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Archive for December, 2019

oNw2YIk

The winter months were long and gray,
And cold was ev’ry night.
The Sun was not allowed its say;
The snow reached record height.

The Sun without both night and day,
A king cast off his throne,
Said, “I’ve got nowhere, so I’ll stay
Behind the clouds, alone.”

“But one more morn I’ll try to shine
Upon the frozen land,
The place that rightfully is mine
When clouds don’t stay my hand.”

And on that fateful winter morn,
The Sun rose, but in vain –
The clouds blocked all his rays; forlorn,
He spent more days in pain.

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photo by Jay Simmons at
https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oNw2YIk/Dead+tree+%221%22

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

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Slow toiling upward from the misty vale,
I leave the bright enamelled zones below;
No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow,
Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale;
Few are the slender flowers, scentless, pale,
That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow
Along the margin of unmelting snow;
Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail,
White realm of peace above the flowering line;
Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spines!
O’er thee undimmed the moon-girt planets shine,
On thy majestic altars fade the fires
That filled the air with smoke of vain desires,
And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine!

 

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imageedit_1_3990178473

Progress, yet
Read, write, ‘rithmetic
Still the core.

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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, 2019.

 

 

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With sails full set, the ship her anchor weighs.
Strange names shine out beneath her figure head.
What glad farewells with eager eyes are said!
What cheer for him who goes, and him who stays!
Fair skies, rich lands, new homes, and untried days
Some go to seek: the rest but wait instead,
Watching the way wherein their comrades led,
Until the next stanch ship her flag doth raise.
Who knows what myriad colonies there are
Of fairest fields, and rich, undreamed-of gains
Thick planted in the distant shining plains
Which we call sky because they lie so far?
Oh, write of me, not “Died in bitter pains,”
But “Emigrated to another star!”

 

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