Just Two – haiku by Dennis Allen Lange

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Rare baths for
Queen Isabella –
Birth, marriage.

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The latter
So groom was spared from
Holding nose.

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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, 2020.

 

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First Touch – haiku by Dennis Allen Lange

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Visited,
Surrounded, pampered –
Plymouth Rock.

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The picture is mine of Plymouth Rock at Plymouth, Massachusetts.

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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.

 

 

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Sonnet 66 – Hitler by Dennis Allen Lange

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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.

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

 

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Bookstores And Blogs by Dennis Lange

A thousand squares of reading feet
…And all the tomes for sale.
From floor to head, and more, each treat
…With wrap and blurbs regale.

Each is a siren with its song
…Entreating those who come
To look, to buy, take it along
…To be an opium.

The sirens that are mysteries
…Are many in their place.
With shadows o’er their face, they please;
…They tease and make their case.

A youthful temptress calls the teen;
…Another calls the youth.
Sweet Romance is, to many, queen.
…Some want nonfiction, truth.

E’en history, that ancient dame,
…Calls from her sacred isle,
And beckons with both fact and fame
…And her all-knowing smile.

Of all that space, one three by three,
…And hard for one to find,
Is that reserved for poetry,
…The song that soothes a mind.

My narrow shelf that’s here makes sense,
…A sliver of a slot.
Demand is small; the consequence –
…This blog’s a lonely spot.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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Abraham Lincoln And Robert E. Lee by Dennis Lange

The Civil War etched two men into history,
Head, shoulders o’er the rest, two of our nation’s best –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Men came to recognize their pedigree;
They were a different breed; both in their roles could lead.
The Civil War etched two men into history.

One led the North and let the slaves go free;
One led the armed in gray, a fox in ev’ry way –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Less Lincoln, North might cave and bend the knee;
Lee knew what Grant would do, as though the future knew.
The Civil War etched two men into history.

One set a course midst scorn like scalding tea;
The other sat astride the route the Blue would ride –
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

Men fell; some soared, and blood became a sea
As two great men arose midst all a nation’s woes.
The Civil War etched two men into history,
A president and gen’ral: Lincoln, Lee.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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Phantom Or Fact by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

a dialogue in verse

Author
A lovely form there sate beside my bed,
And such a feeding calm in presence shed,
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven
That I unnethe the fancy might control,
‘Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven
Wooing its gentle way into my soul!
But ah! the change – It had not stirred, and yet –
Alas! that change how fain would I forget!
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!
That weary, wandering, disavowing look!
‘Twas all another, feature, look and frame,
And still, methought, I knew it was the same!

Friend
This riddling tale, to what does it belong?
Is’t history? vision? or an idle song?
Or rather say at once, within what space
Of Time this wild disastrous change took place?

Author
Call it a moment’s work (and such it seems),
This tale’s a fragment from the life of dreams;
But say, that years matured the silent strife,
And ’tis a record from the dream of life.

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Sonnet 94 – The Battle Of Hampton Roads by Dennis Lange

The turtle from the North was small and fast,
The southern one not wieldy ‘cause of size.
Though they were lately species closely classed,
They pounded at each other ‘neath torn skies.

The day before, the southern turtle showed
That iron was far superior to wood.
That lesson was the first at Hampton Roads.
The second? Iron ‘gainst iron and both withstood.

Four hours hammering upon the hull.
The metal held; concussions racked the men.
They bled from nose and ears, their hearing dull –
Against the cannon balls, mere bowling pins.

The navies of the world now saw wood’s lack
Thanks to the Monitor and Merrimack.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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Farragut by William Tuckey Meredith

(Mobile Bay, August 5, 1864)

Farragut, Farragut,
…Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
…Thunderbolt stroke,
Watches the hoary mist
…Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,
…Greets the young day. 

Far, by gray Morgan’s walls,
…Looms the black fleet.
Hark, deck to rampart calls
…With the drums’ beat!
Buoy your chains overboard,
…While the steam hums;
Men! to the battlement,
…Farragut comes. 

See, as the hurricane
…Hurtles in wrath
Squadrons of clouds amain
…Back from its path!
Back to the parapet,
…To the guns’ lips,
Thunderbolt Farragut
…Hurls the black ships. 

Now through the battle roar
…Clear the boy sings,
“By the mark fathoms four,”
…While his lead swings.
Steady the wheelmen five
…“Nor’ by East keep her,”
“Steady,” but two alive:
…How the shells sweep her! 

Lashed to the mast that sways
…Over red decks,
Over the flame that plays
…Round the torn wrecks,
Over the dying lips
…Framed for a cheer,
Farragut leads his ships,
…Guides the line clear. 

On by heights cannon-browed,
…While the spars quiver;
Onward still flames the cloud
…Where the hulks shiver.
See, yon fort’s star is set,
…Storm and fire past.
Cheer him, lads – Farragut,
…Lashed to the mast! 

Oh! while Atlantic’s breast
…Bears a white sail,
While the Gulf’s towering crest
…Tops a green vale,
Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
…Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
…Thunderbolt stroke!

 

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The Destruction Of Sennacherib by George Gordon, Lord Byron

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Destruction Of Sennacherib

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broken in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

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I think I’ll vote for this one as the greatest historical
poem of all time.  Any other nominees?  the bard o t h

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II Kings 18:13 – II Kings 19, especially 19:35,36
* It is interesting that Sennacherib’s records speak of
conquering city after city but says, by contrast, that
he shut up Hezekiah like a bird in a cage.  He laid
seige to the city, but his army was struck down during
the night and he went back to Nineveh.

 

 

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The Library by Dennis Lange

The fearless, fair-haired youth go racing by
To beat the sun with their eternal play;
Ignoring all the volumes as they sit
On shelves, made dusty by the ancient day.

But if they pause to look within the door,
Tis brief, for volumes do not speak with rap,
Nor beer commercials with seductiveness.
Instead, they stand or lean, and seem to nap.

Philosophy and history there dwell
As tenants, with a monthly rent long paid
By labor in the decades of the past,
And speak of Time, not black, or white, but grayed.

A smattering of math and arts reside
By politics in its disgraceful cave.
A button brings the turning of a tune –
A play-by-play of athletes in the grave.

Outranking all the facts that dwell within
Is Wisdom, treasured for her pillared strength,
Who, in the living of the testing years,
Spread through the books to fill the width and length.

She lives in leathered lexicons and tracts,
Anthologies of age, experience,
In almanacs beneath the thinning hair
Beside her sacred sister – Common Sense.

Youth shudder at the shaking in a hand;
They wince at wrinkles, see the years as gloom.
They view the silver hair like cobwebs.  Flee!
The tomes of wisdom are too near the tomb.

Library and librarian – the same –
He shuffles down the lane the young ones fly.
Their laughter sounds, as though the race was won,
But they, as yet, have no discerning eye.

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

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