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Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey;
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

I have forgot much Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long;
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

 

oWNUIoc

An anthill,
A modern marvel –
Pyramid.

——————–  

photo by wernerb at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oWNUIoc/Anthill+in+the+woods.

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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.
 

 

The sons of the prophet are brave men and bold,
And quite unaccustomed to fear, –
But the bravest by far in the ranks of the Shah
Was Abdul A-bul-bul A-Mir. 

If you wanted a man to encourage the van
Or harass the foe from the rear,
Storm fort or redoubt, you had only to shout
For Abdul A-bul-bul A-Mir. 

Now the heroes were plenty and well known to fame
In the troops that were led by the Czar,
And the bravest of these was a man by the name
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. 

He could imitate Irving, play poker and pool,
And strum on the Spanish guitar,
In fact quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. 

One day this bold Russian had shouldered his gun,
And donned his most truculent sneer,
Downtown he did go, where he trod on the toe
Of Abdul A-bul-bul A-Mir. 

“Young man,” quoth Abdul, “has life grown so dull
That you wish to end your career?
Vile infidel, know, you have trod on the toe
Of Abdul A-bul-bul A-Mir. 

“So take your last look at sunshine and brook,
And send your regrets to the Czar –
For by this I imply, you are going to die,
Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar!” 

Then this bold Mameluke drew his trusty skibouk,
With a cry of “Allah Akbar,”
And with murderous intent he ferociously went
For Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. 

They parried and thrust, they sidestepped and cussed,
Of blood they spilled a great part;
The philologist blokes, who seldom crack jokes,
Say that hash was first made on that spot. 

They fought all that night, ‘neath the pale yellow moon,
The din, it was heard from afar,
And huge multitudes came, so great was the fame,
Of Abdul and Ivan Skavar. 

As Abdul’s long knife was extracting the life,
In fact he was shouting, “Huzzah,”
He felt himself struck by that wily Calmuck,
Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. 

The Sultan drove by in his red-breasted fly,
Expecting the victor to cheer,
But he only drew nigh to hear the last sigh
Of Abdul A-bul-bul A-Mir. 

Czar Petrovitch too, in his spectacles blue,
Rode up in his new-crested car.
He arrived just in time to exchange a last line,
With Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. 

There’s a tomb rises up where the Blue Danube rolls,
And ‘graved there in characters clear,
Are, “Stranger, when passing, oh pray for the soul
Of Abdul A-bul-bul A-Mir.

A splash in the Black Sea one dark moonless night,
Caused ripples to spread wide and far,
It was made by a sack fitting close to the back
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. 

A Muscovite maiden her love vigil keeps,
‘Neath the light of the pale polar star,
And the name that she murmurs so oft as she weeps
Is Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.

 

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.

 

When the curtains of night are pinned back by the stars,
And the beautiful moon leaps the skies,
And the dewdrops of heaven are kissing the rose,
It is then that my memory flies 

As if on the wings of some beautiful dove
In haste with the message it bears
To bring you a kiss of affection and say:
I’ll remember you, love, in my prayers.
 

Go where you will, on land or on sea,
I’ll share all your sorrows and cares;
And at night, when I kneel by my bedside to pray
I’ll remember you, love, in my prayers. 

I have loved you too fondly to ever forget
The love you have spoken to me;
And the kiss of affection still warm on my lips
When you told me how true you would be. 

I know not if fortune be fickle or friend,
Or if time on your memory wears;
I know that I love you wherever you roam,
And remember you, love, in my prayers. 

When angels in heaven are guarding the good,
As God has ordained them to do,
In answer to prayers I have offered to Him,
I know there is one watching you. 

And may its bright spirit be with you through life
To guide you up heaven’s bright stairs,
And meet with the one who has loved you so true
And remembered you, love, in her prayers.

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Sung by Ann Breen (2:22)

 

mf3NbdQ

None can say
My family’s a
Perfect bunch.

Hopefully,
None will come to be
A sour grape.

Be careful.
A grape won’t fall far
From the vine.

Families
That cling together
Make sweet wine.

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photo by Hanspeter Klasser at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mf3NbdQ/wine+grapes

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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.

 

Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honour bred, with one
Who, were it proved he lies,
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbours’ eyes?
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.

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.

 

Except the Heaven had come so near –
So seemed to choose My Door –
The Distance would not haunt me so –
I had not hoped – before –

But just to hear the Grace depart –
I never thought to see –
Afflicts me with a Double loss –
‘Tis lost – And lost to me –

map-of-texas-cities

Luckenbach

Lucky guess?
No, not Luck-in-back.
Luke-in-bock.

Palacios

Puh-lash-us
Almost palatial
And precious.

Dime Box

Say it right –
You won’t even earn
A nickel.

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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.