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Archive for March, 2015

 


How Tweet It Is!

Old fashioned
S
ocial media –
A selfie.

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Light And Shade 

A study
In geometry –
Shadows, shapes.

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Two Harvests

Golden field,
Ripe for the harvest,
And the wind.

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Tweet – photo by Miguel Saavedra at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/dJV91o/Tree+shadows+%26amp%3B+photographe

Light – photo by Scott Liddell at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mjQryo2/Walkway+with+Columns

Harvests – photo by Johnny Berg at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mjzJrJA/Golden+Mill

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* 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/

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

 

 

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……………………Labor

We have fed you all for a thousand years,
And you hail us still unfed,
Though there’s never a dollar of all your wealth
But marks the workers’ dead.
We have yielded our best to give you rest,
And you lie on crimson wool;
For if blood be the price of all your wealth
Good God, we ha’ paid in full! 

There’s never a mine blown skyward now
But we’re buried alive for you;
There’s never a wreck drifts shoreward now
But we are its ghastly crew:
Go reckon our dead by the forges red,
And the factories where we spin.
If blood be the price of your cursed wealth
Good God, we ha’ paid it in! 

We have fed you all for a thousand years,
For that was our doom, you know,
From the days when you chained us in your fields
To the strike of a week ago.
You ha’ eaten our lives and our babes and wives,
And we’re told it’s your legal share;
But if blood be the price of your lawful wealth,
Good God, we ha’ bought it fair.

 

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…………
Pull Up A Chair

For man, there is a wealth of blue
The sky above, the open sea;
And land that stretches wide and far –
God gave us gifts abundantly. 

Look out upon God’s awesome world –
What’s good and right is waiting there.
For all He made, have gratitude –
Enjoy life, pull up a chair.

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photo by Ariel da Silva Parreira at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhgmqz2/Umbrellas+at+beach

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

 

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……………………Venice

White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest
So wonderfully built among the reeds
Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,
As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!
White water-lily, cradled and caressed
By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds
Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds,
Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!
White phantom city, whose untrodden streets
Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting
Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;
I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets
Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting
In air their unsubstantial masonry.

 

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The Rugged Individual

Lonely tree –
A few little friends,
But no peer.

— 

A case of
Bloom where you’re planted –
You’ll stand out.

— 

Do what’s right,
E’en when none else do.
Be yourself.

——————–

photo by Cristiano Galbiati at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meLs6uS/Trees+in+the+desert

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* 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, 2015.

 

 

 

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Out In The Fields With God

The little cares that fretted me
I lost them yesterday,
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees;
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what may happen,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the rustling of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born –
Out in the fields with God.

 

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………

Sonnet 52 – The Tide Of Spring

The tide of Spring comes washing through the woods
Pushed by the vernal moon, pulled by our pining.
As welcome as a million Robin Hoods,
The youthful paint’s a feast for our eyes’ dining.

What merriment it puts into our hearts!
What joy that Nature once again is living!
The cold dry husk that’s Earth flies wide apart;
We view the riches it is ever giving.

When Winter leaves a hemisphere behind,
A weight is gone; a burden has been lifted.
Gone is its rude assault on body, mind;
The harshness to another half is shifted.

We’re stirred by Spring since life begins anew;
Hope is fulfilled with the most lovely view.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nxHKzle/Woodland+flowers+in+spring ——————–

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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…………….Brahma

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again. 

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame. 

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. 

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven,
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

 

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……………The Nap

A touring bus takes many stops,
And all is tightly planned –
A ballet dance with leaps and hops
In tune with time’s quick sand.

Among the first heard from the guide
Are words that set the stage
About the dance that is the ride,
“Stay on the same time page.”

“If minutes for a photo op
Are only scheduled ten,
Then there’s no time to stop and shop;
We must be off again.”

“The same is true if hours are two;
You might be left behind
(If you’re a snail distractions woo),
Lest we be in a bind.”

It’s even worse when there’s no bus.
Guide naps; time does not keep.
Oh, well, we fail, yes each of us –
‘Tis God who does not sleep.

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On a tour I took in 2014, the bus driver
gave us the usual warnings about being
on time.  In the afternoon, he took off
in the bus and took a nap and was late
picking us up!

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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…………………God’s Acre

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God’s-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust. 

God’s-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvest grow.

 

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