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Posts Tagged ‘bard on the hill’

pX0r9Xw

Alien
Provided power:
ET trick.

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photo by Robert Linder at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/pX0r9Xw/Daredevil

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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.

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Friends, my heart is half aweary
Of its happiness to-night;
Though your songs are gay and cheery,
And your spirits feather-light,
There’s a ghostly music haunting
Still the heart of every guest
And a voiceless chorus chanting
That the Old Times were the best. 

Chorus: 

All about is bright and pleasant
With the sound of song and jest,
Yet a feeling’s ever present
That the Old Times were the best.

 

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airplane taking off

The slow parade, the idle wait,
Then suddenly a roar
As if the lions as king of beasts
Were all declaring war.
 

No matter if the concrete looks
As smooth as sheltered bay,
There’s rattle and there’s rumble as
The tires roll down the way. 

A quietness then within the roar
Like donuts with a hole.
And quickly doubled (quiet and smooth) –
The fish leaped from the bowl!

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photo by Fisher

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

 

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The Brain – is wider than the Sky –
For – put them side by side –
The one the other will contain
With ease – and You – beside – 

The Brain is deeper than the sea –
For – hold them – Blue to Blue –
The one the other will absorb –
As Sponges – Buckets – do – 

The Brain is just the weight of God –
For – Heft them – Pound for Pound –
And they will differ – if they do –
As Syllable from Sound –

 

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mifCl0M

Maze dead end
Frustrates, is painful –
A maze zing.

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photo by Lars Sundstrom at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mifCl0M/Infinite+Maze+2

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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.

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St. Peter stood guard at the golden gate
With a solemn mien and air sedate.
When up to the top of the golden stair
A man and a woman ascending there.
Applied for admission, they came and stood
Before St. Peter, so great and good.
In hopes the City of Peace to win —
And asked St. Peter to let them in.

The woman was tall, and lank and thin,
With a scraggy beardlet upon her chin.
The man was short and thick and stout,
His stomach was built so it rounded out.
His face was pleasant and all the while
He wore a kindly and genial smile.
The choirs in the distance the echoes woke,
And the man kept still while the woman spoke:

“O, thou who guardest the gate,” said she,
“We two come hither beseeching thee
To let us enter the heavenly land
And play our harps with the angel band.
Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt,
There is nothing from heaven to bar me out.
I’ve been to meeting three times a week,
And almost always I’d rise to speak.

“I’ve told the sinners about the day
When they’d repent of their evil way.
I’ve told my neighbors — I’ve told them all —
‘Bout Adam and Eve and the primal fall.
I’ve shown them what they’d have to do
If they’d pass in with the chosen few.
I’ve marked their path of duty clear —
Laid out the plan for their whole career.

“I’ve talked and talked to ’em loud and long,
For my lungs are good and my voice is strong.
So, good St. Peter, you will clearly see
The gate of heaven is open for me.
But my old man, I regret to say,
Hasn’t walked in exactly the narrow way;
He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he’s got,
And I don’t know whether he’ll pass or not.

“He never would pray with an earnest vim,
Or go to revival, or join in a hymn.
So I had to leave him in sorrow there
While I, with the chosen, united in prayer.
He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,
While I, in my purity, sang to the lord.
And if cucumbers were all he got,
It’s a chance if he merited them or not.

“But oh, St. Peter, I love him so,
To the pleasures of heaven please let him go.
I’ve done enough — a saint I’ve been,
Won’t that atone? Can’t you let him in —
By my grim gospel, I know ’tis so
That the unrepentant must fry below;
But isn’t there some way you can see
That he may enter whose dear to me?

“It’s a narrow gospel by which I pray,
But the chosen expect to find some way
Of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you,
So that their relations can amble through.
And say, St. Peter, it seems to me
This gate isn’t kept as it ought to be.
You ought to stand right by the opening there,
And never sit down in that easy chair.

“And say, St. Peter, my sight is dimmed,
But I don’t like the way your whiskers are trimmed;
They’re cut too wide, and outward toss,
They’d look better narrow, cut straight across.
Well, we must be going our crown to win.
So open, St. Peter, and we’ll pass in!”

St. Peter sat quiet, and stroked his staff,
But in spite of his office he had to laugh,
Then said, with a fiery gleam in his eye,
“Who’s tending this gateway? you or I? —
Then he arose in his stature tall,
And pressed a button upon the wall.
And said to an imp, who answered the bell,
“Escort this lady around to hell.”

The man stood still as a piece of stone —
Stood sadly, gloomily there alone.
A life-long settled idea he had
That his wife was good and he was bad.
He thought, if the woman went down below,
That he would certainly have to go —
That if she went to the regions dim,
There wasn’t a ghost of a show for him.

Slowly he turned, by habit bent,
To follow wherever the woman went.
St. Peter, standing in duty there,
Observed that the top of his head was bare.
He called the gentleman back, and said,
“Friend, how long have you been wed? —
“Thirty years” (with a weary sigh),
And then he thoughtfully added, “Why?”

St. Peter was silent. With head bent down,
He raised his hand and scratched his crown.
Then seeming a different thought to take,
Slowly, half to himself, he spake:
“Thirty years with that woman there —
No wonder the man hasn’t any hair!
Swearing is wicked, smoke’s not good,
He smoked and swore — I should think he would,
Thirty years with that tongue so sharp!
Ho! Angel Gabriel! Give him a harp.
A jeweled harp with a golden string!
Good sir, pass in where the angels sing!

“Gabriel, give him a seat alone —
One with a cushion — up near the throne.
Call up some angels to play their best,
Let him enjoy the music and rest!
See that on finest ambrosia he feeds,
He’s had about all the hell he needs.
It isn’t just hardly the thing to do,
To roast him on earth and the future too.”

They gave him a harp with golden strings,
A glittering robe and a pair of wings,
And he said, as he entered the Realm of Day,
“Well, this beats cucumbers, any way.”
And so, the scripture had come to pass,
That “the last shall be first and the first shall be last.”

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IMG_9244_1

I love the slowness of the autumn rain
That does not pelt like bullets from a storm,
But floats like languid butterflies to gain
A waiting blossom, landing without harm. 

I love the ambience of autumn rain
That falls between the glaring summer sun
And harshness of the winter’s frigid pain –
A yearly brilliance that does always stun.

I love the colors of the autumn rain,
When north winds shake the clouds that once were green
And from them fall the leaves that entertain
And soothe our lives till they become serene.

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The photo is mine, taken in Vermont (I think) this fall.

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

 

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imageedit_1_6385562188

NFL
On field politics –
Offensive. 

In response,
We will boycott –
Defensive.

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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.

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A simple Child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?  

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.  

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.  

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.  

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.  

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”  

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”  

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”  

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”  

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.  

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.  

“And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.  

“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.  

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.  

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”  

“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.” 

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

 

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okPTT1q

Fall is a flaming river flowing
Between the burning sands
Scorched by the sun and hot wind blowing
Through Summer’s heavy hands,

And Winter on Fall’s other shoulder,
Which broods and speeds its day
As northern winds grow cold and colder
And blast limp Fall away.

But flames upon the Autumn river
Don’t burn except these two:
Gray Winter with its jealous shiver;
Green Summer since it’s through.

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photo by Johnny Berg at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/okPTT1q/Forest+bed+in+autumn+-+HDR

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

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