Posted in Limericks, My Poems, politics, tagged Amy Klobuchar, bard on the hill, Bernie Sanders, Dennis Allen Lange, election, Elizabeth Warren, hatred, Hillary Clinton lost in 2016, House of Representatives, hypocrisy, impeachment, limericks, Michael Bennett, poems, poetry, political, politics, President Donald Trump, running for office, Senate, senators, votes on February 3, 2020| 1 Comment »
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Political! Impeach him, they’re saying
Including four senators staying
…To vote to remove
…The one they reprove,
Against whom they’re running and naying.
Hypocrisy much? More than a mere touch.
For Dems, though, their politics is such.
…For three years they plotted,
…By their hate besotted.
Their anger at losing remains much.
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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.
Posted in A-B (by poet name), Poems of Other Poets, tagged analysis, bard on the hill, bereaved of light, black and white, bodies, English child, hatred, interpretation, love, poems, poetry, races, soul is, summary, sunburnt face, synopsis, The Little Black Boy, William Blake on August 17, 2017| Leave a Comment »
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
…And I am black, but O my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
…But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
…And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
…And, pointing to the East, began to say:
“Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
…And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
…Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
“And we are put on earth a little space,
…That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
…Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
“For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
…The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, ‘Come out from the grove, my love and care,
…And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'”
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
…And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
…And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear
…To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
…And be like him, and he will then love me.
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Links to analysis:
http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/blake/section4.rhtml
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Black_Boy
https://poemanalysis.com/the-little-black-boy-by-william-blake-poem-analysis/
Posted in My Poems, Religious, tagged bard on the hill, Dennis Lange, hatred, irritability, judging self, meet your Maker, others, poems, poetry, The Neighbor Problem on March 3, 2014| 8 Comments »
The Neighbor Problem
Monday
If old man Parsons down the street
Would die, and thus his Maker meet,
Then I would be a happy man,
For nothing makes me sicker than
To see that fellow in his yard
And know how he my life has marred.
Tuesday
And there he is, out mowing grass
He mows too early, gives me gas.
Or else he’s out there mowing late;
He does it then to irritate.
See how his house is painted blue?
The block is ruined. He knew! He knew!
Wednesday
He’s not picked up his paper yet;
If I wait long, I know I’ll get
A burning down inside of me
An acid rising caustic’lly.
He thinks that he’ll escape my glare.
Well, I’m not going anywhere!
Thursday
I must have missed the ambulance;
I’m always looking. What’s the chance?
A neighbor said that Parsons’ heart
Was hurting and his breath was short.
And so they came, took him away
And no one’s heard – it’s been a day.
Friday
Perhaps he’ll not be coming back.
A nursing home since his attack?
Or will he move in with his kid
Long miles away and I’ll be rid
Of all the trials he puts on me,
And makes me live so angrily.
Saturday
The word came down the street today
That old man Parsons passed away.
He did look frail when still alive.
Now, papers pile up in his drive.
It saves me time in looking out,
Not thinking what he is about.
Sunday
Oh, misery! Oh, woe is me!
Why can’t I just live happily?
My neighbors are a problem, sore;
But I’d have peace forevermore
If old man Roberts ‘cross the way
Would turn to dust, go back to clay.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.
The Bard on the Hill