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Archive for the ‘My Poems’ Category

airplane taking off

The slow parade, the idle wait,
Then suddenly a roar
As if the lions as king of beasts
Were all declaring war.
 

No matter if the concrete looks
As smooth as sheltered bay,
There’s rattle and there’s rumble as
The tires roll down the way. 

A quietness then within the roar
Like donuts with a hole.
And quickly doubled (quiet and smooth) –
The fish leaped from the bowl!

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photo by Fisher

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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IMG_9244_1

I love the slowness of the autumn rain
That does not pelt like bullets from a storm,
But floats like languid butterflies to gain
A waiting blossom, landing without harm. 

I love the ambience of autumn rain
That falls between the glaring summer sun
And harshness of the winter’s frigid pain –
A yearly brilliance that does always stun.

I love the colors of the autumn rain,
When north winds shake the clouds that once were green
And from them fall the leaves that entertain
And soothe our lives till they become serene.

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The photo is mine, taken in Vermont (I think) this fall.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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okPTT1q

Fall is a flaming river flowing
Between the burning sands
Scorched by the sun and hot wind blowing
Through Summer’s heavy hands,

And Winter on Fall’s other shoulder,
Which broods and speeds its day
As northern winds grow cold and colder
And blast limp Fall away.

But flames upon the Autumn river
Don’t burn except these two:
Gray Winter with its jealous shiver;
Green Summer since it’s through.

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photo by Johnny Berg at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/okPTT1q/Forest+bed+in+autumn+-+HDR

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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raven

On Friday, cars were parked along the road.
The next day saw their silent numbers swell,
Drawn there as if they’d heard the black bird’d crowed,
Pulled by the pealing of a solemn bell. 

That Sunday was the same, but Monday more.
They filled the drive, parked curb-side by the house.
The street was narrowed by that swelling shore
Which forced a car to creep by like a mouse. 

By then, I knew what I had not been told,
The dreadful news for family and friend –
That Winter’s wind had blown, and growing cold
Was some soul who’d been sick but could not mend. 

Days later, I passed by; the cars were gone.
The mystery was solved for I could see
The novice widow walking on her lawn
With only her small dog as company.

He’d built my house and now he is no more.
My house still stands; ‘tis he in disrepair.
We mortals, not the mortar, go before.
We each will leave our all to Earth, our heir.

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photo by Guenter M. Kirchweger at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/omDmxpC/raven

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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Emily D

Oh to be sweet Emily,
One of the greatest ever!
There’s none who had her way with words –
So crown her the most clever.

Her poems are puzzles, intricate,
And pieces fit so neatly.
Precise she was in picking words;
She knew them so completely.

She knew her subject, knew of life,
With metaphor to match it.
If poet bug is what she had,
The rest hope we can catch it.

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* Emily Dickinson

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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Whitney Houston

Rub-a-dub-dub; two found in two tubs.
A mother and daughter were they.
The first was on drugs; but here is the rub –
The second? We’re guessing; none say. 

Rub-a-dub-dub; face down in a tub;
Both rich ones, the second from first.
It does not take dough to join the club;
All dopers can be thus accursed. 

Rub-a-dub-dub; live, don’t take the drug.
Each day on this earth is a high.
A friend who would offer is no friend – a thug
With poison so that you will die.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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meLRoFY

It’s rude but I cannot stop yawning,
My lip that is upper, an awning.
My jaws won’t behave;
Mouth open, a cave.
Sun’s setting, but sleep is now dawning.

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photo by Juliane Riedl at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meLRoFY/Lion

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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mif2Y6C

It’s strange how twisted becomes the thinking of men
When their hearts are hardened in the depth of their sin.

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photo by Lars Sundstrom at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mif2Y6C/knot+of+a+kind

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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mq2E5ui

An antique man who weathered well –
No major crack or flaw –
Ought in the shop of people be
One valued, held in awe. 

For winter and the scorching sun –
Cold hatred, fiery ire –
And pressing weight of apathy
All ‘gainst a man conspire. 

They press a furrow in his brow;
They make his pink lips purse.
And slowly play upon the heart
Till tongue lets loose a curse. 

Thus, for the one enduring storms,
Or day in, day out drought,
And smiling, hits the finish line,
We give the prize and shout!

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photo by Alessandro Paiva at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mq2E5ui/Medal+1

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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The beauty of the outside hides the beast;
The delicate conceals how strong its hold.
Carnivorous, the trap springs on the least,
Lured to their death by nectar that cajoled. 

The one that’s flying high, the one that crawls,
Are both attracted to a common end,
As though swept by swift currents to the falls,
And then ensnared before they comprehend. 

A captive of desire, it lost its soul,
Its all, to an attractive lusty lie.
Its freedom gone, slave! sentenced now to die!
The Venus fly trap now will eat the whole. 

The monster maw for mankind is the Earth –
The world whose nectar starts to charm from birth.

 

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