When this close,
A hot air balloon.
Far – lantern.


photo by coolhewitt23 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:



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

There was a young man from the city
Who saw what he thought was a kitty.
He gave it a pat,
Said nice little cat –
And they buried his clothes out of pity.

This is no case of petty right or wrong
That politicians or philosophers
Can judge.  I hate not Germans, nor grow hot
With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers.
Beside my hate for one fat patriot
My hatred of the Kaiser is love true: –
A kind of god he is, banging a gong.
But I have not to choose between the two,
Or between justice and injustice. Dinned
With war and argument I read no more
Than in the storm smoking along the wind
Athwart the wood. Two witches’ cauldrons roar.
From one the weather shall rise clear and gay;
Out of the other an England beautiful
And like her mother that died yesterday.
Little I know or care if, being dull,
I shall miss something that historians
Can rake out of the ashes when perchance
The phoenix  broods serene above their ken.
But with the best and meanest Englishmen
I am one in crying, God save England, lest
We lose what never slaves and cattle blessed.
The ages made her that made us from dust:
She is all we know and live by, and we trust
She is good and must endure, loving her so:
And as we love ourselves we hate her foe.

I once saw a case of too many
(But maybe I was just a ninny).
I knew not the facts;
I just saw the acts.
But eight seemed much more than just plenty.

Eight coppers to do the arresting
Of one who seemed quite uncontesting
Was more than enough
For any young tough.
Were donuts free there for ingesting?


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

The naked earth is warm with Spring,
And with green grass and bursting trees
Leans to the sun’s gaze glorying,
And quivers in the sunny breeze;
And life is Colour and Warmth and Light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight,
And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sun
Take warmth, and life from glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fulness after dearth.

All the bright company of Heaven
Hold him in their bright comradeship,
The Dog star, and the Sisters Seven,
Orion’s belt and sworded hip:

The woodland trees that stand together,
They stand to him each one a friend;
They gently speak in the windy weather;
They guide to valley and ridges end.

The kestrel hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him: “Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you shall sing,
Sing well, for you may not sing another;
Brother, sing.”

In dreary doubtful waiting hours,
Before the brazen frenzy starts,
The horses show him nobler powers; —
O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only joy of battle takes
Him by the throat and makes him blind,
Through joy and blindness he shall know,
Not caring much to know, that still
Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so
That it be not the Destined Will.

The thundering line of battle stands,
And in the air Death moans and sings;
But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night shall fold him in soft wings.


Two seasons
Autumn and Winter –
Fire on ice.


photo by Marja Flick-Buijs 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, 2016.


The unions still support because of greed;
The homos do, since by it they are blessed.
For power, it will make the nation bleed,
And even die so long as they are best.

A shrill excuse and welfare sugarcoat,
A promise made to ope’ the nation’s store,
And greed-deceived, the Party buys their vote.
Then, at the ballot box, they play the whore.

They’ll save the trees; they’re green – and kill the child,
The babe within that says you’re not your own,
That you can’t do all that you wish, be wild.
They’ll raise you up and take God from the throne.

With sin the soul, and selfishness the core,
It ain’t your parents’ party any more.


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

(I will attempt to substitute some words
where I can to make it more readable,
but some words I cannot “translate”.)


Here Holy Willie’s sore worn clay
Takes up its last abode;
His soul has ta’en some other way,
I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure’s a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;
No wonder he’s as black’s the grun,
Observe what’s standing with him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before you;
But hold your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till once you’ve heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity you have none;
Justice, alas! has gi’en him o’er,
And mercy’s day is gone.

But hear me, Sir, devil as you are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him would stain your name,
If it were known you did it.

I just made a trip to Virginny,
And saw all the sights – there were many.
Now after the roam
I’m headed for home.
There’s no better sight – No, not any!


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

The Future is pregnant; nine months we must wait
Or so it does seem since the Future is late.
And we, the first sibling, are not sure what comes –
A brother who hits and makes racket on drums?
Or sister who cries and then lays blame on me?
Or either who turns out as nice as can be?
Be wary when Future is pregnant; its child
May turn out a monster or one nice and mild.


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