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Archive for February, 2018

Somme

Another war and time, another place
About the foe he had begun to face,
Grant said, “I’ll fight it out upon this line
If it all summer takes till it is mine.”

And following the stubbornness of mules,
The Great War foes fought on like fools
Upon a line along the River Somme
Without the flair of war, without aplomb.
As if a duel with twenty paces stepped,
They stayed while many new-made widows wept
For five long months while each side’s pain
Grew even larger without any gain.
They slogged it out upon that bloody sod
Without a thought to man or even God,
With Germany and all its Axis band
Fixed on the solitary goal of land.
A solemn summer turned to somber fall
And Somme became a soggy grave, a gall
A million drank. And sobbing? – even more,
As Somme showed the futility of war.

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

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Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage,
Staled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age;
Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,
Enraged I write I know not what; dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard-hearted minds relent and rigor’s tears abound,
And envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault was found.
Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slain her knight,
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world’s delight.

Place, pensive, wails his fall whose presence was her pride;
Time crieth out, “My ebb is come; his life was my spring tide.”
Fame mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports;
Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts.

He was (woe worth that word!) to each well-thinking mind
A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined,
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ,
Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.
 

He, only like himself, was second unto none,
Whose death, though life, we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan:
Their loss, not him, wail they that fill the world with cries,
Death slew not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.
 

Now sink of sorrow I who live–the more the wrong!
Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long;
Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief,
Must spend my ever dying days in never ending grief.
 

Heart’s ease and only I, like parallels, run on,
Whose equal length keep equal breadth and never meet in one;
Yet not for wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrow’s cell,
Shall not run out, though leak they will for liking him so well.

Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreams,
Farewell, sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beams.
Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts which quietness brings forth,
And farewell, friendship’s sacred league uniting minds of worth.

And farewell, merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds,
And all sports which for life’s restore variety assigns;
Let all that sweet is, void; in me no mirth may dwell:
Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life’s content, farewell!
 

Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill,
And endless grief, which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill,
Go, seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find
Salute the stones that keep the limbs that held so good a mind.

 

 

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mlns11c

Dorothy,
She’s Gone With The Wind
In Kansas.

— 

Three Coins
In A Fountain tossed,
Castaway.

——————– 

photo by Jasper Greek Lao Golangco at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mlns11c/movie

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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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Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?
—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright;
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature’s highest dower:
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable—because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
—’Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
—Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
—He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:—
‘Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape or danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name—
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is he
That every man in arms should wish to be.

 

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nYAxIQi


The Murdercrats (abortion) say:

The Donald’s a racist and halfwit.
We’ll squash him! Remove him! That foul zit!
But we are a voice
For women – pro-choice.
For we don’t mind murder e’en one bit.

His mouth has more lies than it has spit;
Besides, what we’re for, he’s against it.
While he stands for life,
We’ll give them the knife
For we don’t mind murder e’en one bit.

From outrage that’s moral, our big fit
Is thrown at the worst and Trump is it!,
   While firmly we’ve stood
With Planned Murderhood
For we don’t mind murder e’en one bit.

We’re Murdercrats and we’re proud of it.
The fires of Moloch we will keep lit.
Pro-murder is nice
And we’ll sacrifice
For we don’t mind murder e’en one bit.

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photo by Dez Pain at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nYAxIQi/Blood+Stains+1

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

 

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……The Young Girl’s Poem

Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born!
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear,
And thy ring of rosiest hue
Set in drops of diamond dew! 

Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray,
From my Love so far away!
Let thy splendor streaming down
Turn its pallid lilies brown,
Till its darkening shades reveal
Where his passion pressed its seal! 

Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light,
Kiss my lips a soft good-night!
Westward sinks thy golden car;
Leave me but the evening star,
And my solace that shall be,
Borrowing all its light from thee!

 

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2dRfnhK

___


Warm whirlpool,
And it sucked under
Crayon box.

——————–

photo by Lynne Lancaster at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dRfnhK/Rainbow+Pool

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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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Behold, one faith endureth still –
Let factions rail and creeds contend –
God’s mercy was, and is, and will
Be with us, foe and friend.

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2dRW0jn

When I still cared and you did not,
Our loving past a fading dot,
I thought I’d die from all the pain.
With all now lost and naught to gain,
………..My heart cried tears.

Chorus:
They fell like raindrops from the sky;

They flowed like rivers rushing by,
And in their ocean I will die.

My heart still filled my veins with blood
But wet my cheeks with teary flood
For you were so much part of me
That parting was a surgery
………..My heart cried tears.

Chorus:
They fell like raindrops from the sky;

They flowed like rivers rushing by,
And in their ocean I will die.

The years we had were swept away
Without another single day
And I was empty as a net
That’s ripped to shreds by raw regret –
………..My heart cried tears.

Chorus:
They fell like raindrops from the sky;

They flowed like rivers rushing by,
And in their ocean I will die.

You never understood my pain;
You never asked that I explain.
You simply turned your back on me
And left me to my misery –
………..My heart cried tears.

Chorus:
They fell like raindrops from the sky;

They flowed like rivers rushing by,
And in their ocean I will die.

My heart still fills and pumps my blood,
But from my eyes pours forth its flood
Our love is like the rose that’s dry,
Is crushed, released to wind to fly.
………..My heart cries tears.

Chorus:
They fell like raindrops from the sky;

They flowed like rivers rushing by,
And in their ocean I will die.

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photo by Billy Frank Alexander at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dRW0jn/Broken+Heart

———————————————————–

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

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The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter’s day.

The streets were white with a recent snow,
And the woman’s feet with age were slow.

At the crowded crossing she waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of ‘school let out,’

Came happy boys, like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep;

Past the woman, so old and gray,
Hastened the children on their way.

None offered a helping hand to her,
So weak and timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ feet
Should trample her down in the slippery street.

At last came out of the merry troop
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low,
“I’ll help you across, if you wish to go.”

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so without hurt or harm

He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong;

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

“She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know,
For all she’s aged, and poor and slow.

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

If ever she’s old and poor and gray,
And her own dear boy so far away.”

And ‘somebody’s mother’ bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was: “God be kind to that noble boy,
Who is somebody’s son and pride and joy!” 

 

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