It’s rude but I cannot stop yawning,
My lip that is upper, an awning.
My jaws won’t behave;
Mouth open, a cave.
Sun’s setting, but sleep is now dawning.


photo by Juliane Riedl at


© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.


The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above;
Dower’d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.

He saw thro’ life and death, thro’ good and ill,
He saw thro’ his own soul.
The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,

Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded
The secretest walks of fame:
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And wing’d with flame,–

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,
And of so fierce a flight,
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,
…Filling with light

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore
Them earthward till they lit;
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower,
The fruitful wit

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew
Where’er they fell, behold,
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew
A flower all gold,

And bravely furnish’d all abroad to fling
The winged shafts of truth,
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring
Of Hope and Youth.

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,
Tho’ one did fling the fire.
Heaven flow’d upon the soul in many dreams
Of high desire.

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world
Like one great garden show’d,
And thro’ the wreaths of floating dark upcurl’d,
Rare sunrise flow’d.

And Freedom rear’d in that august sunrise
Her beautiful bold brow,
When rites and forms before his burning eyes
Melted like snow.

There was no blood upon her maiden robes
Sunn’d by those orient skies;
But round about the circles of the globes
Of her keen eyes

And in her raiment’s hem was traced in flame
WISDOM, a name to shake
All evil dreams of power–a sacred name.
And when she spake,

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,
Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words.  No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl’d,
But one poor poet’s scroll, and with ‘his’ word
She shook the world.



It’s strange how twisted becomes the thinking of men
When their hearts are hardened in the depth of their sin.


photo by Lars Sundstrom at


© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

Good night! Which put the Candle out?
A jealous Zephyr – not a doubt –
Ah, friend, you little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The Angels – labored diligent –
Extinguished – now – for you!

It might – have been the Light House spark –
Some Sailor – rowing in the Dark –
Had importuned to see!
It might – have been the waning lamp
That lit the Drummer from the Camp
To purer Reveille!


The mountain
Has already been
Fir-amed. Hang!


The photo is mine, of Mt. Shasta in northern California.


* 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 and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.


O touch me with your hands –
………………….For pity’s sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
………………….And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!

Touch – touch me with your hands –
…………………..Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear away,
…………………..And lo, to-day –
O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands,
…………………..And let them pass
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,
…………………..That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.



An antique man who weathered well –
No major crack or flaw –
Ought in the shop of people be
One valued, held in awe. 

For winter and the scorching sun –
Cold hatred, fiery ire –
And pressing weight of apathy
All ‘gainst a man conspire. 

They press a furrow in his brow;
They make his pink lips purse.
And slowly play upon the heart
Till tongue lets loose a curse. 

Thus, for the one enduring storms,
Or day in, day out drought,
And smiling, hits the finish line,
We give the prize and shout!


photo by Alessandro Paiva at


© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.


As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay.
If all were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish.
Look, whom she best endow’d she gave the more,
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish.
She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.



When duck nation has
Duck navy.


photo by Miriam Wickett 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: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/


© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

From naked stones of agony
I will build a house for me;
As a mason all alone
I will raise it, stone by stone,
And every stone where I have bled
Will show a sign of dusky red.
I have not gone the way in vain,
For I have good of all my pain;
My spirit’s quiet house will be
Built of naked stones I trod
On roads where I lost sight of God.