Sonnet 62 – Death Perches Near by Dennis Allen Lange

—

Since life is but a mist that burns away,
A blossom that delights a day, then goes.
And since the barn’s ablaze and we are hay,
The condor e’er awaits because it knows.

We’re helpless ‘fore the ever watching eyes;
Each is exposed as in the noonday sun
One’s shadow clings no matter how he tries –
Appointment in Samarra – none can run.

Death perches near to pluck our bodies bare,
Bereft of life as idols are of gods.
The sword of Damocles hangs by a hair;
Grim Reaper, with his scythe, fore’er marauds.

Death’s always hanging over each of us;
Its touch before is slight, then ponderous.

——————————————————————————

photo by Elvis Santana at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oosvh1O/california+condor+2

 ————————————————————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

Advertisement

Read Full Post »

Wealth by Dennis Lange

………….Wealth

If all we hold and all we touch
…Determines rich or poor,
Then those who live in little huts
…Are sore in need, for sure.

If pedestals and public praise
…Are measures of a man,
He’s poor when fickle turn away,
…And he’s an also-ran.

If men are rich by length of days,
…Then newborn babes are broke,
As well as those in early days
…Felled by Grim Reaper’s stroke.

But if there is a something else
…That all can have or not,
A something that’s the greatest pearl,
…Then that’s man’s Camelot.

Then, fame and fortune fade away.
…For, lost is their allure.
Perhaps the one in hut is rich;
…The one in palace, poor.

—————————————–

photo by Stella Bogdanic at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/ni0vxMq/african+hut+2

—————————————–

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

Read Full Post »

Tools Of His Trade by Dennis Lange

        Tools of His Trade

It matters now how fortune’s made,
   If heir or as a whiz;
One minute, richest in the world;
   The next, a pauper is. 

It’s Death that is the greatest thief,
    A hardened ruffian.
He takes one’s riches, fame, and friends;
   He even takes the man.  

He is not subtle like a wink,
   Nor like an artist skilled
He plies his craft with bludgeon blunt –
   Even a butcher’s killed. 

He’s never favored any friend
   Or would if one he had.
And world’s not big enough to bribe
   The ruthless, heartless cad. 

There’s not much merit to the mug;
   A plus is hard to find;
And universally, there’s hate
   In ev’rybody’s mind.  

But grudging admiration sees
   Two qualities to mull:
One – high degree efficiency.
   Two – irresistible.

——————————————-

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

Read Full Post »