Archive for February, 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.



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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.



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………..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.


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…..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.

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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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Rocky Stream

The stones flow
In a hard river
Past the shore.



Crafted With Care

Stone mason,
A circled circle –
An artist.



The Rock Ranks

All armies:
Cold, hard, dead, and stone
In the end.


Stream – photo by Graham Soult at

Crafted – photo by Adrian van Leen at

Ranks – 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: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/


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




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….The Kansas Emigrants

We cross the prairie as of old
The Pilgrims crossed the sea,
To make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free. 

We go to rear a wall of men
On Freedom’s southern line,
And plant beside the cotton tree
The rugged Northern pine! 

We’re flowing from our native hills
As our free rivers flow:
The blessing of our Motherland
Is on us as we go. 

We go to plant her common schools
On distant prairie swells,
And give the Sabbaths of the wild
The music of her bells. 

Upbearing, like the Ark of Old,
The Bible in our van,
We go to test the truth of God
Against the fraud of man. 

No pause, nor rest, save where the streams
That feed the Kansas run,
Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon
Shall flout the setting sun! 

We’ll tread the prairie as of old
Our fathers sailed the sea,
And make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free!


gonfalon – a flag, a banner


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……The Constitution Breaker

The House speech that Nettie is making
Is said to be protocol breaking.
But something far worse –
The Obama curse –
Executive orders, power-taking.



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




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…………..“Be Quiet: Fear Not”

Thou layest Thy hand on the fluttering heart
And sayest, “Be still!”
The shadow and silence are only a part
Of Thy sweet will.
Thy Presence is with me, and where Thou art
I fear no ill.


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….Stanzas On Freedom

Men! whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free,
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother’s pain,
Are ye not base slaves indeed,
Slaves unworthy to be freed? 

Women! who shall one day bear
Sons to breathe New England air,
If ye hear, without a blush,
Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains –
Answer! Are ye fit to be
Mothers of the brave and free? 

Is true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And, with leathern hearts, forget
That we owe mankind a debt?
No! true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And, with heart and hand, to be
Earnest to make others free! 

They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think;
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.


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