The Mist In The Midst – haiku by Dennis Allen Lange

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The harvest
Rising from the earth
And the mist.

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photo by Ariel da Silva Parriera at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhgo5jG/Harvested+corn+field

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
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© Dennis Allen Lange, 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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What Time Is It? – haiku by Dennis Allen Lange

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Tower – 5:00.
But the tree leaves say
It’s Autumn.

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The photo is mine, taken in 2017.

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

 

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Red, Yellow, Magenta, Orange by Dennis Allen Lange

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The child in all of us takes great delight
When we are wakened from long summer’s night
To find we slept-walked past that season’s hall
And woke up in the crayon box of Fall.

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The photo is mine, of Quechee Gorge at Hartford, Vermont.
It was taken in early October of this year (2017).

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

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Fall Is A Flaming River by Dennis Allen Lange

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Fall is a flaming river flowing
…Between the burning sands
Scorched by the sun and hot wind blowing
…Through Summer’s heavy hands,

And Winter on Fall’s other shoulder,
…Which broods and speeds its day
As northern winds grow cold and colder
…And blast limp Fall away.

But flames upon the Autumn river
…Don’t burn except these two:
Gray Winter with its jealous shiver;
…Green Summer since it’s through.

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photo by Johnny Berg at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/okPTT1q/Forest+bed+in+autumn+-+HDR

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

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A Golden Day by Dennis Allen Lange

I walked the narrow mountain trail
…At first both up and down
Until I reached what seemed to be
…The Smoky mountain’s crown.

And there, I paused upon the path
…And looked out through the trees
To see the low slopes stretching out
…In Autumn’s careless ease.

And then the hike was not as dear;
…I ambled down the slope,
Pulled by the mountain’s own descent,
…By gravity’s veiled rope.

I walked upon a rug of leaves
…That, plastered by a rain,
Was Autumn’s decoupage of tints
…Upon my traveled vein.

A tree had fallen ‘cross the way,
…A trunk too big to climb.
On hands and knees I scuttled ‘neath,
…Like snails slide through the slime.

I’d gone so far without a sign
…I started to despair
Of ever finding what I sought –
…The treasure that was rare.

More than a few times, turning back
…Seemed what might be the best
And sacrifice what I had spent
…In failing Smoky’s test.

I made a vow – a few more yards
…Down and around the trail.
And there! – a place that matched my map!
…I’d found my holy grail!

I clambered down the trail of rocks,
…At times on hands and knees,
And at the bottom of the path –
…The spot of pleasantries

That I had bought with energy –
…A lonely waterfall,
A modest one that hid itself
…Away from almost all.

I marveled at its majesty,
…And mumbled to myself
As threads of silver water silk
…Fell tumbling from a shelf.

Then, pictures taken in my mind
…And in my camera, too,
I packed my gear and took my leave
…For I had work to do.

That long descent, that downward glide
…That ate away at time
Was now a mountain up above
…That I would have to climb.

With weariness, I took my steps.
…No longer did I stride.
And in the silence of the slope,
…My age was amplified.

I warmed and shed my early coat,
…Like trees had shed their leaves,
Like workers start their laboring
…By rolling up their sleeves.

And toil I did, with trudging steps
…That were both short and slow,
With frequent stops to catch my breath
…For I had far to go.

I guessed two thousand steps would take
…Me to the rest I sought.
I counted each so that my mind
…With pain was not distraught.

I knew that predators would oft
…Stalk, following the weak.
And if a bear was trolling me
…I would surrender, meek.

I was the old man, and my sea
…Rose o’er me as a slope
That I must conquer or be lost
…Alone, and without hope.

I took two thousand steps and more;
…Came to a mind-marked place.
Adrenalin seeped to my flesh,
…And I, as snail, could race

The thousand steps it took to end
…My private odyssey,
Where I could sit in weariness
…While basking blissfully.

The precious jewel that I had found
…Would never make me rich.
And present satisfaction would
…Not stop a future itch.

