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Archive for August, 2016

If you should go before me, dear, walk slowly
Down the ways of death, well-worn and wide,
For I would want to overtake you quickly
And seek the journey’s ending by your side.

I would be so forlorn not to descry you
Down some shining highroad when I came;
Walk slowly, dear, and often look behind you
And pause to hear if someone calls your name.

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2dRWHPQ


We sometimes now gather, all wrinkled and gray,
And talk of the past that has faded away.
The past that was better, the good days, the old –
And fonder we cherish as farther behold.

There’s nothing that’s better in your mind and mine
Than days in the past when all facets were fine –
When nights were like diamonds and days were like gold,
When we were but youths and unknowing and bold.

We speak of them often; our words glow; we sigh –
Those birds have flown off without saying good bye.
Migration is not why they’ve flown far away,
For birds gone in winter come back in a day.

The old days have flown to the past, not the south
Existing now only in our mind and mouth.
In first, they’re a treasure; in second, a treat
To all who were with us ere Time seemed so fleet.

Those wheat fields were golden; we glean just the best,
Gloss over the trouble, forgetting the rest.
What matters are mem’ries, the good that survives,
And happy are we with our loves and our lives.

That world now seems perfect without the decay
(No matter the decade, it’s always that way).
In gardens of ignorance, bliss is beget
And now, if we know it, we tend to forget.

So, good friends, my old friends, come by and we’ll sit
In rockers, both smiling, and visit a bit.
And there we will travel and go back in time
To good days, the old days, when life was sublime.

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Photo by  Billy Frank Alexander at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dRWHPQ/Grunge+Texture

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

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Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
You tell me of our future that you planned;
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve;
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

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Pete Piper
Picked peck of trouble –
Chose wrong wife.

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Forget hair
Miss Rumplestiltskin.
Change your name.

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Jack Horner
Sat in a corner
And grew big.

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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 same leaves over and over again!
They fall from giving shade above,
To make one texture of faded brown
And fit the earth like a leather glove.

Before the leaves can mount again
To fill the trees with another shade,
They must go down past things coming up.
They must go down into the dark decayed.

They must be pierced by flowers and put
Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.
However it is in some other world
I know that this is the way in ours.

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Jeb Stuart, in the midst of war,
Rode by his family.
While on his horse, he kissed his wife –
Goodbye in brevity.

Mere two days later, he was dead,
Kissed by a sniper’s bee.
It was a single touch that took
Him to eternity.

Of Stuart, Sedgwick later said,
“He ruled the cavalry.
He was the greatest officer
That we will ever see.”

The bullet, kiss, the spoken praise
Were each a single tick,
Upon the ages’ lumb’ring clock,
From one life that we pick.

How quick a stroke a brush may make
And change fore’er a hue
On which the wind will blow all day
And fall, in mornings, dew.

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

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Lo, in the Orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are
From his low tract and look another way.
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook’d on diest unless thou get a son.

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IMG_4975

In Texas,
August – hot and dry
Normally.

This past week
Seven point five says
The rain gauge.

Richter scale
For rain measurement –
Major rain.

Abnormal
For my dry brown grass
Is just fine.


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The picture is mine, taken off our deck at the valley below,
one day during the last eight rainy days.  8.2″ now.

* 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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A fire-mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jellyfish and saurian,
And caves where the cavemen dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty,
And a face turned from the clod –
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky;
The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high –
And all over upland lowland,
The charm of the golden rod –
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in –
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod,
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty –
A mother starved for her brood –
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the rood;
And millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathway trod –
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.

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photo by Thomas Kelley

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It’s found sometimes within a furrowed face;
A sneer, a mouth turned down like fangs, a frown;
E’en more in eyes, panes to the hidden place:
A cold hard glint to which ice gives its crown.

It surfaces in words like whales that breach
And wounds without regret, and wracks once more,
Like heartless waves pound piers within their reach
And view the pieces, do naught else but roar.

It is systemic, makes one’s pressure rise,
More prone to heart attacks and crippling strokes,
A venom in the veins of the unwise
A blight that fells the mightiest of oaks.

Hate curdled in the heart spreads through the whole
Till one possession’s left – a poisoned soul.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016

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