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Archive for the ‘My Poems’ Category

puzT8WQ

The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks.
The yellow flame’s flicker is weak.
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax. 

The toil of the day takes its toll and it wracks
The candle and man till life’s bleak.
The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks. 

The slope of sleep’s soothing sweet tunnel attracts,
Though Day clutches man with its beak.
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax. 

The cares of tomorrow add to the mind’s tax.
One wrestles, it seems, for a week.
The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks. 

Oh! for a pinch to the flame to relax
The light-load; bring rest that we seek!
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax. 

The sandman has tried, but his sand supply lacks.
The sheep flock? – the worry wolves wreak.
The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks.
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax.

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photo by Camilla Hviid at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/puzT8WQ/Nothern+Coziness

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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nshKofU


There’s little of time to be wasting
Since death is for all of us hasting.
This is a short trial
And in only a while
All men will be resting or basting. 

It may seem that I’m pessimistic,
But no, I’m just realistic.
That way I’ll prepare
With greatest of care
My life not in parts but holistic.

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photo by Patrizio Martorana at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nshKofU/Fire+and+pitchfork

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

 

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A “crub” is my invented word –
I’ve shortened yummy “crumb”.
A crub’s a crumb that’s dry and hard
Without the tasty “mmmmm!”.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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Atlanta

One year, a present Sherman gave
To Lincoln for the Yule
To cheer the dour president
In his long arduous rule.

It was the perfect offering,
And not from ease or thrift,
For William gave to Abraham
Atlanta as a gift.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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SONY DSC

This paper before me is worth more than gold,
Than all of the stocks that are bought and are sold.
It is not a map where an X marks the treasure
Nor is it a ticket to life’s greatest pleasure.
It is not a sketch by Picasso, van Gogh,
Nor numbers that won the world’s richest Lotto.
I have that which gives me more than the world’s wealth:
My doctor just gave me a clean bill of health.

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photo by Marcelo Mokrejs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/misbtmE/Money+series+4

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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oRxvtji

My body tells me that I am,
With ev’ry ache and pain.
It wants to tell me to be bound
To bed, by Time’s long chain. 

But all the signals are denied
By the essential me,
Which says it simply isn’t true
That I am seventy.

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photo by Prawny at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oRxvtji/Happy+Birthday

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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22317760495_f014d0ef4d_o

smoky waterfall

I walked the narrow mountain trail
At first both up and down
Until I reached what seemed to be
The Smoky mountain’s crown.

And there, I paused upon the path
And looked out through the trees
To see the low slopes stretching out
In Autumn’s careless ease.

And then the hike was not as dear;
I ambled down the slope,
Pulled by the mountain’s own descent,
By gravity’s veiled rope.

I walked upon a rug of leaves
That, plastered by a rain,
Was Autumn’s decoupage of tints
Upon my traveled vein.

A tree had fallen ‘cross the way,
A trunk too big to climb.
On hands and knees I scuttled ‘neath,
Like snails slide through the slime.

I’d gone so far without a sign
I started to despair
Of ever finding what I sought –
The treasure that was rare.

More than a few times, turning back
Seemed what might be the best
And sacrifice what I had spent
In failing Smoky’s test.

I made a vow – a few more yards
Down and around the trail.
And there! – a place that matched my map!
I’d found my holy grail!

I clambered down the trail of rocks,
At times on hands and knees,
And at the bottom of the path –
The spot of pleasantries

That I had bought with energy –
A lonely waterfall,
A modest one that hid itself
Away from almost all.

I marveled at its majesty,
And mumbled to myself
As threads of silver water silk
Fell tumbling from a shelf.

Then, pictures taken in my mind
And in my camera, too,
I packed my gear and took my leave
For I had work to do.

That long descent, that downward glide
That ate away at time
Was now a mountain up above
That I would have to climb.

With weariness, I took my steps.
No longer did I stride.
And in the silence of the slope,
My age was amplified.

I warmed and shed my early coat,
Like trees had shed their leaves,
Like workers start their laboring
By rolling up their sleeves.

And toil I did, with trudging steps
That were both short and slow,
With frequent stops to catch my breath
For I had far to go.

I guessed two thousand steps would take
Me to the rest I sought.
I counted each so that my mind
With pain was not distraught.

I knew that predators would oft
Stalk, following the weak.
And if a bear was trolling me
I would surrender, meek.

I was the old man, and my sea
Rose o’er me as a slope
That I must conquer or be lost
Alone, and without hope.

I took two thousand steps and more;
Came to a mind-marked place.
Adrenalin seeped to my flesh,
And I, as snail, could race

The thousand steps it took to end
My private odyssey,
Where I could sit in weariness
While basking blissfully.

The precious jewel that I had found
Would never make me rich.
And present satisfaction would
Not stop a future itch.

But such things filed within the heart
When man’s done something fine,
Are treasured nuggets in one’s life
Like gold within a mine.

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The photos are mine: one is the trail I took with its obstacle.
The second is that secluded waterfall.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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mEHj99M

I saw you crawl before you e’er saw me;
You were a black spot on my green grass sea.
And I admit that cold ran down my spine
Like cooling sweat runs down a hurried line.
But you must say that you were startled, too.
For as I came across the morning dew,
You raised two legs to frighten me away
Like horses rear, and at the blue sky flay.
To you, Goliath did seem ominous,
And so you quickly raised your fearsome fuss.
Unlike those horses pawing at the air,
You paused because you had six legs to spare.
And now we face each other.  It’s a draw,
With me deliberating; you in awe.

You pose a problem for me, I confess.
You are no threat, but I can curse or bless.
The answer I suppose is in your eight
Black hairy scary legs that stand and wait.
I do not want you at my door some night
So that I’m startled with another fright.
But more than my male ego and my fear
Is the concern of females living here
O’er ev’ry creepy crawly spider thing,
O’er any critter that may bite or sting.
But I assure you that they’re yet to know
That you so near to them this morning go.
And that is my dilemma presently:
Should I blot out a problem that I see
That poses no real problem now for me
But merely has a dark capacity?

So why not this – a deal twixt spider, man,
That you crawl off as quick as eight legs can?

You moved! and now your two raised legs are down.
And on your eight-eyed forehead there’s no frown.
I’ll take that for your answer.  Off you go!
My lips are sealed.  I won’t let others know.

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photo is by Phil Edon at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mEHj99M/Tarantula

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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nTcfF5m

— 
……………..(watching television)

Did you e’er gag on food with awful taste?
My mind is gagging as I watch this waste.
‘Tis better that a mind is free to roam,
Than feed on flotsam and insipid foam.

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photo by purplepic at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nTcfF5m/Pollution

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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civil war deaths

When brother North fought brother South
Oft in the other’s home,
The bodies fell on battlefields
In woods and fields and loam.

The red plague on the battlegrounds,
Spread by the buzzing bees,
Was still but half the total brought
At rest, by dread disease.

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https://www.phil.muni.cz/~vndrzl/amstudies/civilwar_stats.htm

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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