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Archive for January, 2018

puPUCGO

The fragile little child, to me,
Some bubble liquid brought,
And looked to me with big brown eyes
So I knew that I ought

Take out the ring all wet with soap
And put it to my face,
And blow my warm breath out upon
That round and sopping space.

And that I did, and bubbles streamed
Like spheres of glist’ning glass
Escaping from their own round world
To new round world more vast.

Her eyes grew round; her smile was wide;
She watched the bubbles fly
Like dandelions upon the wind.
And she helped make them die.

She reached and poked each that she could
And looked around for more.
But Charon had transported them
O’er to the distant shore.

And in that moment when she learned
There were none left to show,
She sank and loosed a little sigh,
A disappointed “ohh”.

I hate to burst your bubble, girl,
But bubbles do not last.
They’re blown into this waiting world
From which they pass so fast.

It is a lesson that you’ll learn
My little bubbly girl:
That soap or glass or human flesh
Has one quick brittle whirl.

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photo by coolhewitt23 at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/puPUCGO/Nature+bubble

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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n59rxUo

Old wortermelon time is a-comin’ round again,
And they ain’t no man a-livin’ any tickleder’n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin ?
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

Oh! it’s in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,
And it’s thare they’ll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew
Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast;
And you bet I ain’t a-findin’ any fault with them; ain’t you?

They ain’t no better thing in the vegetable line;
And they don’t need much ?tendin’, as ev’ry farmer knows;
And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,
I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.

It’s some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.
And it’s some says “The Little Californy” is the best;
But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,
Is the old “Edingburg Mounting-sprout,” of the west.

You don’t want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines ?
?Cause, some-way-another, they’ll spile your melons, shore; ?
I’ve seed ?em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,
Which may be a fact you have heerd of before

But your melons that’s raised right and ?tended to with care,
You can walk around amongst ?em with a parent’s pride and joy,
And thump ?em on the heads with as fatherly a air
As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.

I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin’ sound
When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two,
And the friends you love the best is gethered all around ?
And you says unto your sweethart, “Oh, here’s the core fer you!”

And I like to slice ?em up in big pieces fer ?em all,
Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight
As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,
And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.

Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see ?em eat ?
A slice of wortermelon’s like a frenchharp in theyr hands,
And when they “saw” it through theyr mouth sich music can’t be beat ?
?Cause it’s music both the sperit and the stummick understands.

Oh, they’s more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat,
And the overflowin’ sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt
The up’ard and the down’ard motions of a feller’s teeth,
And it’s the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.

Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away
To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,
And the fadin’ afternoon of the long summer day,
And the dusk and dew a-fallin’, and the night a-comin’ on.

And thare’s the corn around us, and the lispin’ leaves and trees,
And the stars a-peekin’ down on us as still as silver mice,
And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,
And the new-moon hangin’ ore us like a yeller-cored slice.

Oh! it’s wortermelon time is a-comin’ round again,
And they ain’t no man a-livin’ any tickleder’n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin ?
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

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photo by Sanja Gjenero at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n59rxUo/half+watermelon

 

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grand canyon

 

Grand Canyon –
Beautiful, as is
The grand sky.

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The photo was found here: https://www.nationalparkstraveler.org/2017/12/appellate-court-upholds-obama-administration-withdrawal-1-million-acres-surrounding-grand

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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 Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.
 

 

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If you your lips would keep from slips,
Five things observe with care:
Of whom you speak, to whom you speak,
And how and when and where. 

If you your ears would save from jeers,
These things keep meekly hid:
Myself and I, and mine and my,
And how I do and did.

 

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mP5RHbc

Fight today –
What a spat!
Fought like a dog
Tied to a cat. 

Memory’s short.
This morning’s fight –
You said what?
Forgotten by night.

—————————– 

photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mP5RHbc/Fighting+with+a+stick

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 © Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

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I.

As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide,
So its tide rocks my side,
As I ride, as I ride,
That, as I were double-eyed,
He, in whom our Tribes confide,
Is descried, ways untried
As I ride, as I ride.

II.

As I ride, as I ride
To our Chief and his Allied,
Who dares chide my heart’s pride
As I ride, as I ride?
Or are witnesses denied—
Through the desert waste and wide
Do I glide unespied
As I ride, as I ride?

III.

As I ride, as I ride,
When an inner voice has cried,
The sands slide, nor abide
(As I ride, as I ride)
O’er each visioned homicide
That came vaunting (has he lied?)
To reside—where he died,
As I ride, as I ride.

IV.

As I ride, as I ride,
Ne’er has spur my swift horse plied,
Yet his hide, streaked and pied,
As I ride, as I ride,
Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,
—Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed—
How has vied stride with stride
As I ride, as I ride!

V.

As I ride, as I ride,
Could I loose what Fate has tied,
Ere I pried, she should hide
(As I ride, as I ride)
All that’s meant me—satisfied
When the Prophet and the Bride
Stop veins I’d have subside
As I ride, as I ride!

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npuXK6k

All traffic
Now at a standstill.
Frozen flow.

——————– 

photo by Dan Shirley at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/npuXK6k/frozen+river+bank+2

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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, 2018.

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My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,
The frost of hermit Age might warm;
My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,
Might charm the first of human kind. 

I love my Peggy’s angel air,
Her face so truly heavenly fair,
Her native grace, so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy’s heart. 

The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway?
Who but knows they all decay?

The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose nobly dear
The gentle look that rage disarms –
These are all immortal charms.

 

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nrcQGOi

When moderns say that rhythm’s passed,
And rhyming verse is trite,
What would the great Longfellow say
About that arrow’s flight?

Such talk is like an acid rain
That falls on Dickinson,
And kills her bees and Kilmer’s trees;
Coats Kipling’s dawning sun.

That dart is thrown at Shakespeare, too
And all the masters past
By men who pose as poets when
It’s prose their work is classed.

And so I’ll stand as close I can
To Byron, Coleridge, Keats
I’ll hold their hats or open doors
Or drive them through the streets.

And I’ll not care when prose lines up
In stanzas in pretense,
Or critics cough or prosers scorn
And publishers fold tents.

I cannot ever bothered be
When men my verse oppose.
They praise the naked emperor,
And criticize my clothes.

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photo by Jay Simmons at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nrcQGOi/landscape

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love’s praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
My night shall be remembered for a star
That outshone all the suns of all men’s days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
The inenarrable godhead of delight?
Love is a flame:–we have beaconed the world’s night.
A city:–and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor:–we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love’s magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I’ll write those names
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming . . . .
These I have loved:
……………..White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such–
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair’s fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year’s ferns. . . .
……………………………………………………Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water’s dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body’s pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;–
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They’ll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love’s trust
And sacramented covenant to the dust.
—-Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what’s left of love again, and make
New friends, now strangers. . . .
……………………………….But the best I’ve known
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
……………………………….Nothing remains.
O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, ‘All these were lovely’; say, ‘He loved.’

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