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……The Color Of The Harvest

Blue is the sky since summer’s dry,
And seared and gold the field.
Green is the tractor rumbling through
To reap it of its yield. 

It moves along and makes a cloud
Of brown above the gold,
As if it were a whirlwind’s breath
With dusty story told. 

The tractor, green, and bale machine
Form bundles round and gold.
The grass that once grew tall and green
Turns back to green when sold.

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

 

 

………………..Sonnet 126

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time’s fickle glass, his sickle hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow’st –
If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack),
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure;
Her audit, though delay’d answer’d must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.


At The Front Door

1

Late wake-up
Because this day is
For the birds.

 

2

No thank you.
I don’t want any
Magazines.

 

3

The stripes? The
Paint beneath my eyes?
It’s game day!

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photo by Crystal Woroniuk at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nxwVBMa/What+Are+U+Lookin+At%3F

——————–

 

* 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/

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

 

 

 

 …………….Men At Work

That road sign just seems to need clerking;
The error, unseemly, is irking.
The plural is wrong;
I’ve seen it so long:
Men watching while one man is working.

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

……………………….Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered?  I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound –
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

…………..In A Word

The key to real estate, they say:
Location, location, location!
But what if it’s out of the way?
Locution, locution, locution!

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

 

 

…….‘Tis Little I Could Care 

‘Tis little I – could care for Pearls –
Who own the ample sea –
Or brooches – when the Emperor –
With Rubies – pelteth me – 

Or Gold – whom am the Prince of Mines –
Or Diamonds – when have I
A Diadem to fit a Dome –
Continual upon me –

 


I See

A soft bed,
For the treasured moon,
Cotton balls.

 

And I See

Lying down,
Playing with a coin,
A puppy.

——————–

photo by Manu Mohan at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mgF4xBq/Moon

——————–

* 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.

 

 

………………The Inner Vision

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveler lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
-If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way –
Whate’er the senses take or may refuse, -
The Mind’s internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest day.

 

…………………………Allergies

I hab a liddle trouble wid my node and allergies;
I’m allergic do the grasses and de bollen ob de drees.
My throat will start do dickle and my node will start do run,
Den, coughing and a-wheezing, I’m nod habbing any fun.
I’m stobbed ub like de water in de back of Boulder Dam
But my node is flooding dissues like de sea floods Amsterdam.

It goes down in my donsils and id gurgles all around,
And oud my monkey boice comes and makes a fuddy sound.
So while I’m habbing trouble, de boor folks who hab do hear
Are habbing trouble also and deir trouble id sebere.
Bud as I wride my liddle poem, I dink of dose who read.
And wonder why my written words have also atrophied.

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

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