Posts Tagged ‘drought’


An antique man who weathered well –
No major crack or flaw –
Ought in the shop of people be
One valued, held in awe. 

For winter and the scorching sun –
Cold hatred, fiery ire –
And pressing weight of apathy
All ‘gainst a man conspire. 

They press a furrow in his brow;
They make his pink lips purse.
And slowly play upon the heart
Till tongue lets loose a curse. 

Thus, for the one enduring storms,
Or day in, day out drought,
And smiling, hits the finish line,
We give the prize and shout!


photo by Alessandro Paiva at


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



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One man was such an optimist,
That even in a drought,
He pulled his boat behind his truck
Without a cloud about.

His neighbor’s such a pessimist
That e’en without a flood,
He wore his waders on his feet
For non-existent mud.

Opt told the Pess he ought to smile.
Pess said, “My lips might crack.”
Opt said, “Well, if I smile I might
Just get a Cadillac.”

The preacher told Pess to repent
Or he’d end up in hell.
And Pess repented, but he wore
Asbestos suit as well.

Opt worried not when he heard that;
He thought he had an ace.
He figured he could talk his way
And be a special case.

Together at the pearly gates,
Opt’s joy was off the wall.
“It’s bliss!” he cried.  But Pess just sighed,
“I won’t like this at all.”


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


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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.


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

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.The Hopeful Monster

A shower in the afternoon:
Some water for the grass,
A little puddle for the birds,
A streak upon my glass.

And then the little cloud moves on
With none to take its place.
And out again’s the summer sun –
A glare upon its face.

For little showers, I give thanks;
But floods are my desire.
One monster must another meet
For drought’s reign to expire.


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



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           The Pregnant Sky

The clouds, a swollen gray, hang down
   Like baby carried low
By woman in her pregnancy
   With only days to go. 

We watch, like fathers, wondering
   How much more can it take
For our beloved, the pregnant sky,
   To have her water break? 

And when it does on our dry land
   And sky gives birth to joy
All men exult as if their wives
   Had baby girl or boy.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.


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Day by day in this hot drought,
There are few clouds that come about.
But when one does, its worth is jade;
I drink of its much-welcomed shade.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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The clouds are scarce across the sky.
The blue is light, sun-washed, and dry,
Bleached like the faded jeans of youth,
And wrung and robbed of all its truth,
But seasons change.

The grass is green, but not the green
Of spring, or life, or fresh, or clean.
Tis green of age like wrinkled skin,
When August earth has hair that’s thin.
But seasons change.

The birds of beauty hide in heat,
But ones that circle aren’t discreet,
In search of death upon the land
Where hot air shimmers on the sand;
But seasons change.

Tomorrow is like yesterday,
As indistinct as bales of hay
That dot the drying, dying fields,
When stacking days have fewer yields.
But seasons change.

We wish for rain to make us well;
But though it’s hot, it is not Hell.
And that’s the thought that keeps us sane,
That soon or late, these days will wane.
Here, seasons change.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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It seems our godless land is cursed
By drought; my yard cries out in thirst.
The lawn is like a mottled skin
Shed by a reptile, dry and thin.

The water, scarce, is rationed here,
And only gold is held as dear.
But even that, when in the heat,
Will take, to water, second seat.

The rules are I must hold a hose
And only in the times they chose.
I thus protect my precious slot –
Except, by chance, I once forgot

Until the sun had slipped away
And all the stars were out to play.
I could not let my hours pass;
At night, I watered woeful grass.

I watered till the water ran,
Made little rivers like the Dan
Among the shoots, the green not seen
Except for patches in between.

The moon was out; it beamed upon
My watered work and sparkles shown
Like diamonds strewn across my land –
The beauty of that night was grand.

And while I marveled at the sight
Of aesthetic jewels at night,
For life, not “like”, the blades gave thanks
And stored them in their grassy banks.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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