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aaa submarine

Like sharks and whales and porpoises,
The gray ships swam beneath
The ocean for the purposes
Pearl Harbor did bequeath.

One submarine, the Seawolf, slipped
Behind the silent pack.
Though separated by delay,
They thought was safe the track.

A plane, however, spotted it,
And thought it was the foe,
For sharks swam for the other side
As killers from below.

On Seawolf, then, it dropped its bombs,
And lighter made its load.
But Seawolf’s now was heavier
As on them did explode

Munitions for the Japanese,
Pearl Harbor’s just revenge,
The might the mighty had the right
To make the tyrant cringe.

The Seawolf, suffering, then cried,
“But I am just a lamb.”
The pilot heard, but bombed again –
He thought the cry a sham.

American – American!
And though not Civil War,
The friendly fire sank friendly ship,
And from the Earth lives tore.

The Seawolf rests beneath the waves
Where it like sharks did roam.
But that cold sea should ne’er have been
Its dark eternal home.

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The picture is of a WW2 submarine, not the Seawolf.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Seawolf_(SS-197)

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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A traveler once, when skies were rose and gold
With Syrian sunset, paused beside the fold
Where an Arabian shepherd housed his flock,
Only a circling wall of rough, grey rock –
No door, no gate, but just an opening wide
Enough for snowy, huddling sheep to come inside.
“So,” questioned he, “then no wild beasts you dread?”
“Ah, yes, the wolf is near,” the shepherd said.
“But” – strange and sweet the word Divine of yore
Fell on his startled ear: “I am the door!
When skies are sown with stars, and I may trace
The velvet shadows in this narrow space,
I lay me down. No silly sheep may go
Without the fold but I, the shepherd, know.
Nor need my cherished flock close-sheltered, warm,
Fear ravening wolf, save o’er my prostrate form.”
O word of Christ – illumined evermore
For us his timid sheep – “I am the door!

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fruit

Peace, hope, joy –
The grand fruit of God’s
Forgiveness

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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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mg1TTLu


(please read the note after the poem after reading the poem)

1,2 Behold, as the eyes of a servant
…..To the hand of their master they glance;
…..Behold, as the eyes of a maiden
…..To the hand of her mistress advance –
…..So, too, do my eyes as I worship
…..Look to God in grand heaven’s expanse.
 

3,4 Be gracious, O Lord, do be gracious,
…..For we bear much contempt from the proud.
…..At ease, they are brazen in scoffing;
…..The sound of rude mocking is loud.
…..In judgment, O Lord, be forthcoming;
…..And ride, swift to save, as You’ve vowed.

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I am in the process of publishing my poems in rhyme and rhythm
of all of God’s Psalms and Proverbs.  I hope to have it finished in
time for Christmas.  I think they would make great gifts for those who
love those two books in the Bible.  Let me know if you’re interested.

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Photo by Bill Davenport at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mg1TTLu/The+Living+Word

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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Behold, one faith endureth still –
Let factions rail and creeds contend –
God’s mercy was, and is, and will
Be with us, foe and friend.

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Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye’s sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see, —
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, “Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,” —
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game “he did not understand.”

In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs, —
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers, — that’s wax.

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, —
Which the same I am free to maintain.

 

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I’ve created a new page whose title you can see at the top of my blog:
What Readers Say.  It consists of quotes by readers about some poems I’ve written and links to those poems.  They enjoyed them so you might, too.
Here’s the link for my Facebook and Twitter friends:

https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/what-readers-say/

(I may post this occasionally.)

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Thus I lift the sash, so long
Shut against the flight of song;
All too late for vain excuse, –
Lo, my captive rhymes are loose! 

Rhymes that, flitting through my brain,
Beat against my window-pane,
Some with gayly colored wings,
Some, alas! with venomed stings. 

Shall they bask in sunny rays?
Shall they feed on sugared praise?
Shall they stick with tangled feet
On the critic’s poisoned sheet? 

Are the outside winds too rough?
Is the world not wide enough?
Go, my winged verse, and try, –
Go like Uncle Toby’s fly!

 

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The fragile flowers, in their beauty,
Are never seen as vain.
In breezes soft, they stand, their duty:
That we, might pleasure, gain. 

The sweet young thing who is a cutie,
And stands long at a pane,
Stays pure. But shift might make her snooty:
The mirror makes one vain.

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

 

 

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Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, –
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.

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