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This paper before me is worth more than gold,
Than all of the stocks that are bought and are sold.
It is not a map where an X marks the treasure
Nor is it a ticket to life’s greatest pleasure.
It is not a sketch by Picasso, van Gogh,
Nor numbers that won the world’s richest Lotto.
I have that which gives me more than the world’s wealth:
My doctor just gave me a clean bill of health.

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photo by Marcelo Mokrejs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/misbtmE/Money+series+4

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

 

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Bee Dazzled

The vortex
Of a sunflower,
Spiraling.

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Gold, Gold, Gold!

I am on
The edge of glory –
Oh, honey!

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Simultaneous Existence

Bee, flower –
Both need each other
At same time.

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photo by Alex Fryatt at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n9bG9e4/bee+and+sunflower

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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, 2013.

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Mojave Nugget, a gold nugget weighing 156 ounc...

Mojave Nugget, a gold nugget weighing 156 ounces. From the Stringer district, Kern County, California. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gold

Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled,
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mold;
Price of many a crime untold.

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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.

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

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