Posts Tagged ‘fire’


Once – fire. Now,
Ring of ice and snow –
Crater Lake.


The photo is mine of Crater Lake in Oregon.


* 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/

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


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Along a side street but a busy one
In Small Town, Texas (true name Ballinger),
Once sat our solar system’s center’s sun,
The theater where movies would appear.

The Texas sat, its shoulders touching two
Mere rubies to its diamond glow at night,
A window to the world that we saw through
From where, in dark, we sat and shared delight.

Subliminal upon the screen or not,
The smell of popcorn wafted through the hall
Till minds were buttered, legs made lobby trot.
Returning, we then ate and drank in thrall.

Most Friday nights and Saturdays were spent
Like precious coins thrown into its fount.
And in return, that social circle lent
The outer, inner world in fair amount.

One winter night, with all the town asleep,
The Texas put on one last private show
That no one watched, though ev’ry seat was cheap
And cheaper still in ashen afterglow.

It was the night that Scarlett’s Tara burned,
When tragic Hindenburg went up in flames,
When the O’Leary lantern overturned,
And fire in Rome fed Christians to the Games.

Ne’er was the passion in the Texas hot
As flames that night that licked the rolls of film
Which twisted, curled, and shrunk till they were not
And they and that theater wrote, “The End.”

There was no second feature for the town;
The empty, burned-out shell is there today.
Just like a trav’ling circus with a clown,
The Texas and our youth both went away.


The photo is mine, of the shell of the Texas Theater
in Ballinger, Texas.


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

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It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down –
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon. 

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos – crawl –
Nor Fire – for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool – 

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine – 

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ‘twas like Midnight, some – 

When everything that ticked – has stopped –
And Space stares all around –
Or Grisly frosts – first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground – 

But, most like Chaos – Stopless – cool –
Without a Chance, or Spar –
Or even a Report of Land –
To justify – Despair.


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