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Posts Tagged ‘hell’

I cannot live with You –
It would be Life –
And Life is over there –
Behind the Shelf 

The Sexton keeps the Key to –
Putting up
Our Life – His Porcelain –
Like a Cup – 

Discarded of the Housewife –
Quaint – or Broke –
A newer Sevres pleases –
Old Ones crack – 

I could not die – with You –
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down –
You – could not – 

And I – Could I stand by
And see You – freeze –
Without my Right of Frost –
Death’s privilege?

Nor could I rise – with You –
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’ –
That New Grace 

Glow plain – and foreign
On my homesick Eye –
Except that You than He
Shone closer by – 

They’d judge Us – How –
For You – served Heaven – You know,
Or sought to –
I could not – 

Because You saturated Sight –
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise 

And were You lost, I would be –
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame – 

And were You – saved –
And I – condemned to be
Where You were not –
That self – were Hell to Me – 

So We must meet apart –
You there – I – here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –

 

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(In the U.S. 60,000,000 unborn babies have been murdered by abortion since 1973.)

I say you have the Nazi mind,
And in that I am not unkind.
‘Tis you with baby butcher knives
Who sanction doctors taking lives.

You think that women get to choose
If they should kill their baby Jews.
To you it matters not the why –
That selfishness will make them die.

Why can’t you see the wicked swing
Twixt mothering and murdering?
How hardened is your concrete heart
That in the slaughter you take part!

I say you have the Nazi mind,
And in that I am not unkind.
I’m sure your friends think you’re quite swell
But murderers will go to hell.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

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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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“You’ll have to take me just the way I am”;
Says he won’t change and that he does not care.
Such causes God, in spite of grace, to damn,
And gives to others burdens they can’t bear.


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

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One man was such an optimist,
That even in a drought,
He pulled his boat behind his truck
Without a cloud about.

His neighbor’s such a pessimist
That e’en without a flood,
He wore his waders on his feet
For non-existent mud.

Opt told the Pess he ought to smile.
Pess said, “My lips might crack.”
Opt said, “Well, if I smile I might
Just get a Cadillac.”

The preacher told Pess to repent
Or he’d end up in hell.
And Pess repented, but he wore
Asbestos suit as well.

Opt worried not when he heard that;
He thought he had an ace.
He figured he could talk his way
And be a special case.

Together at the pearly gates,
Opt’s joy was off the wall.
“It’s bliss!” he cried.  But Pess just sighed,
“I won’t like this at all.”


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

 

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Mid-February, and it seems
We bask in April’s heat.
The sullen gray, the cold, the mist
Are in a long retreat.

And while we welcome warmth’s advance,
We wonder if this spell
Of early conquering means that
July we’ll be in hell.

And too, what if the sleeping trees
Come forth to celebrate,
And Winter marches south again
To freeze, and subjugate?

I fear that, though it’s pleasant now,
Of warmth, the tale is more,
And Northern cold and Southern heat’s
A weather Civil War.


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

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A faggot’s a stick picked for burning.
If you are a faggot, be turning
From wood that you are
To the Rock that won’t char
And ways that earn matches be spurning.

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

 

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……..The Sweetest Treat

 …………………I

The two young girls, still tender fawns,
Came to the corner store,
And in their hands, they clutched their coins –
Both wishing for some more.

The cache they had was but a grant,
A grudging parent gift,
That forced their wishful anxious hearts
To act, instead, with thrift.

They found the candy, taller racks
Than their round wond’ring eyes.
Then, close as chocolate and nuts,
They stood with silent sighs.

One toed the floor with wistful wipes;
One pulled a strand of hair.
Their gazes swept as carefully
As soldiers barracks’ care.

A pause – their heads together leaned
Like books do when one’s gone.
Then, urgent whispers passed between
That caused a quick count’s spawn.

The jury of two girls was out,
Deliberation long,
Until consensus came to be –
Such rulings can’t be wrong.

Their final choice (perhaps the name
Made it their superstar,
The one for which they pooled their all) –
An Everlasting bar.

……………………II

The senior drove up in his car
To that same corner store.
As ducks will waddle when they walk,
He shuffled to the door.

To worker at the register,
He gave a nod, polite.
His practiced eyes glanced o’er the store –
No customers in sight.

He, too, was quick to find the aisle
Of all things grand and sweet.
For that’s the only reason why
He went from home to street.

He was a moth drawn to the flame,
And though he knew the fire,
Inexorably, it drew him still
To fill that one desire.

He, like the girls, stood still and looked,
His mind an unmade bed.
Though his dilemma was not theirs,
The clock ticked on and bled.

He wasn’t bound by pocketbook;
He wasn’t chained to change.
He could have bought a store of sweets,
And never thought it strange.

Instead, health was his main concern –
Not treat the sweet, but knife.
His sugar, fats, were limited:
He chose a shake called Life.

…………………….III

An ice cream and a candy bar –
So small in size and cost;
A temporary trifle bought,
And yet much time was lost

In making up the minds and mind
About a simple thing
That raised itself in prominence
Due to the limiting.

When there is one and only one
The value escalates –
A Mona Lisa, Everest,
The key to pearly gates.

And when it’s not a candy bar,
But worth is more than gold,
How long should one deliberate
Before his soul is sold?

How should a man fill up his days
In pondering this chance
That we call life upon this earth,
Our first and final dance?

For what we have is but a test;
Our coin is our life.
And we must weigh the consequence
Of treat that is but knife.

Combined, the youths and senior chose,
By thinking long and well
The treat – an Everlasting Life
A heaven, not a hell.

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Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

“Forward the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not –
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

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