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Posts Tagged ‘brown’

The grass is brown. Oh, Mother, why?
The rain won’t fall and so it’s dry.

The river’s slow. Oh, Mother, why?
The clouds are missing from the sky.

The deer are thin. Oh, Mother, why?
The grass is gone and some may die.

It’s dry! It’s dry! Oh, Mother, why?
We’re in a drought; for rain we cry.

Why is there drought, oh, Mother, why?
Without a rain, the weeks go by.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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Frequently the woods are pink –
Frequently are brown.
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town.
Oft a head is crested
I was wont to see –
And as oft a cranny
Where it used to be –
And the Earth – they tell me –
On its Axis turned!
Wonderful Rotation!
By but twelve performed!

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The Colors Of A Drought

The color of a drought is brown:
   The green in grass is gone.
And cracks upon the dusty earth
   Open their mouths and yawn. 

The creeks and streams are narrower,
   With some completely dry.
And Robin sings a thirsty song,
   And Bambi gives a sigh. 

The color of a drought is blue;
   The sky has lost its white.
The clouds are few and far between
   Like left is far from right. 

And day by day, the sky is blue
   Like water used to be
When rivers ran like swift feet fly
   And gurgled happily. 

The brown and blue of drought can paint
   A drabness in the land,
And turn the joy of man and child
   To blues as dry as sand.


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link to other drought poems:
https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/10/16/the-drought-poems-by-dennis-lange-2/

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photo by Kevin Tuck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/naGDvk0/Parched+ground

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are running.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial.

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered; –
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word;
I hate to go above you,
Because,” – the brown eyes lower fell, –
“Because, you see, I love you!”

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing,
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life’s hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her, – because they love him.

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