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Archive for June, 2016


I Want In

Stupid store!
They can’t keep me out –
There’s a sale!

——————–

Born An Engineer

His train tracks
Exactly this way
As a boy.

——————–

Tomorrow, Said Shakespeare

He, aware,
Though the world is not –
Life slides by.

———————

In – photo by Miguel Saavedra at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mOpkOZk/Security+fence+4

Engineer – photo by Michael & Christa Richert at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mfjLs5O/motorway+junction

Shakespeare – photo by Miriam Wickett at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nHZDND0/timer

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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, 2016.

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Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,
The stars too gloriously bright,
For me to spend the evening hours,
When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,
Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.

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When a night is cool and smooth,
No lights embarrassing the dark,
And silken sleep has come to soothe
The last thing wanted – sudden bark.

Sharp noises are a wound to sleep;
They tear apart its tender flesh.
Soft pillows out of down will keep
The peaceful dream-flow swift and fresh.

But stab a noise into peace,
And all the sleeping sheep will flee,
And all the pleasant dreams will cease
As silence breaks like pottery.

——————————–


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

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By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitions, hate,
In both affections many to him ran,
But Oh! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas, and do, unto the immaculate,
Whose creature fate is, now prescribe a fate,
Measuring self-life’s infinity to a span
Nay to an inch. Lo, where condemned he
Bears his own cross, with pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, he must bear more and die.
Now thou art lifted up, draw me to thee,
And at thy death giving such liberal dole,
Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soul.

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Not Sunshine:
Little Miss Moonshine –
She’s a drunk.

Not monkeys:
Planet of the Grapes –
Winos rule.

Not Okies:
Grapes of Next Day Wrath –
Hangover.

——————–

* 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 trees along this city street,
Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade
Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb
Against the shrieking city air,
I watch you when the wind has come, –
I know what sound is there.

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The Civil War etched two men into history,
Head, shoulders o’er the rest, two of our nation’s best –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Men came to recognize their pedigree;
They were a different breed; both in their roles could lead.
The Civil War etched two men into history.

One led the North and let the slaves go free;
One led the armed in gray, a fox in ev’ry way –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Less Lincoln, North might cave and bend the knee;
Lee knew what Grant would do, as though the future knew.
The Civil War etched two men into history.

One set a course midst scorn like scalding tea;
The other sat astride the route the Blue would ride –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Men fell; some soared, and blood became a sea
As two great men arose midst all a nation’s woes.
The Civil War etched two men into history,
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.


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

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a dialogue in verse

Author
A lovely form there sate beside my bed,
And such a feeding calm in presence shed,
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven
That I unnethe the fancy might control,
‘Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven
Wooing its gentle way into my soul!
But ah! the change – It had not stirred, and yet –
Alas! that change how fain would I forget!
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!
That weary, wandering, disavowing look!
‘Twas all another, feature, look and frame,
And still, methought, I knew it was the same!

Friend
This riddling tale, to what does it belong?
Is’t history? vision? or an idle song?
Or rather say at once, within what space
Of Time this wild disastrous change took place?

Author
Call it a moment’s work (and such it seems),
This tale’s a fragment from the life of dreams;
But say, that years matured the silent strife,
And ’tis a record from the dream of life.

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No Wide Angles

A tall ship
Needs exactly this:
Tall photo.

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Trailblazers

Learned from birds.
Do they have envy?
We owe them.

——————–


Or Any Year

Was that year
A roll of the dice –
Just mere chance?

——————–

Wide – photo by Victor Voronov at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nohAEiy/Tall+Ship

Trailblazers – photo by Gesine Kuhlmann at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/niouaeu/Airplane+in+the+sky

Year – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mRk6WRa/Calendar+2011

——————–

* 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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Once on the kind of day called “weather breeder,”
When the heat slowly hazes and the sun
By its own power seems to be undone,
I was half boring through, half climbing through
A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil of cedar
And scurf of plants, and weary and overheated,
And sorry I ever left the road I knew,
I paused and rested on a sort of hook
That had me by the coat as good as seated,
And since there was no other way to look,
Looked up toward heaven, and there against the blue,
Stood over me a resurrected tree,
A tree that had been down and raised again –
A barkless specter.  He had halted too,
As if for fear of reaching upon me.
I saw the strange position of his hands –
Up at his shoulders, dragging yellow strands
Of wire with something in it from men to men.
“You here?” I said, “Where aren’t you nowadays?
And what’s the news you carry – if you know?
And tell me where you’re off for – Montreal?
Me? I’m not off for anywhere at all
Sometimes I wander out of beaten ways
Half looking for the orchid Calypso.”

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