gulf Coast
north through the Panhandle of Texas to the Panhandle
of Oklahoma, and is about 700 miles.

—————————————————

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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