The Master And The Slave by Dennis Allen Lange

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Do wrong so long, and practiced ways
Are habits that the slave obeys.

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photo by Lars Sundstrom at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mifQfG6/Rusty+Chains

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

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Martin Luther King, Jr. by Dennis Lange

King dreamed that he would say (when chains were past
Or strands so thin and few), these words long overdue,
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Though Egypt was behind, her reach was vast.
And like the wind, he blew winged words that fell like dew.
King dreamed a dream when all the chains were past.

His voice was Gabriel’s mighty trumpet blast;
The march began on cue, toward Canaan’s words and view,
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

His dream? – by hate and pharaohs not harassed;
Men judged, not by their hue; a future bright and new.
King dreamed a dream when all the chains were past.

Upon the farther shore, his people massed,
The sea returned and blue, they’d shout because they knew,
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Let go the broken chains! Away, them cast!
The speech and dream came true, for all who dare and do.
And now men say, since all their chains are past:
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

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

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Sonnet 76 – Free To Be Me by Dennis Lange

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I never was a master or a slave,
Though maybe one, or both, is in my blood.
By kinsmen past is not how I behave
If in me now by drop or even flood. 

What’s gone before is but a sketch that’s pale,
While I am busy now with paint in hand
With all the colors of my present tale
To make my life a masterpiece that’s grand. 

If all my colors clash, there’s none to blame –
Not ghosts or genes or skin or governments.
I am the one responsible for fame
Or failure, not the long ago, or once. 

That some take umbrage at a distant flag
Shows chains of slav’ry that their minds still drag.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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Jugurtha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
…Cried the African monarch, the splendid,
As down to his death in the hollow
…Dark dungeons of Rome he descended,
…Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
…Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended,
As the vision, that lured him to follow,
…With the mist and the darkness blended,
…And the dream of his life was ended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!

 

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Monday by Dennis Lange

There may be cobwebs as I wake,
…But there aren’t chains that bind me.
God help me get my head on straight
…And Satan get behind me!

God grant that I might see the day
…(And others cannot blind me)
As one more chance to glorify,
…And Satan get behind me!

And help me, Lord, that I don’t groan
…(I won’t, if you remind me),
Like Israel complained and griped.
…So, Satan, get behind me!

Whatever work that I must do,
…God sees and He will find me
With cheerful heart and willing hands.
…So, Satan, get behind me!

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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