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Archive for May, 2016

FACTORY:
Starts with raw products –
Selected.

The best in –
Quality control;
The best out.

PUBLIC SCHOOLS:
Starts with raw products –
All who come.

E’en from birth,
Some are damaged goods –
Raw children.

Flawed thinking:
The two are the same.
Not at all.

——————–

* 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, 2016.

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There is a change – and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart’s door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; nor taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love – it may be deep –
I trust it is, – and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
– Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

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At eighty-four, he stood in winter’s cold
And rain to honor foe who died as friend.
“Put on your hat,” he worriedly was told.
“No, he would not wear hat at my life’s end.”

Pallbearer, later he caught cold that day;
Pneumonia was the price of honor paid.
And like the one he helped to put away,
In weeks, with honor, was in his grave laid.

A score and six years after civil war,
The one who lost Atlanta by retreat –
Gray’s General Joe Johnston suffered more
At Sherman’s hands and grave: a last defeat.

————————————

It was at the Union’s General Sherman’s death that Johnston, as a pallbearer, stood bareheaded in New York’s February winter, caught a cold, and died from pneumonia.

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

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I saw the curl of his waving lash,
And the glance of his knowing eye,
And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,
As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig,
Or flourish the Stanhope gay,
And dream that he looks exceeding big
To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still,
On the stable-boy’s gathering numbers,
And the ghost of many a veteran bill
Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep,
And constables cluster around him,
And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep
Where their spectre eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong,
And bid your steed go faster;
He does not know, as he scrambles along,
That he has a fool for his master;

And hurry away on your lonely ride,
Nor deign from the mire to save me;
I will paddle it stoutly at your side
With the tandem that nature gave me!

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dew web


The spider
To the insects said,
“Waterslide!”

——————–

The photo is mine, taken of a funnel spider’s
web in my front yard, covered with dew.

——————–

* 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, 2016.

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The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend –
Or the most agonizing Spy –
An Enemy – could send –

Secure against its own –
No treason it can fear –
Itself – its Sovereign – of itself
The Soul should stand in Awe.

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mmfzcdy

From high above, the tiny figures move
Like clones, their pace and look almost the same.
They seem as poured from mold, or in a groove,
Pale pieces playing parts within a game.

E’en from the level of the street, the mass
Keeps marching much in step like armies file,
Their faces – this or that – all fit a class:
A studied look or quick-lived frown or smile.

E’en greeting or a nod won’t tell the tale;
It takes relationship before one can
Discover what is hidden by the veil
And find the hidden thoughts that make the man.

From far away, men look the same, like ants.
It is the closest look that separates, enchants.


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photo by Marcelo Terraza at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmfzcdy/%3E+Block+1

————————————–

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

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You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory! –
The scent of the locusts – the light of the moon;
And the violin weaving the waltzers a story,
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune,
……Till their shadows uncertain
……Reeled round on the curtain,
While under the trellis we drank in the June.

Soaked through the midnight the cedars were sleeping,
Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain’s heart, leaping
Forever, forever burst, full with delight;
……And its lisp on my spirit
……Fell faint as that near it
Whose love like a lily boomed out in the night.

O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses!
The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!
And the rose at your throat was nest of spilled kisses! –
And the music! – in fancy I hear it today,
……As I sit here, confessing
……Our secret, and blessing
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away.

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Three pancakes
For breakfast.  Enough
To fill me.

Mid-morning,
They have disappeared.
I’m starving.

But lunch comes,
Catfish buffet.  All
You can eat.

——————–

* 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, 2016.

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Thou are not lovelier than lilacs, – no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies, – I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist, – with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink – and live – what has destroyed some men.

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