Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Sonnets’ Category

16340762445_2b56a77bda_o

I thank you, God: You heard Your servant’s prayer,
My earnest plea that You hold back Your wrath
Upon the wicked city You will tear
To pieces by the seam that makes its path

Across its rotten flesh and wicked heart,
Whose mouth declares that You approve its sin,
That You approve the unborn ripped apart,
That You approve that men would lie with men.

And when Your fury shakes their darkest day,
I’m praying now that sinful men will know
That hea’en above and trembling earth below
Agreed upon the devastating blow.

I am no longer praying for delay;
Perhaps their cup of wrath is full today.

————————————————————————————–

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

nVig2o2

If there’s no God, I die, my atoms disappear
Like bubbles blown and frantic to escape their ring.
Wind takes them by the hand – “Let’s run away from here!
Let’s go somewhere and find another song to sing!” 

And when I’m gone, perhaps my poems will linger on;
My children with their children and then theirs – a chain;
Or some good deed will swim within my wake – a swan,
Until the sun grows old, expands, and naught remains. 

If there’s no God, I live my life upon the sand.
I leave my print; I have a heavy present weight.
And I reflect upon my life and think it’s grand.
But when I die, it’s like I never left the gate. 

If there’s no God, then soon or late there is no me.
The sand along my beach is smoothed, impression free.

———————————————————————

photo by marmit at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nVig2o2/Follow+my+steps+2

————————————————————————————————————

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

Read Full Post »

Boston_Tea_Party_w

Shed tears for Boston and the troubled tea,
That toast in harbor’s glass to tyranny.
The glass, when raised, was flung into the face
Of one enthroned across an ocean’s space. 

Shed tears for Boston and the colonies
Who felt the anaconda’ deadly squeeze,
The air of life pressed from their breasts and backs
By an oppressive rule and heavy tax. 

Shed tears for Boston who’s been newly led
By liberals by whom their blood was bled –
A brainless Barney Frank’s economy
And “want more government” Ted Kennedy.

Shed tears for Boston now, that once was free,
But slid back to a royal tyranny.

—————————————————

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

 

Read Full Post »

puGJZHM

I stepped into the chamber of the night
And ere I focused on its starry sight,
I heard the chopping of a copter’s blades
Advancing, not the sound of when it fades. 

Before my turn could reach the sound, my eyes
Were won, and ears were lost, by night’s surprise –
A meteor flashed ‘cross the crescent moon,
Then disappeared into an inky swoon. 

When it was gone, I finished my brief arc –
My ears once more my guide within the dark,
And saw the Christmas lights upon the bird
Whose noisy song had turned me when I heard. 

My melody was then a merry tune,
Since I had relished much this night in June.

—————————————————-

photo by Dez Pain at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/puGJZHM/Crescent+Moon+with+Stars

—————————————————

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

 

Read Full Post »

IMG_0224_1

The cypress trees that line the river’s banks
Don’t bow like sycophants, but standing tall
Drink deeply from its waters, giving thanks,
Change to a colored ribbon in the fall. 

Distinction then is clearly made between
Those favored watered trees and lesser kin.
The river’s snaking path is clearly seen
By pattern of its leafy autumn skin. 

The revelation is a doubled truth:
It twists and turns because the tough it shuns.
It seeks an ease as never-ending sleuth,
For low is where the lazy water runs. 

The path of least resistance sluggards take
If in their beds they ever stir and wake.

————————————————–

The photo is mine, of the Guadalupe River in Texas.

————————————————–

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

 

Read Full Post »

electric chair


It’s said that punishment should fit the crime:
On bloody hand, slide on a glove to match.
The worse the act, the longer is the time;
The lesser only needs a little patch. 

At crimes that shock our sensibilities,
We shy as if the shadow is too dark.
We would not bash a head or break both knees;
The monster gets a minnow, not a shark. 

And thus, they pay a paler punishment,
Escaping sharper knife for one’s that’s dull.
They suffer less than savaged innocent,
Since we won’t mete what’s cruel, unusual. 

Some criminals should die by slow degree,
Unless a monster’s made of you and me.

—————————————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

18722055699_b02b6f1d37_o_1

From where I sit, the wind is getting shrill.
But that is strange, because I look outside
And see the cedars sitting somewhat still,
Their quiet demeanor almost dignified.

Ah! there it is again, a whistle, howl.
My glance is quick; perhaps the cedars move,
But not so much to justify the growl.
The sight I see does not the noise prove.

I put the two together, keep my eyes
Upon the cedar tops thrust up like spears.
A gust then flattens them, to my surprise,
While from the chimney, wind howls for my ears.

Our senses and good sources, hand in hand,
Or ear and eye, join so we understand.


© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

Read Full Post »

nhnMLRW

One’s silence in his pain prevents a friend
From helping with a word or tender hand,
Producing with its hush a broken mend,
A shimmering mirage on desert sand.

Was reason for the reticence his pride?
Are self-sufficiency and bearing up
What cause a ship and sailors to abide,
Or is it when they share the common cup?

Perhaps ‘twas shame that dammed the quiv’ring lip,
That stopped the flow that others might perceive
As weakness, as a man who’s lost his grip.
The aid was lost; chagrin began to thieve.

A brave front o’er a private misery
May fill one’s purpose, but he pays a fee.

——————————————————————-

photo by Mirna Sentic at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nhnMLRW/waiting+on+the+bridge

——————————————————————-

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

Read Full Post »

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.

 

Read Full Post »

small

The unions still support because of greed;
The homos do, since by it they are blessed.
For power, it will make the nation bleed,
And even die so long as they are best. 

A shrill excuse and welfare sugarcoat,
A promise made to ope’ the nation’s store,
And greed-deceived, the Party buys their vote.
Then, at the ballot box, they play the whore. 

They’ll save the trees; they’re green – and kill the child,
The babe within that says you’re not your own,
That you can’t do all that you wish, be wild.
They’ll raise you up and take God from the throne. 

With sin the soul, and selfishness the core,
It ain’t your parents’ party any more.

———————————————————-

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

 

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »