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Archive for the ‘Sonnets’ Category

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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.

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

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

 

 

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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.

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

 

 

 

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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.

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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.

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

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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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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.

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

 

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churchill

The bulldog stood upon the English shore
And growled across the channel at the scourge
That swept through Europe, knocked on England’s door.
He knew they wouldn’t lose, though on the verge. 

His bark was sweetest Britain ever heard;
His bite in war, for Hitler, was severe.
And by his speeches, Englishmen were stirred;
His expertise would vict’ry engineer. 

Great eloquence was in the books he wrote,
Revealing insight by the records kept.
The kindest critic, never one to gloat,
A gentle wind that shaped all that it swept. 

There never was a nobler Nobel Prize
Than his; and he, the world should lionize.

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

 

 

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Adolf_Hitler

He was a devil wanting Satan’s throne,
With failed Napoleon’s heart, to rule the world,
And was so arrogant he thought his own
One land could stand against all forces hurled. 

A power peacock, nation bully, beast,
Who thought himself and kind superior.
He proved to all instead to be the least,
Since mark of men is they can shed a tear. 

Against a hist’ry lesson that he knew,
He sought a second front against the Russian bear,
And greedy, bit off more than he could chew,
And choked to death upon that frozen fare. 

The world remembers him as bloody ghoul,
But Adolf Hitler lived and died a fool.

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

 

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Virginia_Dare_5c_1937_issue

We’ll leave the sheltered English shores behind –
Thatched roofs, warm hearths, the might of Good Queen Bess.
We’ll ride three corks upon a pond of brine,
Like pawns that inch forth in a game of chess.

Our living friends we’ll leave behind in tombs;
We’ll brave the tempests on the troubled sea,
Endure close quarters like twins in a womb
To travel to a land we cannot see.

At last, when she appears, we’ll give a shout! –
And on our sea legs wobble to the shore.
We’ll claim, midst all the dangers there about,
This land for Bess and Britain evermore.

We’ll take a cherished flag and raise it there
And call the enterprise Virginia Dare!

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

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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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