The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend –
Or the most agonizing Spy –
An Enemy – could send –

Secure against its own –
No treason it can fear –
Itself – its Sovereign – of itself
The Soul should stand in Awe.


From high above, the tiny figures move
Like clones, their pace and look almost the same.
They seem as poured from mold, or in a groove,
Pale pieces playing parts within a game.

E’en from the level of the street, the mass
Keeps marching much in step like armies file,
Their faces – this or that – all fit a class:
A studied look or quick-lived frown or smile.

E’en greeting or a nod won’t tell the tale;
It takes relationship before one can
Discover what is hidden by the veil
And find the hidden thoughts that make the man.

From far away, men look the same, like ants.
It is the closest look that separates, enchants.


photo by Marcelo Terraza at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmfzcdy/%3E+Block+1


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

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory! –
The scent of the locusts – the light of the moon;
And the violin weaving the waltzers a story,
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune,
……Till their shadows uncertain
……Reeled round on the curtain,
While under the trellis we drank in the June.

Soaked through the midnight the cedars were sleeping,
Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain’s heart, leaping
Forever, forever burst, full with delight;
……And its lisp on my spirit
……Fell faint as that near it
Whose love like a lily boomed out in the night.

O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses!
The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!
And the rose at your throat was nest of spilled kisses! –
And the music! – in fancy I hear it today,
……As I sit here, confessing
……Our secret, and blessing
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away.

Three pancakes
For breakfast.  Enough
To fill me.

They have disappeared.
I’m starving.

But lunch comes,
Catfish buffet.  All
You can eat.


* 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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

Thou are not lovelier than lilacs, – no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies, – I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist, – with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink – and live – what has destroyed some men.

I tell you this story, my mouth pursed, a pucker,
That all of the blame can be placed on a trucker.
For whatever the reason,
It wasn’t the season,
And eighteen big wheels just ran over the clucker.


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

What through while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, many footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusiast’s friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
With you, kindest friends, in idea I muse;
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
In spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale’s tender condoling,
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air.

‘Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping.
I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
And now! ah, I see it – you just now are stooping
To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion
Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you,
Than the shell from the bright golden sands of the ocean
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, ’tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
….In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

Brett Favre

Rhymes with carve.
I didn’t know that
R’s travel.

The Pedernales River

Who’s to blame
For Pur-duh-nal-es?
Was Alice?


And just how
Did Re-fury-oh
Grow an R?

R Guh, Matey!

With all these
Any sane person
Might R-gue.


* 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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

One man was such an optimist,
That even in a drought,
He pulled his boat behind his truck
Without a cloud about.

His neighbor’s such a pessimist
That e’en without a flood,
He wore his waders on his feet
For non-existent mud.

Opt told the Pess he ought to smile.
Pess said, “My lips might crack.”
Opt said, “Well, if I smile I might
Just get a Cadillac.”

The preacher told Pess to repent
Or he’d end up in hell.
And Pess repented, but he wore
Asbestos suit as well.

Opt worried not when he heard that;
He thought he had an ace.
He figured he could talk his way
And be a special case.

Together at the pearly gates,
Opt’s joy was off the wall.
“It’s bliss!” he cried.  But Pess just sighed,
“I won’t like this at all.”


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



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