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Archive for the ‘Villanelle’ 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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nrnowLm

A single parent family’s a chore –
A lonely sole without an absent mate.
It is a rowboat with a single oar.

God saw that one was in great need of more,
That only one had too much on his plate.
A single parent family’s a chore.

The single parent strives to reach the shore.
The burden borne’s an overwhelming weight.
She/He’s a rowboat with a single oar.

When laden, there is none to ope the door;
For another’s help, the one can’t wait.
A single parent family’s a chore.

There’s none to comfort when the muscle’s sore
From single ‘gainst the doubled current’s rate.
She/He’s a rowboat with a single oar.

There is no second for esprit de corps;
Entirely in the hands of one’s their fate.
A single parent family’s a chore.
It is a rowboat with a single oar.

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*The spelling in line 2 is deliberate.

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photo by Bern Altman at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nrnowLm/Weathered+Rowboat

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

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martin_luther_king_jr

A Kennedy, a Kennedy, and King –
Three K’s for strikes and all were struck, struck out.
A nation also felt the bullets’ sting.

Before the wheat was ripe, the sickle’s swing
Cut through the taller heads a deadly route –
A Kennedy, a Kennedy, and King.

Each had a following to closely cling
To them, and ‘cause they were deeply devout,
A nation also felt the bullets’ sting.

To be a vital part, then from us wring
Brought tears to eyes, e’en those dried up in drought
For Kennedy, a Kennedy, and King.

The bells, the solemn bells for them did ring
And stilled the song and buried ev’ry shout –
A nation also felt the bullets’ sting.

A deadly fall and summer, deadly spring
In years so close we suffered from the clout –
A Kennedy, a Kennedy, and King
And nation also felt the bullets’ sting.

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photo from Wikipedia

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

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Do not despair when you are young and tender –
Though pierced by thorns, confused, and by thrown stones are bruised,
The ache will pass; then comes the days of splendor.

Time serves you and the answer it will render.
Though dark now is the night, the sunrise will be bright.
Do not despair when you are young and tender –

Though it may seem that hope of joy is slender,
The aged felt that way, in some past dismal day.
The ache will pass; then comes the days of splendor.

Till weak are strong, the world attempts to hinder.
A sapling blown by wind, a mighty oak will end.
Do not despair when you are young and tender –

Now isn’t all; it preens as a pretender
It fills the present space; confronts us face to face.
But aches will pass; then comes the days of splendor.

The sullen days are few; do not surrender
The prize goes to the few who see their troubles through.
Do not despair when you are young and tender –
The ache will pass; then comes the days of splendor.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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The Civil War etched two men into history,
Head, shoulders o’er the rest, two of our nation’s best –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Men came to recognize their pedigree;
They were a different breed; both in their roles could lead.
The Civil War etched two men into history.

One led the North and let the slaves go free;
One led the armed in gray, a fox in ev’ry way –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Less Lincoln, North might cave and bend the knee;
Lee knew what Grant would do, as though the future knew.
The Civil War etched two men into history.

One set a course midst scorn like scalding tea;
The other sat astride the route the Blue would ride –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Men fell; some soared, and blood became a sea
As two great men arose midst all a nation’s woes.
The Civil War etched two men into history,
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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The safest place on earth should be the womb,
Wrapped by maternal love instilled by God above.
But love of self makes it a killing room.

It’s woman’s greatest glory and her plume
That God made her the one, to bear a daughter, son.
The safest place on earth should be the womb.

A child is weaved in her; she is the loom.
Conception’s grand event – new human’s great advent.
But love of self makes it a killing room.

A tiny bud is just a folded bloom
Woe to the gardener who snips – the murderer!
The safest place on earth should be the womb.

Too oft, the wicked rides upon her broom
And sweeps away the child that has her life defiled,
And love of self makes it a killing room.

There is no right to bring another doom.
The murder’s always wrong, e’en when it’s sung as song.
The safest place on earth should be the womb,
But love of self makes it a killing room.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

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King dreamed that he would say (when chains were past
Or strands so thin and few), these words long overdue,
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Though Egypt was behind, her reach was vast.
And like the wind, he blew winged words that fell like dew.
King dreamed a dream when all the chains were past.

His voice was Gabriel’s mighty trumpet blast;
The march began on cue, toward Canaan’s words and view,
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

His dream? – by hate and pharaohs not harassed;
Men judged, not by their hue; a future bright and new.
King dreamed a dream when all the chains were past.

Upon the farther shore, his people massed,
The sea returned and blue, they’d shout because they knew,
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Let go the broken chains! Away, them cast!
The speech and dream came true, for all who dare and do.
And now men say, since all their chains are past:
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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No ink is now left in the printer.
Old copies are gone; new ones fail.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

The loved ones are new as they enter;
Each day that they visit’s a veil.
No ink is now left in the printer.

The new leaves their minds like a sprinter;
The old is locked up in a jail.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

The life that remains is a splinter
Though body be hearty and hale.
No ink is now left in the printer.

The spring was not owner, but renter.
Both summer and fall have set sail.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

What’s there is a shell with no center;
The heart’s been torn out of the tale.
No ink is now left in the printer.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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…………………..( (for Flag Day, 2015)

Consider well the flag we raise and fly –
The colors sharp and clear, the stripes and stars cohere.
For it and freedom, many had to die.

It ripples in the wind against the sky
The popping that we hear seems guns that killed the dear.
Consider well the flag we raise and fly.

Some seamstress sowed the symbol that we buy.
But soldier, pioneer sowed blood that flowed a tear.
For flag and freedom, many had to die.

The ones who came before us – glorify.
Their hardship was severe; their wisdom without peer.
Consider well the flag we raise and fly.

Here and abroad was heard the battle cry –
The colors, front, not rear, the flag we now revere.
For it and freedom many, had to die.

Now o’er the greatest land, we hoist it high.
In foes, it fosters fear; from friends it brings a cheer.
Consider well the flag we raise and fly;
For it and freedom, many had to die.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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…..The Deaths Of Bonnie And Clyde

The rabbits had nowhere to run or hide.
Their notoriety had grown in weight.
Brief were the lives of young, wild Bonnie and Clyde. 

For three short years, they roamed the countryside.
They robbed and killed and moved from state to state.
The rabbits had nowhere to run or hide. 

Their youth and love made their spree magnified.
Their crimes caused fear, but they did fascinate.
Brief were the lives of young, wild Bonnie and Clyde. 

Each time they killed, the search intensified
Their case was now on ev’ry lawman’s plate.
The rabbits had nowhere to run or hide. 

A trap was set out in the countryside
Their habit brought the hares to-ward the bait.
Brief were the lives of young, wild Bonnie and Clyde. 

The bullets buzzed and stung like bees – they died.
They had to know that this would be their fate.
The rabbits had nowhere to run or hide.
Brief were the lives of young, wild Bonnie and Clyde.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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