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Posts Tagged ‘traditional verse’

My leg was never in a cast,
Nor has my arm been in a sling.
I think my hide is pretty tough –
I’ve never broken anything! 

Oh – but when bottles once were glass,
I held a cola by the neck
And felt it slide like pucks on ice,
And promptly stepped upon its wreck. 

Too – once there was a broken heart.
How many pieces? – I don’t know.
The shattered glass one cannot count,
Nor shards of hope that do not glow. 

Lest I forget – a promise made
That was not kept – a carelessness?
Or was I rash with tongue and lip? –
I broke the words I meant to bless. 

Stored in my painful memories,
Some broken bits of glass still sting.
My bones are whole, but I can’t say
I’ve never broken anything!

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

 

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In winter when the grain was gone and grass no longer grew,
We’d come back home from school to farm, but I was not yet
through.
For, waiting was some home work that no teacher e’er assigned –
I had to feed the cows and sheep before I could unwind.
It mattered not the weather; for, in fact, when it was worse,
The sheep with little helpless lambs were first to feel its curse.
And sheep would be quite sheepish if they only had the brains
To know that they were brainless, with no sense to take the pains
To show up for a feeding and some shelter from the cold,
To let the shepherd help them by residing in his fold.

I’d change my clothes from scholar to a rugged winter wear.
I needed it so weather and the feeding pens I’d bear.
I’d head into the pasture for the pesky flock of sheep
Who didn’t have the sense to know I’d food and place to sleep.
Most days they were not driven; one would break and all the rest
Would, brainless, blindly bolt as if the moron knew what’s best.
And I, the two-legged sheepdog, would then run as fast I could
To head them off before they ran back to the distant wood.
For when one broke, then three or four, it was a second more
Ere all the flock fled off as one, like clouds first drop, then pour.

Then after many starts and stops, the stupid sheep would find
The gate where they’d been driven by the guide dog for the blind.
The Einstein cows were often at the barn for cake and hay.
And when they weren’t, I’d honk the horn and they’d be on their way.
The sheep were penned; the cows were not. It’s always lawless fools
Who need a taser, chain, or cell, and many extra rules.
The cows would low to call along the stragglers as they came,
And some would be as anxious for the food as fools for fame.
They’d break into a run and bawl, the placid driven mad.
They’d sense enough to know the food would make them full and
glad.

The weather was a problem like the last starred one in math;
I sometimes felt its apathy and sometimes felt its wrath.
But one day winter elements were my farm chemistry,
All mixed together in a blast that shook the leave-less tree.
It was a cold day and the front would make it colder still.
I donned a coat, a cap, to ward off winter’s deep’ning chill
And left the house reluctantly ‘neath clouds of sullen gray.
The mercury was falling in the north wind’s one act play.
I knew the cows would come themselves to crowd the fence for food
And wished the sheep would have some sense, for chasing I’d no
mood.

When sheep all penned and cows come home – the norther filled the
air.
I pulled my cap down o’er my ears with hands grown cold, since bare.
I fed the cows their hay and cake; got sheep their cottonseed –
I carried, in an icy mist, two buckets for that breed.
Across an empty pen I went, in growing bitter cold.
I set my buckets down so metal gate I could take hold.
And as I reached to open it, my hand froze to the bar.
And there I was in ice and wind with nearest help afar,
A salmon who had jumped the falls, but snatched by grizzly’s paw.
All of a sudden, I was loose! – my warmness made it thaw!

My teacher never asked that I write down what I had learned
From failing at a test that left me shaken and concerned.
But one who fails will only fail if he clings to mistakes,
And does not rise with new resolve and an adjustment makes.
And I could see one must prepare, and for swift changes plan,
For times may come impossible and none is Superman.
Those were some lessons that I learned that I will ne’er forget
For fresh is Winter’s icy grip that I remember yet.
And that one lesson is, perhaps, the greatest of them all –
That learning’s best when one’s mind stays within the Teacher’s thrall.

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

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She gave him a come-hither smile,
A match to helpless hay.
But she was thinking all the while,
“Oh, please just stay away!” 

For e’en a cat can sometimes tire
Of playing with its prey,
But can’t its nature just retire
A moment or a day.


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

 

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I sailed out from the bay, and suddenly
I left the comfort that surrounded me,
A blanket warm, and with familiar scent
That softly hugged me close where’er I went. 

Gone were the harbor lights that guided me
Like stars do mariners upon the sea,
Except in that dark zone where hov’ring storm
Rakes them with wind and waves to wreak them harm. 

In such a darkness, I was rudely cast;
My peaceful passage thrust into the past.
So dark it was that memories of light
Were pale and dim, and like a sliver – slight. 

But I could not return, so faded glow
Was of no present use except to know
That once existed light and precious day,
And thus provide a spark on my dark way. 

But worse, far worse than melted memories
Was all the endless ink of sullen seas
That lay ahead without a flicker of relief
And hope and peace and joy stole like a thief. 

Now what’s a man to do in such a strait?
Sail the dark zone and in the sailing, wait –
Wait for the flicker that one day may flare,
That other men have found while sailing there.


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

 

 

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It’s bad enough, that to another room,
I’ll walk with purpose and a steady stride,
And thought will flee like a reluctant groom
Into an unknown distant land and hide. 

But I’ve a fear that I will sometime think
Of what, to me, is the most perfect line,
And ere, on paper, it’s put down in ink,
Like vapor, it will vanish from my mind.


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

 

 

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