But such things filed within the heart
…When man’s done something fine,
Are treasured nuggets in one’s life
…Like gold within a mine.

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The photos are mine: one is the trail I took with its obstacle.
The second is that secluded waterfall.

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

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Elegy Before Death by Edna St. Vincent Millay

There will be rose and rhododendron
…When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard from white syringas
…Heavy with bees, a sunny sound;

Still will the tamaracks be raining
…After the rain has ceased, and still
Will there be robins in the stubble,
…Grey sheep upon the warm green hill.

Spring will not ail nor autumn falter;
…Nothing will know that you are gone, –
Saving alone some sullen plough-land
…None but yourself sets foot upon;

Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed
…Nothing will know that you are dead, –
These, and perhaps a useless wagon
…Standing beside some tumbled shed.

Oh, there will pass with your great passing
…Little of beauty not your own, –
Only the light from common water,
…Only the grace from simple stone!

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Ode To Evening by William Collins

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
…Like thy own solemn springs,
…Thy springs, and dying gales,

O nymph reserv’d, while now the bright-hair’d sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
…With brede ethereal wove,
…O’er hang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey’d bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
…Or where the beetle winds
…His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises ‘midst the twilight path,
Against the Pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
…Now teach me, maid compos’d,
…To breathe some soften’d strain,

Whose numbers, stealing thro’ my darkning vale
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
…As, musing slow, I hail
…Thy genial lov’d return!

For when thy folding-star arising shews
His play circlet, at his warning lamp
…The fragrant Hours, and elves
…Who slept in flowers the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the fresh’ning dew, and lovelier still,
…The pensive Pleasures sweet
…Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,
…Or upland fallows grey
…Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill blust’ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut
…That from the mountain’s side,
…Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all
…Thy dewy fingers draw
…The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his show’rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
…While Summer loves to sport,
…Beneath thy ling’ring light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter yelling thro’ the troublous air,
…Affrights thy shrinking train,
…And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip’d Health
…Thy gentlest influence own,
…And hymn thy fav’rite name!

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Overlapping – haiku by Dennis Allen Lange

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Two seasons
Autumn and Winter –
Fire on ice.

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photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meRdgn2/Winter+colors

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.
See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

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Isolation by Dennis Lange

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In trees I walked at Smoky’s feet,
…And calm the forest floor.
‘Twas late October and the leaves
…All Autumn’s colors wore.

It rained a bit the night before,
…And though the earth was damp,
My shoes did not pick up the mud
…While on my silent tramp.

The fallen leaves well-paved my path;
…They made a yellow way
That Dorothy’d been proud to walk
…In Oz in her brief stay.

The leaf-laid carpet and that trail
…‘Twas all my eyes could see,
The forest closed out all the world
…And I was cloistered, free.

There was a great serenity
…With Nature as I walked.
I listened as my soft steps fell,
…And as the forest talked.

I passed a stream; it gurgled peace,
…Caught drops of last night’s rain –
A few that fin’lly fell – but why?
…(The reason not yet plain.)

I saw another mystery;
…It struck me as most odd.
A leaf, then two, came floating down
…As slow as turtles plod.

I saw then, out among the trees,
…One here, another there.
First glance, they seemed like butterflies
…With wings in disrepair.

They did not scurry, did not slant;
…Their vertical was straight,
As if they were a dropping stone –
…And yet they had no weight.

I took the line of their descent;
…Gazed upward where the trees
All disappeared from sight by height –
…And then I saw the breeze!

And then I knew why raindrops fell
…When there was no more mist,
And why the leaves were shaken loose
…But fell without a twist.

How isolated I felt then!
…The world was not about.
And now I knew that Nature, too,
…E’en Nature had shut out.

Like spiders coming down a strand,
…The leaves did downward crawl.
And watching their descent I knew
…Why men call Autumn, Fall.

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The photo is mine and was taken in Smoky Mt. National Park.

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

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