Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

 

Advertisements

nEMtdj8

Did purple
Ever look so good?
Oh, how sweet!

——————— 

photo by Nicolas Raymond at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nEMtdj8/Purple+Icing+Texture

——————————-

* 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/

——————————-

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

She slept beneath a tree –
Remembered but by me.
I touched her Cradle mute –
She recognized the foot –
Put on her carmine suit
………
And see!

 

john bell hood

Hood battered Sherman’s men to no avail,
Gave up Atlanta, fled, and forged a trail
To Tennessee, his thirty thousand worn
By war and miles, a cob with half its corn.
 

At Franklin, Union lines were fortified,
Which checked not John Bell Hood’s aggressive side.
As futile as the clapper ‘gainst the bell,
Hood hammered and six thousand Rebels fell. 

A dozen generals were dead or gone,
And fifty leaders more lay on the lawn.
But Hood was like a moth drawn to a flame,
And hemmed in Nashville with his army lame. 

Blue’s Thomas, turtle-like, took his sweet time,
Then poured forth from the city at his prime.
Gray’s west was flanked; the Rebel line was rolled,
And Hood was done, a story finished, told. 

Hood’s army’s head at Franklin was bereft.
Now, half of half was all that he had left.
Post-Nashville, fewer feet by far remained,
And Hood resigned, his honor ever stained.

————————————————–

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

 

In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep:
The posture that we give the dead
Points out the soul’s eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands:
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds and painted bowl,
And venison for a journey dressed,
Bespeak the nature of the soul –
ACTIVITY that knows no rest.

His bow for action ready bent,
And arrows with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit:
Observe the swelling turf, and say,
“They do not lie, but here they sit!

Here still a lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far-projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen,
Pale Shebah, with her braided hair,
And many a barbarous form is seen,
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o’er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase arrayed,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer a shade.

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief and pointed spear,
And Reason’s self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

dLxqHg


Long journey
Ending in the port
At sunrise.

——————–

photo by Javier Gonzalez at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/dLxqHg/Entering+port

——————–

* 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/

——————–

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

 

The moon’s on the lake, and the mist’s on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day:
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach!

Glen Orchy’s proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We’re landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
Landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!

But doom’d and devoted by vassal and lord,
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
Courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!

While there’s leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach!
Come then, come then, come then, Grigalach!

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
Oe’r the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!

—————————————————————————————

Sung on Youtube (4:42) – (4:42) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vvdz4yfaag

————————————————————

background: https://www.highlandtitles.com/2015/06/clans-of-scotland-macgregor/

 

 

pt8Syxa

___

 

The light in the forest is rare
Like diamonds unseen on a trail.
So when it shines through the green air,
It seems like a spotlight in scale. 

The moment is magic with haze,
Like fairies have sprinkled their dust
And one should stop walking and gaze
At shadows the shaft has now mussed. 

The forests of life, path obscure,
May suddenly fill with a light,
Revealing the path clear and pure
Like full moon illuming the night. 

Then, quickly, if wise, one must choose
The path that has opened to view,
Or else he may evermore lose
The way that is found by the few.

——————————————–

photo by Kevin Tuck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/pt8Syxa/Forest+sunlight

——————————————–

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

 

 

Art – anonymous

The hen remarked to the mooley cow,
As she cackled her daily lay,
(That is, the hen cackled) “It’s funny how
I’m good for an egg a day.
I’m a fool to do it, for what do I get?
My food and my lodging. My!
But the poodle gets that – he’s the household pet,
And he never has laid a single egg yet –
Not even when eggs are high.”

The mooley cow remarked to the hen,
As she masticated her cud,
(That is, the cow did) “Well, what then?
You quit, and your name is mud.
I’m good for eight gallons of milk each day,
And I’m given my stable and grub;
But the parrot gets that much, anyway, –
All she can gobble – and what does she pay?
Not a dribble of milk, the dub!”

But the hired man remarked to the pair,
“You get all that’s coming to you.
The poodle does tricks, and the parrot can swear,
Which is better than you can do.
You’re necessary, but what’s the use
Of bewailing your daily part?
You’re bourgeois – working’s your only excuse;
You can’t do nothing but just produce –
What them fellers does is ART!”

2dkzH8Q

All day long
Male and female just
Yak, yak, yak.

———————

photo by Karunakar Rayker at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dkzH8Q/Yak+Grazing

———————

* 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/

——————–

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