Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for May, 2014

.As You Live Is As You Die

To hear a fun’ral service done –
How praised is the departed one –
You’d think this earth had never held
A devil, and none ever dwelled
Here in the form of mortal men,
And all were free of any sin.

For burial, the body’s cleaned;
So, too, the nastiness is gleaned
By relatives and saddened friends
And through the washer’s many spins,
Till reputation’s made so pure,
You’d never know ‘twas once manure.

It seems that some confusion reigns
Within our sad heart-broken brains.
So when someone has bought the farm,
We think there’s been a great reform.
Death means you are not here (you ain’t)) –
Not that you’re suddenly a saint.

So Death gets more than it is due
By those whose lives have been made blue.
When sickle swings that final day,
Death cannot carve all sins away.
Instead, Death comes with lock and key
And seals the logs eternally.

Read Full Post »

I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand,
In such a way that the extremest band
Of brittle seaweed will escape my door
But by a yard or two; and nevermore
Shall I return to take you by the hand;
I shall be gone to what I understand,
And happier than I ever was before
The love that stood a moment in your eyes,
The words that lay a moment on your tongue;
Are one with all that in a moment dies,
A little under-said and over-sung.
But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies
Unchanged from what they were when I was young.

Read Full Post »


And In Many Seasons

In the spring,
Two flowers in bloom –
Daffodils.

——————–

 

The Bright, The Black

Rare picture
Both sun’s light, night’s dark.
Two beauties.

——————–

 

Who Sees?

Does the sea
See love hanging there?
Do we see?

———————

Seasons – photo by Maciej Lewandowski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mfPRQA2/Two+vintage+cars

Bright – photo by Manu Mohan at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mgF4kDo/Butterfly

Sees – photo by Miguel Saavedra at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/1mQUBx/Cruceiro+form+Galicia+1

———————-

* 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.

Read Full Post »

…………….Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
‘Good-morning,’ and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Read Full Post »

…………………..A Rainstorm

I smell the sweet smell that the rain is a’coming,
And soon it will sound like God’s fingers are drumming,
And tapping a message to answer my pleading:
I’m here and I hear and your prayer I am heeding.

The gray clouds grow darker, then black while advancing;
The cedars below are excited and dancing.
They sway in the rush of the wind from the storming
As though for a lover a courtship performing.

The shower draws nearer and blots out the valley.
Then, lightning, and rumble, like pins in an alley.
I hear on the leaves of the trees a soft patter
And pitter of raindrops that climbs to a clatter.

And even while standing ‘neath deck’s roof for shelter,
So many sensations leave senses a welter:
The gusting, the pouring, the lightning, the thunder –
I’m damp and I’m cold as the wind shares the wonder.

I watch as the grayness grows darker around me;
I marvel that drought or dread doubt had once bound me.
While off of my roof rolls the rain like a river,
I stand and give thanks to my God the life-giver.

Read Full Post »

Adrift! A little boat adrift!
And night is coming down!
Will no one guide a little boat
Unto the nearest town?

So Sailors say – on yesterday –
Just as the dusk was brown
One little boat gave up its strife
And gurgled down and down.

So angels say – on yesterday –
Just as the dawn was red
One little boat – o’erspent with gales –
Retrimmed its masts – redecked its sails –
And shot – exultant on!

Read Full Post »

           It’s In The Will

Joan Rivers has had her face lifted
More than San Andreas has shifted.
.   When she’s dead a year,
.   Another’ll be near
By surgeon who’s really quite gifted.

——————————————-

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

Read Full Post »

……………….Ulalume

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere –
The leaves they were withering and sere:
It was night, in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir –
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul –
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll –
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Mount Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole –
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere –
Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) –
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here) –
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to the morn –
As the star-dials hinted of morn –
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn –
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said: “She is warmer than Dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs –
She revels in a region of sighs.
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies –
To the Lethean peace of the skies –
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes –
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said, “Sadly this star I mistrust –
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Ah, hasten! – ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! – let us fly! – for we must.”
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust –
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust –
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied: “This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night: –
See! – it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright –
We surely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom –
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb –
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: “What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied: “Ulalume – Ulalume –
‘Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere –
As the leaves that were withering and sere –
And I cried: “It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed – I journeyed down here! –
That I brought a dread burden down here –
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber –
This misty mid region of Weir –
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

Said we, then – the two, then: “Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls –
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls –
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds –
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds –
Have drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls –
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?”

Read Full Post »


But What?

To driver
Wife says, “Look, a sign!
Do SOMETHING!

——————–

 

Indeed!

Keep chasing
The frantic deadlines
End at D E A D.

——————–

 

 

Darkness, A Veil

Misty fog,
Disappearing tracks –
The future.

——————–

What? – photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nXIJTU4/Old+sign

Indeed! – photo by Steve Woods at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dzxBLe/Deadline

Darkness – photo by Johnny Berg at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mjzQdU4/Lost+track%3F

——————–

* 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.

Read Full Post »

…………..Luke Havergal

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen she will call.
Go the western gate, Luke Havergal –
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything;
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies –
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this –
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, for the winds are tearing them away, –
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal –
Luke Havergal.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »