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Posts Tagged ‘poems’

26820041783_a3d947073e_o

A child will sit at window, rue
   The raindrops as they fall.
But when storm clears, he’s fast outdoors,
   Where children have a ball.

Each puddle is a wading pool;
   Each rivulet, a ford.
The world is now a water park,
   With rain and mud adored.

A grownup may be more reserved
   Yet there are those who love
The treasure of the falling rain,
   Like diamonds from above.

They may not frolic in the mud,
   But since they know the pain,
Drought-stricken adults share with child
   The joy of the rain.

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The picture is mine, of rain advancing over the valley down below.

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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The wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave
Is lying on thy Roman grave,
Yet on its turf young April sets
Her store of slender violets;
Though all the Gods their garlands shower,
I too may bring one purple flower.
Alas! what blossom shall I bring,
That opens in my Northern spring?
The garden beds have all run wild,
So trim when I was yet a child;
Flat plantains and unseemly stalks
Have crept across the gravel walks;
The vines are dead, long, long ago,
The almond buds no longer blow.
No more upon its mound I see
The azure, plume-bound theur-de-lis;
Where once the tulips used to show,
In straggling tufts the passive grow;
The grass has quenched my white-rayed gem,
The flowering “Star of Bethlehem,”
Though its long blade of glossy green
And pallid stripe may still be seen.
Nature, who treads her nobles down,
And gives their birthright to the clown,
Has sown her base-born weedy things
Above the garden’s queens and kings.
Yet one sweet flower of ancient race
Springs in the old familiar place.
When snows were melting down the vale,
And Earth unlaced her icy mail,
And March his stormy trumpet blew,
And tender green came peeping through,
I loved the earliest one to seek
That broke the soil with emerald beak,
And watch the trembling bells so blue
Spread on the column as it grew.
Meek child of earth! thou wilt not shame
The sweet, dead poet’s holy name;
The God of music gave thee birth,
Called from the crimson-spotted earth,
Where, sobbing his young life away,
His own fair Hyacinthus lay.
The hyacinth my garden gave
Shall lie upon that Roman grave.

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34717902170_5752018acb_o

An island
In a lake in a
Volcano.

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The photo is mine of Crater Lake in Oregon.

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And perspective it is best painter’s art,
For through the painter must you see his skill
To find where your true image pictur’d lies,
Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee,
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art –
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

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Mike_Bloomberg

It seems that from the taller trees
Comes presidential timber.
Israel’s first king stood out –
‘Twas Saul, if you remember.

There’s been a run of six foot men
This nation has elected.
If we cannot look up to some,
Those are the ones rejected.

It seems that female chances, then,
Of winning are quite narrow
Since few of them are ostrich tall
And closer to a sparrow.

And same for that short fellow who
Has/spends a lot of money.
If he wore elevator shoes,
His outcome might be sunny.

He might as well go home, recline,
Light cigars with his dollars.
He has to come up taller than
The tall ones’ necks and collars.

As each aspirant’s views are scanned,
Subconsciously we measure
How far into the clouds he stands
To find a redwood treasure.

So looking up to candidates
Is double in its senses.
To come up short in either one
Has highest consequences.

***********************************

Mike Bloomberg 5’8″
Elizabeth Warren 5’8″
Bernie Sanders 6’0″
Joe Biden 6’0″
Donald Trump 6’3″

King Saul of Israel – “he was taller than any of the people
from his shoulders upward” (I Sam.10:23)

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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34722934486_764eb79807_o

House worthy
Of a president –
FDR.

Built to hide
From voting public –
Handicap.

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The photo is mine, of FDR’s home in Hyde Park, New York.

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go –

A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him
Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.

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oSnvT84

(with apologies to Joyce Kilmer)

I think that I shall never see
Something that’s not a conspiracy.

One whispered in my hungry ear,
Far more than what things first appear.

A conspiracy to ruin the day,
That only God and I can say.

Woe! Everywhere’s conspiracy,
Beneath each rock and ev’ry tree!

Its evil permeates the air
Like snakes writhe in Medusa’s hair.

Men dream conspiracies for fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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photo by Michael and Christa Richert
@https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oSnvT84/spider+web

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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“Write to Sardis,” saith the Lord,
And write what he declares,
He whose Spirit and whose word,
Upholds the seven stars:
“All thy works and ways I search,
Find thy zeal and love decayed:
Thou art called a living church,
But thou art cold and dead.”

“Watch, remember, seek, and strive,
Exert thy former pains;
Let thy timely care revive,
And strengthen what remains:
Cleanse thine heart, thy works amend,
Former times to mind recall,
Lest my sudden stroke descend,
And smite thee once for all.” 

“Yet I remember now in thee
A few that are upright:
these my Father’s face shall see,
And walk with me in white,
When in judgment I appear,
They for mine shall be confessed;
Let my faithful servants hear;
And woe be to the rest!”

(Rev.3:1-6)

 

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coronavirus14

Greatest need
In this present time
Is patience

And caution
As we hunker down
Till storm’s gone.

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
——————–

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

 

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