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Archive for October, 2017

ppfOPRa

Erasing,
Two ducks on the pond
Swim and paint.

——————–  

photo by Adrian van Leen at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/ppfOPRa/lake+reflections4

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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 Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.
 

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An Austrian army, awfully arrayed,
Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade.
Cossack commanders cannonading come,
Dealing destruction’s devastating doom.
Every endeavor engineers essay,
For fame, for fortune fighting – furious fray!
Generals ‘gainst generals grapple – gracious God!
How honors Heaven heroic hardihood!
Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,
Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill.
Labor low levels longest, loftiest lines;
Men march ‘mid mounds, ‘mid moles, ‘ mid murderous mines;
Now noxious, noisey numbers nothing, naught
Of outward obstacles, opposing ought;
Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed,
Quite quaking, quickly “Quarter! Quarter!” quest.
Reason returns, religious right redounds,
Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.
Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train,
Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
Vanish vain victory! vanish, victory vain!
Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were
Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier?
Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell!
Zeus’, Zarpater’s, Zoroaster’s zeal,
Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!

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Emily D

Oh to be sweet Emily,
One of the greatest ever!
There’s none who had her way with words –
So crown her the most clever.

Her poems are puzzles, intricate,
And pieces fit so neatly.
Precise she was in picking words;
She knew them so completely.

She knew her subject, knew of life,
With metaphor to match it.
If poet bug is what she had,
The rest hope we can catch it.

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* Emily Dickinson

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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Is it a sin to love thee? Then my soul is deeply dyed,
For my lifeblood, as it gushes, takes its crimson from love’s tide;
And I feel it’s wave roll o’er me and the blushes mount my brow
And my pulses quicken wildly, as the love dreams come and go;
I feel my spirit’s weakness; I know my spirit’s power;
I have felt my proud heart struggle in temptation’s trying hour;
Yet, amid the din of conflict, bending o’er life’s hallowed shrine,
Yielding all, my soul had murmured, I am thine, forever thine!

Is it a sin to love thee? What were existence worth,
Bereft of all the heaven that lingers here on earth!
Friendship’s smiles, like gleams of sunlight, shed their feeling o’er the heart,
But the soul still cries for something more than friendship can impart.
Frozen heart, like ice-bound eyries, that no summer ray can melt,
Vainly boast their power to conquer what their hearts have never felt;
But envy not their glory, ‘mid the rapture that is mine,
When with earnest soul I tell thee, I am thine, forever thine!

Is it a sin to love thee? Gentle voices round me fall,
And I press warm hearts about me – but I’ve given thee my all.
What though stern fate divides us, and our hands, not hearts, be riven-
My all of earth thou hast-wilt more? I dare not offer heaven!
But in some blessed moment, when our dark eyes flashing meet,
When I feel thy power so near me, feel thy heart’s quick pulses beat,
Then I know-May God forgive me!- I would everything resign
All I have, or all I hope for – to be thine – forever thine.

Is it a sin to love thee? I remember well the hour
When we would our love to conquer, resist temptation’s power;
When I felt my heart was breaking and my all of life was gone;
When I wept the hour I met thee, and the hour I was born;
But a hidden storm was raging, and amid the muffled din
I flung my arms upon thy bosom, with thy warm hands clasped in mine,
I smiled through tears and murmured: I am thine, forever thine.

Is it a sin to love thee? with love’s signet on thy brow?
Though thy lot be dark as Hades, I’ll cling to thee as now;
Not mine the heart to fail thee, when other cheeks grow pale;
We have shared the storm together; I’ll stand by thee trough the gale.
Though our bark may drift asunder, yet, with true hearts beating high,
Let the golden sunlight cheer us, or the angry storm clouds fly.
From our helms with steady brightness our light shall shine,
And the watchwords on our pennons shall be-thine, forever thine.

Is it a sin to love thee? When I bend the knee in prayer,
And before a High Omniscience my burdened heart lay bare,
On the breath of love to heaven ascends thy blessed name,
And I plead weak and erring nature, if loving thee be shame.
Heaven know ’tis no light sacrifice I’ve offered up to thee,
No gilded dream of fancy, but my being’s destiny.
Since our fates we may not conquer here, divide thy lot from mine-
In the starlit world above us, call me thine-forever thine!

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mvY1ZmI

Pitted rocks.
And perched atop –
A smooth rock.

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photo by Louise Barner at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mvY1ZmI/Sealion

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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 Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.
 

 

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I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday, –
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
The place I was used to swing;
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing:
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

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Whitney Houston

Rub-a-dub-dub; two found in two tubs.
A mother and daughter were they.
The first was on drugs; but here is the rub –
The second? We’re guessing; none say. 

Rub-a-dub-dub; face down in a tub;
Both rich ones, the second from first.
It does not take dough to join the club;
All dopers can be thus accursed. 

Rub-a-dub-dub; live, don’t take the drug.
Each day on this earth is a high.
A friend who would offer is no friend – a thug
With poison so that you will die.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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They followed Him by thousands when he took some fish and bread
And a banquet in the desert by His miracle was spread.
They sang aloud, “Hosanna!” and they shouted, “Praise His name!”
When in an hour of glory to Jerusalem He came.
They followed when He told them of a kingdom and a throne,
But when He went to Calvary, He went there all alone.

It seems that many people still would follow Him today
If He only went to places where everything was gay.
For the kingdom that they’re seeking isn’t one the world scorns.
And the crown of which they’re singing isn’t one that’s made of thorns.
Oh, they’ll follow for the fishes over land and over sea,
And they’ll join the church at Zion, but not at Calvary.

It’s so easy, friends, to follow when the nets are full of fish,
When the loaves are spread before you and you’re eating all you wish.
When no lands, nor lots, nor houses and no friendships are at stake,
When there’s no mob to mock you and you have no cross to take.
But you’ll need some faith to follow down through Gethsemane,
And you’ll need some love to follow up to Calvary!

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mw5GVrO

Time for games –
Quick, shuffle the deck.
Let’s play hats.

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photo by Louise Barner at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mw5GVrO/Hats

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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 Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.
 

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37717590056_c9e3cb0ea5_o

(The above is a picture of Robert Frost’s grave in Bennington, Vermont
with a birch tree planted beside it.)
.
.
.

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

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