Archive for the ‘Sonnets’ Category


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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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


© 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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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.


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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.


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



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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.


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


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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!


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

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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.


The picture is of William Quantrill.




© 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.


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


© 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.


photo by Craig Phillip at


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

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