Archive for the ‘Drought Poems’ Category


A child will sit at window, rue
   The raindrops as they fall.
But when storm clears, he’s fast outdoors,
   Where children have a ball.

Each puddle is a wading pool;
   Each rivulet, a ford.
The world is now a water park,
   With rain and mud adored.

A grownup may be more reserved
   Yet there are those who love
The treasure of the falling rain,
   Like diamonds from above.

They may not frolic in the mud,
   But since they know the pain,
Drought-stricken adults share with child
   The joy of the rain.


The picture is mine, of rain advancing over the valley down below.


© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.


Read Full Post »


That glorious day when the clouds start to drain
O’er desperate land that is begging for rain
Brings a thrill for parched hearts when it comes,
when it comes,
When it falls on the leaves, and the roofs, and it drums.

A crash of cloud cymbals, a bright flash of light;
The dark of the storm turns the day into night;
And the song of the rain as it falls,
and it falls
Fills the crestfallen hearts as it thrills and enthralls.

The roads become rivers that gurgle along
And join with the rain in the singing the song.
And the sweet melody that they play
and they play
Is the number one tune by request for the day.

The torrents that fall and the torrents that flow
Bring smiles to the faces now starting to glow;
And the chant they repeat: “Let it rain!
Let it rain!”
Are the words to the song, its imploring refrain.

Drought-breakers are systems that linger for days,
A guest that is welcome till it overstays
But the call for the clouds, “Time to go.
Time to go”,
Is a call that comes never, or ever so slow.

But Noah and his flood will ne’er come again,
And storms of our era move on with their rain.
In the blue that is left, the sun shines
and it shines;
Shines like smiles on the faces, the glow in men’s minds.

Behind is the earth, and it’s lavish and lush
The rivers are swollen; lakes ravished and flush.
And the song has turned green – the land hums
And it hums.
It’s a song of elation for death – drought succumbs.


The photo is mine – rain in the valley below my hill.


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

Read Full Post »

      September Front

The first cold front (like Christmas comes)
Arrives with greatest flair,
Anticipated (roll of drums!)
For seasons of the air.

All Texas sat, on Santa’s knee,
Throughout the month before,
And with a single earnest plea,
Did o’er and o’er implore

For just one gift from old Saint Nick,
One gift, and that is all;
As soon as possible, a quick
Sign of impending fall.

It was the fourth our present came,
Delivered by the wind,
That stiffly blew with stubborn aim,
From north, to bring an end

To marching hundreds on the scale,
An army straight from hell,
That licked and left an empty pail
Of Texas lake and well.

We wake to mornings crisp and cool
With smiles like Cheshire cat,
More gladly keep the Golden Rule,
More jaunty tilt the hat.

We celebrate, exult, and still
Our disappointment hide –
The colors of our gift-wrapped chill
Were missing, far and wide.

The radar blank, a baby’s slate,
No green or yellow hue;
No line of rain across the state
As front came marching through.

And so we live, in drought – no rain.
But break in summer heat,
Takes some of pain.  Some aches remain –
Our lives are bittersweet.


The above is true about the front that swept the state
on Sept.4.  It brought no rain.  But since then, I’ve had
a rain a week (1/2 in., 1/2 in., .8 in., 1 in.).  During two
of those rains, including the one Saturday night (10/8/11),
widespread areas of Texas also received rains, some far
heavier than we’ve had here.  Since we’re 15 inches
behind in rain and I see no difference in the creek below
my perch, we certainly can’t say the drought is over.
The rains we’ve received, however, have blessed us and
we’re grateful, not to Saint Nick, but to God.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »

There’s nothing as sweet as the smell of the rain
To farmers that live on the dry dusty plain.
There’s popcorn and peanuts in dark movie halls;
The scent of perfume on the softest white walls.
But nothing’s as sweet as the smell of the rain.

There’s nothing as sweet as the smell of the rain –
The clean smell, the fresh smell, new life for the grain.
Not ham or bread baking, not ginger or rose;
Like the sun over stars, rain ranks over those.
There’s nothing as sweet as the smell of the rain.

