Posted in My Haiku, tagged bard on the hill, clouds, Democrats, Dennis Lange, Haikus, New York City, poems, poetry, Republicans, storm chasers, sun, taxis, tree on October 27, 2014| Leave a Comment »
A Cloud? Who Cares?
These two are
Definitely not
Storm chasers.
——————–
New York City
Democrats?
Republicans? No,
Taxis rule.
——————–
They Shine
Sun’s glory
Reveals and highlights
Tree’s glory.
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Cloud – photo by Constantin Jurcut at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meT6uAo/cows
NYC – photo by Ivo Bouwmans at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nzdA3OY/New+York+Taxis
Shine – photo by Cristiano Galbiati at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meLmm6K/africa+sunset+1
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* 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/
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.
Posted in My Poems, Villanelle, tagged autumn, bard on the hill, brilliant galleries, Dennis Lange, fall, harvest moon, leaves liquid pour off trees, like fireworks burst the blades, poems, poetry, summer bloom is past, sun sleeps late, villanelle, winter rides northern breeze, works less like bees on October 25, 2014| Leave a Comment »
……………………….Fall
The leaves, now liquid, pour from off the trees.
The summer bloom is past, a pause, and then a blast
Since winter rides upon the northern breeze.
The sun sleeps late and works less like the bees.
Cool is the morning air; the deer no longer bare.
The leaves, now liquid, pour from off the trees.
From harvest moon, earth reaps rich royalties;
The workers ply the fields, and hurry out with yields,
Soon, winter rides upon the northern breeze.
The calmness and the beauty bring an ease
To troubled souls who rest, and let their eyes be blest.
The leaves, now liquid, pour from off the trees.
We long for fall to be a photo – freeze;
Remain in this grand pose; it won’t, and each one knows
That winter rides upon the northern breeze.
The earth has opened brilliant galleries –
Like fireworks burst the blades! – and then the color fades.
The leaves, then liquid, pour from off the trees.
Soon winter rides upon the northern breeze.
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photo by Agnes Scholiers at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nJYyWma/Fall
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.
Posted in Poems of Other Poets, W-Z, tagged chore girl, gone on the journey we all must go, here is the place right over the hill, John Greenleaf Whittier, Mistress Mary, poems, poetry, Telling The Bees, year has gone as the tortoise goes on October 22, 2014| Leave a Comment »
………………….Telling The Bees
Here is the place, right over the hill
…Runs the path I took,
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
…And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
…And the poplars tall;
And the barn’s brown length, and the cattle-yard,
…And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
…And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o’errun,
…Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
…Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
…And the same brook sings of a year ago.
There’s the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
…And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
…Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover’s care
…From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
…And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed, –
…To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
…On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now, – the slantwise rain
…Of light through the leaves,
The sundown’s blaze on her window-pane,
…The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before, –
…The house and the trees,
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door, –
…Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
…Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
…Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
…Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
…Gone on a journey we all must go!
Then I said to myself, “My Mary weeps
…For the dead to-day:
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
…The fret and the pain of his age away.”
But her dog whines low; on the doorway sill,
…With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
…Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever since
…In my ear sounds on: –
“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
…Mistress Mary is dead and gone!”
The Bard on the Hill 