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Archive for the ‘Sonnets’ Category

quantrill

When William Quantrill, in the Civil War,
Led his gray troops, like swarming ants, in raid
On Lawrence, citizens died by the score –
Unarmed.  A battle, or just vengeance paid?

John Morgan, likewise, was a Southern pride;
But to the North, his acts were piracy.
His men would conquer, taking all they spied –
An army’s pillaging?  Or robbery?

The line between an army waging war
And scoundrels, murderers, and common thieves;
Between a wicked gang and army corps
Is thinner than a person oft believes.

To see this truth is but to know the names:
With Quantrill rode both Frank and Jesse James.

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The picture is of William Quantrill.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantrill%27s_Raiders

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

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The sun, some days, now burns away the gray:
The fog, the dreary mist will cry, but go.
We, too, will brighten; “Spring is here!” we’ll say.
But ask the old mesquites; they always know.

The robin seeks a harvest on the lawn,
His red breast like the color of Spring blooms.
We celebrate, think all the cold is gone,
But old mesquites are mute as if in tombs.

The saplings green; the fruit trees start to bud.
The earth was pale; now color’s in its cheeks.
And we exult o’er end of snowy mud,
But old mesquites are without leaves for weeks.

The robin says that Spring begins its run,
But old mesquites must say that Winter’s done.

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The photo is mine and the big tree on the right is an old mesquite.

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

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We can, with envy at another look,
As frogs at swans must take a greenish glance.
Our lives, to us, are but an open book,
While theirs seem polished as a ballroom dance.

We see our mirrored marks each morn we wake
While sleep’s ill-fitting shroud still clings like dew.
Through slits, we see the hair before we rake.
And bare?  The flaws that none must see, we rue.

Our words, our acts are all on written page
As well as thoughts none else can ever read.
We know the tiger pacing in the cage.
Man’s blind.  Oh, God!  God sees them!  Ev’ry weed!

With cause, all men at heart are insecure.
The reason is that none of us is pure.

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photo by Craig Phillip at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/p0XyiJQ/Green+Tree+Frog

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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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.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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It’s found sometimes within a furrowed face;
A sneer, a mouth turned down like fangs, a frown;
E’en more in eyes, panes to the hidden place:
A cold hard glint to which ice gives its crown.

It surfaces in words like whales that breach
And wounds without regret, and wracks once more,
Like heartless waves pound piers within their reach
And view the pieces, do naught else but roar.

It is systemic, makes one’s pressure rise,
More prone to heart attacks and crippling strokes,
A venom in the veins of the unwise
A blight that fells the mightiest of oaks.

Hate curdled in the heart spreads through the whole
Till one possession’s left – a poisoned soul.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016

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Some shriek and stand on chairs at sight of mice
The furry little creatures who are pests.
They sneak into a house by rude device
And make themselves at home, unwelcomed guests.

They make their visits known by leaving trails,
By nasty nibbles gnawed from stolen snacks
And both, when found, provoke small bitter wails
Because invaders made their vile attacks.

They may be mice, but morals like a rat
Make thieves the mate of the barbarian.
They, selfish, leave you lean while getting fat.
A thoughtless animal that steals from man.

A human thief is somewhat like a mouse;
He likewise thinks free lunch is on the house.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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mmfzcdy

From high above, the tiny figures move
Like clones, their pace and look almost the same.
They seem as poured from mold, or in a groove,
Pale pieces playing parts within a game.

E’en from the level of the street, the mass
Keeps marching much in step like armies file,
Their faces – this or that – all fit a class:
A studied look or quick-lived frown or smile.

E’en greeting or a nod won’t tell the tale;
It takes relationship before one can
Discover what is hidden by the veil
And find the hidden thoughts that make the man.

From far away, men look the same, like ants.
It is the closest look that separates, enchants.


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photo by Marcelo Terraza at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmfzcdy/%3E+Block+1

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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When under the covers on winter’s cold night
Uncovered are lovers, room bathed by moon’s light,
There’s no greater warmth than soft flesh against flesh
While sleeping through cold so the bodies refresh.

Or, walking together through ice and through snow
While holding the hands of the other they know:
The warmth of the hand of their mate for all life
Warms hand of the husband (and his warms his wife).

One man and one woman: the warmth of one path
When hostile the world’s stare in all its cold wrath.
And these two, united, are then thrice as strong
As one in a lone boat that’s carried along.

How warm is the couple together entwined
When one are their bodies and one is their mind!

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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It is a certainty that all men dream
And plan to do more than they ever do,
That thoughts come to the eyes as sudden gleam
And yet so many do not follow through.

Most men are quick to promise and to say,
To volunteer, step forward in the rank.
They plan to do those things another day;
But many actions stay inside the bank.

It is a simple thing to move the heart,
Or stir the mind to fashion and suggest.
Oft thought and deed ne’er wed, remain apart.
The stolid body tends to stay at rest.

Our acts must one day good intentions match
For, eggs go rotten if they never hatch.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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Who knew one fallen leaf upon the grass
Could trip, at once, a hundred thousand men? –
One white canary singing with some sass,
Betraying him who wrote it with his pen. 

To trap the Union army was Lee’s plan.
Three generals, a pitchfork with three tines,
And fat would fry in Harpers Ferry’s pan.
There was no flaw but man in Lee’s designs. 

A copy of his orders for each chief
And Stonewall Jackson made one for his kin.
A copy came; an aide would keep that sheaf –
A souvenir he lost for Union men. 

The wrapper of cigars, a paper small,
Fell to the ground; caused many men to fall.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Order_191

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

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