There’s nothing as sweet as the soon-falling rain;
The curtain comes closer, a bold courting swain;
Sky darkens, air cooling, wind bringing the scent;
A rumble, clouds rolling, then moisture, a hint.
There’s nothing as sweet as the soon-falling rain.

There’s nothing as sweet as the soft falling rain;
Like lovers embracing, the clouds give their kiss
And land, quite contented, soaks up the wet bliss.
To farmers that live on the dry dusty plain,
There’s nothing as sweet as the soft falling rain.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »

                    September Snow

It’s Bastrop, Texas, where the Lost Pines grow –
Strays, stragglers, orphaned by none that we know,
But huddled, hold together, flourish well;
Draw men to verdant beauty’s midst to dwell.

In Bastrop County where the Lost Pines grow
September brought warm flakes of falling snow;
A sooty storm of sullen ashes fell
And drifted downward from a fiery hell.

In burning Bastrop where the Lost Pines grow,
The houses burned, and tears, like rivers, flow
For charred remains that look like blackened toast,
For loss and loved ones who gave up the ghost.

In burned out Bastrop where the Lost Pines grew,
The fire, like Sherman, ruthless, marching through,
Spared not the pines, the park carved by the state,
But left black sticks still standing tall and straight.

In Bastrop where the Lost Pines now are lost
With dreams and homes and lives, an awful cost,
There is a moment brief, while embers cool,
Like waiting for the bell to start to school.

Because, in Bastrop the Lost Pines will grow,
And from the ashes, green shoots quickly show
And rise again as orphans raised by God
Where they have lived for years on Texas sod.

Before, in Bastrop, the Lost Pines e’en grow,
Those Texans with the heart of Alamo
Will wipe the black and tears from off their face,
Build new with jutted jaw and with God’s grace.


Link to pictures of the Lost Pines State Park:

Link to pictures of the September fire:

Photo courtesy of The Bastrop Advertiser.

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »

Like white balloons, the best surprise –
Clouds!  Clouds today in our dry skies!
They clumped in groups like friends who meet;
Grew gray with promise of a treat.

Then, past a distant hill that rings,
They dropped a curtain of wet strings.
The air turned fresh with smell of rain,
Like sweet scents from a southern swain.

The thunder rumbled; smiles then spread.
As wonder widened, hope was bred.
The air turned cool, as fresh as mint.
We waited for the rain’s descent.

We held our breath and watched the sky
And saw the clouds go floating by,
Some east, some west, with us between.
Some disappeared, no longer seen

Like gray balloons that lose their air
And sink to ground, to child’s despair,
To sink our hopes, to bring a groan –
The dreadful drought goes on and on.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »

Day by day in this hot drought,
There are few clouds that come about.
But when one does, its worth is jade;
I drink of its much-welcomed shade.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »


Storm cloud discussion
Loud rain talk.



Life’s pride prior;
Wild wind’s aftermath:
Pick-up sticks.


Peace Negotiations

Scattered clouds –
Why can’t you be friends?
Unite, rain.


* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.
See Haiku article here:


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »

It seems our godless land is cursed
By drought; my yard cries out in thirst.
The lawn is like a mottled skin
Shed by a reptile, dry and thin.

The water, scarce, is rationed here,
And only gold is held as dear.
But even that, when in the heat,
Will take, to water, second seat.

The rules are I must hold a hose
And only in the times they chose.
I thus protect my precious slot –
Except, by chance, I once forgot

Until the sun had slipped away
And all the stars were out to play.
I could not let my hours pass;
At night, I watered woeful grass.

I watered till the water ran,
Made little rivers like the Dan
Among the shoots, the green not seen
Except for patches in between.

The moon was out; it beamed upon
My watered work and sparkles shown
Like diamonds strewn across my land –
The beauty of that night was grand.

And while I marveled at the sight
Of aesthetic jewels at night,
For life, not “like”, the blades gave thanks
And stored them in their grassy banks.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »