Posted in My Haiku, tagged bard on the hill, bluebonnets, Dennis Allen Lange, haiku, Hill Country, Interstate 10, poems, poetry, speed limit 80, spring flowers, Texas, traffic, trucks on July 8, 2019| Leave a Comment »
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A four lane
Divided highway –
Speed: 80!
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The photo is mine of I-10 in the Texas Hill Country
with the spring flowers blooming.
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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 Allen Lange, 2019.
Posted in My Poems, Sonnets, tagged autumn, bard on the hill, colored ribbon, cypress trees, Dennis Allen Lange, fall foliage, Guadalupe River, Hill Country, Kerrville, lazy, poems, poetry, sleuth" >, sluggards, Sonnet 61, Texas, The Path Of Least Resistance on December 4, 2018| 4 Comments »
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The cypress trees that line the river’s banks
Don’t bow like sycophants, but standing tall
Drink deeply from its waters, giving thanks,
Change to a colored ribbon in the fall.
Distinction then is clearly made between
Those favored watered trees and lesser kin.
The river’s snaking path is clearly seen
By pattern of its leafy autumn skin.
The revelation is a doubled truth:
It twists and turns because the tough it shuns.
It seeks an ease as never-ending sleuth,
For low is where the lazy water runs.
The path of least resistance sluggards take
If in their beds they ever stir and wake.
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The photo is mine, of the Guadalupe River in Texas.
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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.
Posted in My Poems, tagged bard on the hill, Dennis Lange, Hill Country, poems, poetry, The Beckoning Hills of Texas, thunder in the hills on March 11, 2013| 4 Comments »
Texas Hill Country, on Route 187 heading North, just north of Garner State Park. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Beckoning Hills of Texas
Hill Country pulls from far and near
A wide array of men,
A magnet drawing visitors
To each tree-stubbled chin.
The bikers come on weekend days
For scenery and thrills,
And when a pack of them drives by,
There’s thunder in the hills.
The cyclists are a quieter crew,
Those oarsmen of the land,
Who row their frailer, thinner skiffs
Beside the wider strand.
And then there are the youth that come,
To camps we count by score,
And frolic by the riverside
Like waves upon a shore.
Those are three tides that ebb and flow,
That flood and then recede.
Of those who wash across the hills,
There’s still another breed.
Because it is a gentler clime
With beauty, views for days,
With deer that dart and dine in yards,
Men come to live and gaze.
They migrate for their winter years,
Like geese go south to sun;
They perch among and on the hills,
Until their time has run.
So, sirens of the Texas hills
Sing sweetly to the soul,
And beckon men to play thereon
Like energetic foal.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.
The Bard on the Hill 