Sonnet 63 – Back To Nature by Dennis Allen Lange

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In centers of cities, there’s often a park;
And there grow the flowers, and there flies the lark.
Oasis it is in the midst of the bare,
The succor of people o’erladen with care.

And often they flee from the concrete and steel
To mountains or valleys, with skis or a reel,
Pursuing relief from the meaningless grind,
In search of a something that gives peace of mind.

The cells they call home, made by man and machine,
They garland with flowers and garnish with green.
Internally driven, unknowing, they quest
For road to return to their root and its rest.

To nature, away from the things made by man,
Is going to God anyway that we can.

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Photo by Hanspeter Klasser at
https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/ol0Xfew/Park+scene

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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Sonnet 62 – Death Perches Near by Dennis Allen Lange

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Since life is but a mist that burns away,
A blossom that delights a day, then goes.
And since the barn’s ablaze and we are hay,
The condor e’er awaits because it knows.

We’re helpless ‘fore the ever watching eyes;
Each is exposed as in the noonday sun
One’s shadow clings no matter how he tries –
Appointment in Samarra – none can run.

Death perches near to pluck our bodies bare,
Bereft of life as idols are of gods.
The sword of Damocles hangs by a hair;
Grim Reaper, with his scythe, fore’er marauds.

Death’s always hanging over each of us;
Its touch before is slight, then ponderous.

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photo by Elvis Santana at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oosvh1O/california+condor+2

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

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Sonnet 130 – San Francisco by Dennis Allen Lange

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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.

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

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Sonnet 49 – If There’s No God by Dennis Allen Lange

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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.

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

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

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Sonnet 113 – Shed Tears For Boston by Dennis Allen Lange

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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.

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

 

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Sonnet 81 – Night Sense by Dennis Allen Lange

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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.

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

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

 

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Sonnet 61 – The Path Of Least Resistance by Dennis Allen Lange

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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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Sonnet 56 – Cruel And Unusual by Dennis Allen Lange

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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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Sonnet 50 – From Where I Sit by Dennis Allen Lange

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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.

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

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Sonnet 46 – The Common Cup by Dennis Allen Lange

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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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