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Archive for February, 2019

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Her master’s dark; she is his slave,
She toils the night away.
When sun sinks low, she must behave
Until the break of day. 

Her master doesn’t speak a word;
She’s trained and does her work.
Her unknown thought – that it’s absurd
That she’ll ne’er rest nor shirk. 

A master’s often deaf and blind,
And thoughtless of the way
His harsh demands are so unkind;
He’s sees an “I”, not “they”.

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photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/o6A5hzi/Woman+lamp

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

 

 

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When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing ‘Ha, ha he!’

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of ‘Ha, ha, he!’

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24532660918_db7d0dcc14_o


Fall highway,
The Kancamangus.
Short – The Kanc.

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The photo is mine on the Kancamangus highway that
goes through the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

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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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british flag

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command,
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.”

The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall:
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.”

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful, from each foreign stroke:
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.”

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down,
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe, and thy renown.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.”

To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.”

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown’d,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.” 

 

 

 

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puGJZHM

I stepped into the chamber of the night
And ere I focused on its starry sight,
I heard the chopping of a copter’s blades
Advancing, not the sound of when it fades. 

Before my turn could reach the sound, my eyes
Were won, and ears were lost, by night’s surprise –
A meteor flashed ‘cross the crescent moon,
Then disappeared into an inky swoon. 

When it was gone, I finished my brief arc –
My ears once more my guide within the dark,
And saw the Christmas lights upon the bird
Whose noisy song had turned me when I heard. 

My melody was then a merry tune,
Since I had relished much this night in June.

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photo by Dez Pain at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/puGJZHM/Crescent+Moon+with+Stars

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

 

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Emmy’s exquisite youth and her virginal air,
Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,
Come to me out of the past, and I see her there
As I saw her once for a while.

Emmy’s laughter rings in my ears, as bright,
Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,
And still I hear her telling us tales that night,
Out of Boccaccio’s book.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,
Leaning across the table, over the beer,
While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball,
As the midnight hour drew near,

There with the women, haggard, painted and old,
One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale,
She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told
Tale after shameless tale.

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,
Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun,
And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child,
Or ever the tale was done.

O my child, who wronged you first, and began
First the dance of death that you dance so well?
Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man
Shall answer for yours in hell.

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