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jay-ruzesky-84387

A mountain
Of wrinkle-valleys;
Whiskered peak.

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photo by Jay Ruzesky

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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 and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

For The Meeting Of The Massachusetts
…………….Medical Society, 1859
…….[In honor of Dr. Jacob Bigelow]

‘T is sweet to fight our battles o’er,
And crown with honest praise
The gray old chief, who strikes no more
The blow of better days.

Before the true and trusted sage
With willing hearts we bend,
When years have touched with hallowing age
Our Master, Guide, and Friend.

For all his manhood’s labor past,
For love and faith long tried,
His age is honored to the last,
Though strength and will have died.

But when, untamed by toil and strife,
Full in our front he stands,
The torch of light, the shield of life,
Still lifted in his hands,

 

No temple, though its walls resound

With bursts of ringing cheers,

Can hold the honors that surround

His manhood’s twice-told years!

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The sun grows warmer day by day
As if the earth was sick,
Afflicted by a fever’s rise
Like flames crawl up a wick.

The deer are lazier, but heat
Is not the only cause.
New mothers or mothers to be
May in their wand’ring pause.

Close to her hidden fawn, doe stays
And pricks her ears to hear
The tiniest of frightened cries
Through summer’s atmosphere.

And those with swollen bellies yet
Have chosen where they’ll nest.
Like trucks with heaviest of  loads,
They’re slow and quick to rest.

The deer, beneath the cedars, lie
On hill just ‘cross the way.
And when I first step out my door,
Not one is on display.

And then like recent rains brought floods,
The deer begin to pour
Like water down the gentle slope
For what they know’s in store.

They follow me to where I feed,
Since work for grass they scorn.
I help them in their laziness
With just a little corn.

Our symbiotic link is sweet:
I, in their stress, console.
And from both doe and fawn I need
Their beauty for my soul.

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The photo is mine, taken through my front window.

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

I

The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw, – it must have been
Very pretty.

II

Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring; –
But not in the old way!

I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring  –
But not in the old way!

III

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going – ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, –
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

mZhGDLG

The best thing
When back’s to beauty –
A switchback.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mZhGDLG/Winding+road

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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 and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion kingdom
of daylight’s dauphin, dappledawn-drawn
Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wing, My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! And the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

mldy0fE


There is a people – oh, how big the heart! –
A heart that swells like a primeval ooze
Till others not as blessed must take a part,
Forced by an overflowing they don’t choose.

And, oh! how wonderful those hearts now feel
That others, too, have done the good they deemed
With what the righteous from them rightly steal –
Not steal, but take by all the plans they schemed.

And, oh! how those blest hearts now fill with pride
That theirs the nobler way, the higher road,
That they, a cut above the baser side
Have helped man’s load by adding to his load.

It seems they think it some great human feat,
A merit in the doing that they dream
Not by their back and boon, but from their seat
By forcing others into what they scheme.

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photo by Scott Snyder at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mldy0fE/Eggnapper

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

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august
And high for adoration; now thou’rt dust;
All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,
Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold.

n7g6kGg

On this spot!
Ma, just picture it.
Log cabin.

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photo by Colin Brough at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n7g6kGg/Forest+clearing

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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/
——————–

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

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration each way free,
Oh, how that glittering taketh me!