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Archive for January, 2019

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May beauty:
Bright tulips in bloom
In the park.

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The photo is mine of the park in Albany, New York during May.

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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, 2019.

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Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim
Calling to the Angels and the Souls in their degree:
“Lo! Earth has passed away
On the smoke of Judgment Day.
That Our word may be established shall We gather up the sea?”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
“Plague upon the hurricane that made us furl and flee!
But the war is done between us,
In the deep the Lord hath seen us —
Our bones we’ll leave the barracout’, and God may sink the sea!”

Then said the soul of Judas that betrayed Him:
“Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me?
How once a year I go
To cool me on the floe?
And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the sea!”

Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind:
(He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers flee):
“I have watch and ward to keep
O’er Thy wonders on the deep,
And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the sea!”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
“Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we!
If we worked the ship together
Till she foundered in foul weather,
Are we babes that we should clamour for a vengeance on the sea?”

Then said the souls of the slaves that men threw overboard:
“Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we;
But Thy arm was strong to save,
And it touched us on the wave,
And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy Trumpets tore the sea.”

Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God:
“Once we frapped a ship, and she laboured woundily.
There were fourteen score of these,
And they blessed Thee on their knees,
When they learned Thy Grace and Glory under Malta by the sea!”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:
“Our thumbs are rough and tarred,
And the tune is something hard —
May we lift a Deep-sea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?”

Then said the souls of the gentlemen-adventurers —
Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity:
“Ho, we revel in our chains
O’er the sorrow that was Spain’s;
Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!”

Up spake the soul of a gray Gothavn ‘speckshioner —
(He that led the flinching in the fleets of fair Dundee):
“Oh, the ice-blink white and near,
And the bowhead breaching clear!
Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the sea?”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Crying: “Under Heaven, here is neither lead nor lee!
Must we sing for evermore
On the windless, glassy floor?
Take back your golden fiddles and we’ll beat to open sea!”

Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good sea up to Him,
And ‘stablished his borders unto all eternity,
That such as have no pleasure
For to praise the Lord by measure,
They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea.

Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it,
Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free;
And the ships shall go abroad
To the Glory of the Lord
Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their sea!

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appomattox

Along the banks of Bull Run lived –
At what became the scene
Of two Manassas battlefields –
A farmer named McLean. 

The fighting was so near, a shell
Crashed through a window pane.
It did not kill a man that day,
But Wilmer’s hopes were slain. 

Then, Wilmer had enough of War
And he moved far away
Where battle’s sounds would never reach,
Untouched by Blue and Gray. 

‘Twas Appomattox Court House where
He chanced to choose a farm.
No bullets flew to chase men there,
In its calm rural charm. 

But Lee, outnumbered by Grant’s men
Like fox by many hounds,
Fled to the new place Wilmer chose –
Onto its very grounds. 

At Appomattox Station was
The nearest shot and shell.
And Lee, surrounded, his men starved
Gave up the Civil Hell. 

Into the parlor first was Lee,
And Grant soon took a chair.
War-weary Wilmer hosted them,
And Gray surrendered there. 

McLean fled War, but following
It acted with caprice.
Though War came to his farm’s door, it
Became a house of peace.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

 

 

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I cannot live with You –
It would be Life –
And Life is over there –
Behind the Shelf 

The Sexton keeps the Key to –
Putting up
Our Life – His Porcelain –
Like a Cup – 

Discarded of the Housewife –
Quaint – or Broke –
A newer Sevres pleases –
Old Ones crack – 

I could not die – with You –
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down –
You – could not – 

And I – Could I stand by
And see You – freeze –
Without my Right of Frost –
Death’s privilege?

Nor could I rise – with You –
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’ –
That New Grace 

Glow plain – and foreign
On my homesick Eye –
Except that You than He
Shone closer by – 

They’d judge Us – How –
For You – served Heaven – You know,
Or sought to –
I could not – 

Because You saturated Sight –
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise 

And were You lost, I would be –
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame – 

And were You – saved –
And I – condemned to be
Where You were not –
That self – were Hell to Me – 

So We must meet apart –
You there – I – here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –

 

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On the rocks,
To keep passing ships
Off the rocks.

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The photo is mine, of Ram Island Ledge Light Station
at Portland Head Lighthouse at Cape Elizabeth, Maine.

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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, 2019.

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The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wandering light,
Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,
Appeared like his father, in white. 

He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,
Her little boy weeping sought.

 

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“Father, father, where are you going?
O do not walk so fast!
Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost.” 

The night was dark, no father was there,
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew.

 

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nf084vq

Each dressed in a tux for a wedding,
Not sure where they’re walking or heading.
Said one to the other,
“Don’t know ‘bout you brother,”
But here in this tux I am sweating.”

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photo by Nicolas Raymond at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nF084VQ/African+Penguins

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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, 2019.

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Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

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Wind and cold,
Cadillac Mountain –
Warm sunset.

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The picture is mine, taken on Cadillac Mountain in
Acadia National Park in Maine.  It is indeed the highest
point along the North Atlantic coast at 1529 feet.  From
Oct.7 to March 6, it is the first place to view the sunrise
in the United States.

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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, 2019.

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