Jeb Stuart, in the midst of war,
Rode by his family.
While on his horse, he kissed his wife –
Goodbye in brevity.

Mere two days later, he was dead,
Kissed by a sniper’s bee.
It was a single touch that took
Him to eternity.

Of Stuart, Sedgwick later said,
“He ruled the cavalry.
He was the greatest officer
That we will ever see.”

The bullet, kiss, the spoken praise
Were each a single tick,
Upon the ages’ lumb’ring clock,
From one life that we pick.

How quick a stroke a brush may make
And change fore’er a hue
On which the wind will blow all day
And fall, in mornings, dew.


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

Lo, in the Orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are
From his low tract and look another way.
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook’d on diest unless thou get a son.



In Texas,
August – hot and dry

This past week
Seven point five says
The rain gauge.

Richter scale
For rain measurement –
Major rain.

For my dry brown grass
Is just fine.


The picture is mine, taken off our deck at the valley below,
one day during the last eight rainy days.  8.2″ now.

* 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.

A fire-mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jellyfish and saurian,
And caves where the cavemen dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty,
And a face turned from the clod –
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky;
The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high –
And all over upland lowland,
The charm of the golden rod –
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in –
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod,
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty –
A mother starved for her brood –
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the rood;
And millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathway trod –
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.


photo by Thomas Kelley

It’s found sometimes within a furrowed face;
A sneer, a mouth turned down like fangs, a frown;
E’en more in eyes, panes to the hidden place:
A cold hard glint to which ice gives its crown.

It surfaces in words like whales that breach
And wounds without regret, and wracks once more,
Like heartless waves pound piers within their reach
And view the pieces, do naught else but roar.

It is systemic, makes one’s pressure rise,
More prone to heart attacks and crippling strokes,
A venom in the veins of the unwise
A blight that fells the mightiest of oaks.

Hate curdled in the heart spreads through the whole
Till one possession’s left – a poisoned soul.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016


I asked no other thing –
No other – was denied –
I offered Being – for it –
The Mighty Merchant sneered –

Brazil? He twirled a Button –
Without a glance my way –
“But – Madam – is there nothing else –
That We can show – Today?

The child of two is eager to explore:
A truck, a train, a plane brings sheer delight.
And oft there is the cry, “Again!” and “More!”,
A plea for encore, eyes both big and bright.

A shuttle lifting off’s a grand event,
But all he needs – a bird that’s flying by.
For men, a ballerina’s heaven-sent;
For him enough’s a dancing butterfly.

To him, the world’s a bright unfolding bloom
More glorious in beauty day by day,
A bride in all her splendor for the groom
Who loves her mincing steps along the way.

Though little ones are sponges filling fast,
The human brain can always hold some more.
The surface things are first; the depths are last.
The child in me is eager to explore.


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

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale’s high note is heard;
It is the hour – when lover’s vows
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear,
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the Heaven that clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
That follows the decline of day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

Month of May
City was hit by
Four hailstorms.

Roofers flock;
Adjusters climb, look.
Salesmen call.

Bang, bang, bang
Hail on roof.  Now, bang
Of hammers.


* 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.

Ye banks and braes, and streams around
The castle o’ Montgomery,
Green be your woods and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Summer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel,
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o’er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu’ tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder.
But O, fell Death’s untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly:
And closed for ay, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo’ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland Mary.


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