Dried Apple Pies – anonymous

I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that’s fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don’t give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
‘Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don’t take half the peeling off.
Then on a dirty cord ’tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it’s made up into pies.
Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don’t pass me dried-apple pies.

 

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Liberal Bridge Is Falling Down by Dennis Allen Lange

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Where once they were panting and drooling,
The bridge love of liberals is cooling.
…They can’t bear the word
…That they’ve always heard
Since Donald’s the big Trump that’s ruling.

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photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhiqCTa/Old+man%27s+hand

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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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The Greenhouse by Dennis Lange

I am a greenhouse plant that grew
…From seed to youthful tree,
Kept far from both the frost and dew
…Where plants felt agony. 

I was not pampered as a child,
…But sheltered from the hate
That runs throughout a world gone wild
…Like cracks creep ‘cross a plate. 

It wasn’t that I didn’t care;
…I simply was naïve
That prejudice was even there
…O’er color of a sleeve. 

And so it was, that I was blest
…And at the same time, cursed.
Of prejudice – I passed the test.
…At knowledge, I’d not nursed. 

No integration at my school;
…I didn’t even know
That coal was still against the rule
…E’en with the piles of snow. 

And so the strangers came one day
…As if a planet far
Had sent their messengers to say,
…“May we live where you are?” 

It mattered not one whit to me;
…Green was my greenhouse hue,
And under our glass canopy,
…Weren’t all the new ones, too?

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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The Master-Player by Paul Laurence Dunbar

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

             The Master-Player

 An old, worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed,
To play.  But each in turn had found
No sweet responsiveness of sound.

Then Love the Master-Player came
With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
The Harp he took all undismayed,
Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
And brought forth music sweet and strong.

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