The Sot’s Spot by Dennis Allen Lange

He perches on the barroom stool
And stays like fleas, becomes a fool.
His senses taken, staggers out –
A shuffling, stumbling, weaving route.
And when he’s found, passed out in ditch,
All know the drunk has found his niche.

———————————————-

photo by Dez Pain at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/p6XNRlC/Time+Running+Out

———————————————-

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

 

Read Full Post »

What Is Good? by John Boyle O’Reilly

“What is the real good?”
I ask in musing mood.

“Order,” said the law court;
“Knowledge,” said the school;
“Truth,” said the wise man;
“Pleasure,” said the fool;
“Love,” said the maiden;
“Beauty,” said the page;
“Freedom,” said the dreamer;
“Home,” said the sage;
“Fame,” said the soldier;
“Equity,” said the seer.
Spake my heart fully sad:
“The answer is not here.” 

Then within my bosom
Softly this I heard:
“Each heart holds the secret:
‘Kindness’ is the word.”

 

 

Read Full Post »

Sonnet 66 – Hitler by Dennis Allen Lange

—

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.

 

Read Full Post »

Love’s Not Time’s Fool (Sonnet 116) by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.  Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height is taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
…If this be error and upon me proved,
…I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Read Full Post »