The Neck-ed Truth

Some people
Never ever sweat –
Just bead up.



Who Will Step Out?

Robin Hood?
Will it be Merlin?
Or Bambi?





A little
Of life is all dark.
Light’s in most.


Neck-ed – photo by Crystal Woroniuk at

Step – photo by Thomas Butler at

Enjoy – photo by Dez Pain at


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

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


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

………………….Telling The Bees

Here is the place, right over the hill
Runs the path I took,
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn’s brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o’errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There’s the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. 

I mind me how with a lover’s care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. 

Since we parted, a month had passed, -
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 

I can see it all now, – the slantwise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sundown’s blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before, -
The house and the trees,
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door, -
Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black. 

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on a journey we all must go! 

Then I said to myself, “My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away.” 

But her dog whines low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on: -
“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!”



Outside, I sit upon the steps and see
The sun play peek-a-boo behind a cloud;
The wind wafts o’er the tops of cedar trees,
A rustling, sometimes whirring – never loud. 

A buzz, as unseen neighbor uses saw
To fell a tree or trim a limb that’s grown.
My dog stops once, to stare and raise a paw,
Immortalized as statue, into stone. 

A distant jet roars in the sky above,
A speeding needle in the haystack’s blue.
Upon the poles and wires, a message – dove:
A peace that’s promised, too good to be true. 

A car rolls by; the driver and I greet -
Two sailors on two ships that cross at sea.
But far beyond the flying birds that tweet,
There is a world of woe and misery. 

While nations, neighbors, mates are all at odds,
There is within my yard sweet nature’s peace,
Since missing is direct news from the gods
And drums of war are distant – so they cease.



© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.



There be none of beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean’s pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming: 

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o’er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant’s asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.


Rhapsody In Blue

Sky lends blue
To mountains below.
Becomes pale.


Blue mountains,
Blue shadows and lights,
Blue valleys.


photo by marmit at



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

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


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.



………………………Hurrahing In Harvest

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds has wilder, willful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?
I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And, eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies? 

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic – as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet! –
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.


…………….Precious Stones

Some few have sailed with purpose found,
While others were adrift.
The latter serve out all their days
As if life were a shift, 

A shift that is repeated oft
So there’s no need to try
To be exact with rule or cup –
Another round comes by. 

But life’s an uncut diamond worth
More than its weight in gold.
And from that rock can come a stone
Whose beauty is extolled. 

But jeweler’s cuts must be exact;
There is no second story.
Those strikes upon the precious stone
Bring one to ruin or glory.



© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.



………..To My Brother George (1)

Many the wonders I this day have seen:
The sun, when first he kist away the tears
That fill’d the eyes of morn; – the laurell’d peers
Who from the feathery gold of evening lean; -
The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, -
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears
Must think on what will be, and what has been.
E’en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping
So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
And she her half-discover’d revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?


The Signs They Are A’Changing

I was F I N E
Until the rust. Now –
Just O K.




Hot Air Machines

Oh, I wish
It was that simple
On people.




Be Prepared

Don’t ever
Let your ship sail off
Without you.


Signs – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at

Machines – photo by Helmut Gevert at

Prepared – photo by Aschwin Prein at


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

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


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.




…………………………I Am

I am – yet what I am, none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes –
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live – like vapours tossed 

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I love the best
Are strange – nay, rather stranger than the rest. 

I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below, above, the vaulted sky.



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