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Archive for January, 2016

My leg was never in a cast,
Nor has my arm been in a sling.
I think my hide is pretty tough –
I’ve never broken anything! 

Oh – but when bottles once were glass,
I held a cola by the neck
And felt it slide like pucks on ice,
And promptly stepped upon its wreck. 

Too – once there was a broken heart.
How many pieces? – I don’t know.
The shattered glass one cannot count,
Nor shards of hope that do not glow. 

Lest I forget – a promise made
That was not kept – a carelessness?
Or was I rash with tongue and lip? –
I broke the words I meant to bless. 

Stored in my painful memories,
Some broken bits of glass still sting.
My bones are whole, but I can’t say
I’ve never broken anything!

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

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‘Twas a long Parting – but the time
For Interview – had Come –
Before the Judgment Seat of God –
The last – and second time 

These Fleshless Lovers met –
A Heaven in a Gaze –
A Heaven of Heavens – the Privilege
Of one another’s Eyes – 

No Lifetime – on Them –
Appareled as the new
Unborn -except They had beheld –
Born infiniter – now – 

Was Bridal – e’er like This?
A Paradise – the Host –
And Cherubim – and Seraphim –
The unobtrusive Guest –

 

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oVcKSXU

 

1

Curling lip,
Open mouth, big teeth,
Green whiskers.

 

2

Peering face,
With two eyes beneath
A green hat.


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photo by wernerb at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oVcKSXU/Under+the+roof…

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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, 2016.

 

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The shell of objects inwardly consumed
Will stand till some convulsive wind awakes;
Such sense hath Fire to waste the heart of things,
Nature such love to hold the form she makes. 

Thus wasted joys will show their early bloom,
Yet crumble at the breath of a caress;
The golden fruitage hides the scathed bough;
Snatch it, thou scatterest wide its emptiness. 

For pleasure bidden, I went forth last night
To where, thick hung, the festal torches gleamed;
Here were the flowers, the music, as of old;
Almost the very olden time it seemed. 

For one with cheek unfaded (though he brings
My buried brothers to me in his look)
Said, ‘Will you dance?’ At the accustomed words
I gave my hand, the old position took. 

Sound, gladsome measure! at whose bidding once
I felt the flush of pleasure to my brow,
While my soul shook the burthen of the flesh,
And in its young pride said, ‘Lie lightly, thou!!’ 

Then, like a gallant swimmer, flinging high
My breast against the golden waves of sound,
I rode the madd’ning tumult of the dance,
Mocking fatigue, that never could be found. 

Chide not – it was not vanity, nor sense,
(The brutish scorn such vaporous delight,)
But Nature, cadencing her joy of strength
To the harmonious limits of her right. 

She gave her impulse to the dancing Hours,
To winds that weep, to stars that noiseless turn;
She marked the measure rapid hearts must keep,
Devised each pace that glancing feet should learn. 

And sure, that prodigal o’erflow of life,
Unvowed as yet to family or state,
Sweet sounds, white garments, flowery coronals
Make holy in the pageant of our fate. 

Sound, measure! but to stir my heart no more –
For, as I moved to join the dizzy race,
My youth fell from me; all its blooms were gone,
And others showed them, smiling, in my face. 

Faintly I met the shock of circling forms
Linked each to other, Fashion’s galley-slaves,
Dream-wondering, like an unaccustomed ghost
That starts, surprised, to stumble over graves. 

For graves were ‘neath my feet, whose placid masks
Smiled out upon my folly mournfully,
While all the host of the departed said,
‘Tread lightly – thou art ashes, even as we.’

 

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A kitchen with a cook that’s wild
Has flour everywhere.
A layer, white, on counter lays,
And on his hands and hair.
 

And when we would describe the scene
To let another know
We’d say that all was covered white –
‘Twas blanketed with snow. 

One starts a fire with solid wood,
And things that cannot fly
Since they are solid mass, and weight
Is what they’re anchored by. 

But let the flames lick hungrily,
And heat will upward flow.
Then flake-like ashes from the fire
Fall from the sky like…snow. 

In blizzards, flakes like ashes fall;
The trees are white-capped waves.
The ground becomes the ocean’s foam
Thick like a face man shaves. 

Then all the world is blanketed
And all shapes, rounded, grow.
And we are then without a word,
For what’s like snow is – snow!

 

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

 

 

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Behold the rocky wall
That down its sloping sides
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall,
In rushing river-tides! 

Yon stream, whose sources run
Turned by a pebble’s edge,
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun
Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 

The slender rill had strayed,
But for the slanting stone,
To evening’s ocean, with the tangled braid
Of foam-flecked Oregon, 

So from the heights of Will
Life’s parting stream descends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,
Each widening torrent bends, – 

From the same cradle’s side,
From the same mother’s knee, –
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,
One to the Peaceful Sea!

 

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One haiku,
No picture. Problem? –
Computer.

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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, 2016.

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Thou silent herald of Time’s silent flight!
Say, could’st thou speak, what warning voice were thine?
Shade, who canst only show how others shine!
Dark, sullen witness of resplendent light
In day’s broad glare, and when the noontide bright
Of laughing fortune sheds the ray divine,
Thy ready favors cheer us – but decline
The clouds of morning and the gloom of night.
Yet are thy counsels faithful, just, and wise;
They bid us seize the moments as they pass –
Snatch the retrieveless sunbeam as it flies,
Nor lose one sand of life’s revolving glass –
Aspiring still, with energy sublime,
By virtuous deeds to give eternity to Time.

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The safest place on earth should be the womb,
Wrapped by maternal love instilled by God above.
But love of self makes it a killing room.

It’s woman’s greatest glory and her plume
That God made her the one, to bear a daughter, son.
The safest place on earth should be the womb.

A child is weaved in her; she is the loom.
Conception’s grand event – new human’s great advent.
But love of self makes it a killing room.

A tiny bud is just a folded bloom
Woe to the gardener who snips – the murderer!
The safest place on earth should be the womb.

Too oft, the wicked rides upon her broom
And sweeps away the child that has her life defiled,
And love of self makes it a killing room.

There is no right to bring another doom.
The murder’s always wrong, e’en when it’s sung as song.
The safest place on earth should be the womb,
But love of self makes it a killing room.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

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When our baby died –
My Ma she ist cried an’ cried!
Yes ‘n’ my Pa he cried, too –
An’ I cried – An’ me an’ you. –
An’ I ‘tended like my doll
She cried too – An’ ever’ – all –
O ist ever’body cried
When our baby died!

When our baby died –
Nen I got to took a ride!
An’ we all ist rode an’ rode
Clean to Heav’n where baby goed –
Mighty nigh! – An’ nen Ma she
Cried ag’in – an’ Pa – an’ me. –
All but ist the Angels cried
When our baby died!

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