…………………The Poets

O ye dead Poets, who are living still
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
And ye, O living Poets, who are dead
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
With drops of anguish falling fast and red
From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,
Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song
Have something in them so divinely sweet,
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.


……..Just To Get Elected

Obama, when debt was nine trillion,
Recoiling, declared it reptilian.
It was only talk;
There’s no walking the walk –
The debt is now double, gazillion.


On July 3, 2008, presidential candidate Barack Obama said this:

“The problem is, is that the way Bush has done it over the last eight years is to take out a credit card from the Bank of China in the name of our children, driving up our national debt from $5 trillion for the first 42 presidents — #43 added $4 trillion by his lonesome, so that we now have over $9 trillion of debt that we are going to have to pay back — $30,000 for every man, woman and child. That’s irresponsible. It’s unpatriotic.”

The U.S. national debt has now doubled in his 6 years and is $18 trillion.


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


A Closing Conversation

Not “good night”,
But tree gives sun thanks
For good day.

“Needed that,”
Said tree.  And the sun,
“You’re welcome.”

And those two
Bid each other bye
Till morrow.


photo by Steve Woods 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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

When on my bed the moonlight falls
I know that in thy place of rest,
By that broad water of the west,
There comes a glory on the walls: 

Thy marble bright in dark appears,
As slowly steals a silver flame
Along the letters of thy name,
And o’er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away;
From off my bed the moonlight dies;
And closing eaves of wearied eyes
I sleep till dusk is dipt in grey: 

And then I know the mist is drawn
A lucid veil from coast to coast
And in the dark church like a ghost
Thy table glimmers to the dawn.



……………The River Smokes

About this safety issue, much is said,
But still the river sometimes smokes in bed.
And on those mornings when we wake to see
The shroud she breathed, alarmed we should not be
for her.
……………For all around are drenched, and burn
she’ll not.
……………Our safety is the sole concern.


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

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down –
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon. 

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos – crawl –
Nor Fire – for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool – 

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine – 

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ‘twas like Midnight, some – 

When everything that ticked – has stopped –
And Space stares all around –
Or Grisly frosts – first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground – 

But, most like Chaos – Stopless – cool –
Without a Chance, or Spar –
Or even a Report of Land –
To justify – Despair.


What’s That Big Word?

He wondered
As he scratched his head;
And he spat.





A Snow Job

Poor kitty;
Before the snow, ‘twas
A black cat.





Paper, Planes

In papers,
Obituaries –


World – photo by Adrian van Leen at

Snow – photo by Gesine Kuhlmann at

Planes – photo by Michael and Christa Richert 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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.




………..Hymn Of Pan 

From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass
Were as silent as ever old Temolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings. 

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and the waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawn,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings. 

I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the daedal Earth,
And of Heaven – and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth, –
And then I changed my pipings, –
Singing how down the vale of Maenalus
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed.
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
……At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.


…..The Wind Invisible

The wind I cannot see I know
By looking at a tree.
The gentle rocks or wilder waves
Say wind is there, to me.

By ear, the wind invisible
Is measured by a chime:
A tinkle here, tink tinkle there
Or calling all the time.

The words I write within my verse
I measure and I mete
By feet that gallop, feet that plod –
For poetry has a beat.

By ear, the wind of poetry’s heard
With other sound – the rhyme.
And like the wind invisible,
Makes stanzas chime, chime-chime.


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


In a cavern in a canyon, excavating for a mine,
Dwelt a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine. 

Chorus (after each couplet):
Oh, my darling, oh, my darling, oh, my darling Clementine,
You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine. 

Light she was and like a fairy, and her shoes were number
Herring boxes without topses, sandals were for Clementine. 

Drove her ducklings to the water, every morning just at nine,
Hit her foot against a splinter, fell into the foaming brine. 

Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine,
Alas, for me! I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine. 

In a churchyard, near the canyon, where the myrtle doth
There grow roses and other posies fertilized by Clementine. 

Then the miner, forty-niner, soon began to droop and pine,
Thought he ought to join his daughter, now he’s with his

In my dreams she still doth haunt me, robed in garments
soaked in brine,
Though in life I used to kiss her, now she’s dead, I draw the



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