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Posts Tagged ‘experience’

The shades are drawn; the light is pale
Upon the yellow wall.
The blades above on ceiling fans
In a tight circle crawl.

Three couples at a table sit,
Close friends like ancient tomes
That have a common history,
And share a common home.

Another place – two grands with kids
Too young to be in class,
Are there to make a memory
That school cannot surpass.

Another table’s strange to me –
Two young girls sit with phones.
Together, they are separate,
Not in each other’s zones.

A single woman sits alone
Like me with my own thought.
I wonder if her money brings
The joy that mine has brought.

The clatter of the cutlery,
The chatter o’er the meal,
The pleasantness of food and drink –
All told, the moment seal.

And I, the bard, am struck by this
That people come to eat,
And oft the food that’s on their plates
Is not the greatest treat.

But in their sharing of their food
And sharing of their time,
They give themselves to those they love
In meals that are sublime.

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

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The fearless, fair-haired youth go racing by
To beat the sun with their eternal play;
Ignoring all the volumes as they sit
On shelves, made dusty by the ancient day.

But if they pause to look within the door,
Tis brief, for volumes do not speak with rap,
Nor beer commercials with seductiveness.
Instead, they stand or lean, and seem to nap.

Philosophy and history there dwell
As tenants, with a monthly rent long paid
By labor in the decades of the past,
And speak of Time, not black, or white, but grayed.

A smattering of math and arts reside
By politics in its disgraceful cave.
A button brings the turning of a tune –
A play-by-play of athletes in the grave.

Outranking all the facts that dwell within
Is Wisdom, treasured for her pillared strength,
Who, in the living of the testing years,
Spread through the books to fill the width and length.

She lives in leathered lexicons and tracts,
Anthologies of age, experience,
In almanacs beneath the thinning hair
Beside her sacred sister – Common Sense.

Youth shudder at the shaking in a hand;
They wince at wrinkles, see the years as gloom.
They view the silver hair like cobwebs.  Flee!
The tomes of wisdom are too near the tomb.

Library and librarian – the same –
He shuffles down the lane the young ones fly.
Their laughter sounds, as though the race was won,
But they, as yet, have no discerning eye.


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

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