The Conspiracist by Dennis Allen Lange

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(with apologies to Joyce Kilmer)

I think that I shall never see
Something that’s not a conspiracy.

One whispered in my hungry ear,
Far more than what things first appear.

A conspiracy to ruin the day,
That only God and I can say.

Woe! Everywhere’s conspiracy,
Beneath each rock and ev’ry tree!

Its evil permeates the air
Like snakes writhe in Medusa’s hair.

Men dream conspiracies for fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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photo by Michael and Christa Richert
@https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oSnvT84/spider+web

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.

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I Cannot Ever Bothered Be by Dennis Allen Lange

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When moderns say that rhythm’s passed,
…And rhyming verse is trite,
What would the great Longfellow say
…About that arrow’s flight?

Such talk is like an acid rain
…That falls on Dickinson,
And kills her bees and Kilmer’s trees;
…Coats Kipling’s dawning sun.

That dart is thrown at Shakespeare, too
…And all the masters past
By men who pose as poets when
…It’s prose their work is classed.

And so I’ll stand as close I can
…To Byron, Coleridge, Keats
I’ll hold their hats or open doors
…Or drive them through the streets.

And I’ll not care when prose lines up
…In stanzas in pretense,
Or critics cough or prosers scorn
…And publishers fold tents.

I cannot ever bothered be
…When men my verse oppose.
They praise the naked emperor,
…And criticize my clothes.

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photo by Jay Simmons at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nrcQGOi/landscape

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

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Beauty Remains by Dennis Lange

Though gone its symmetry
For our utility,
With Kilmer we agree. 

Thus, beauty’s left to see. 

There’s still a majesty
E’en in a semi-tree.

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The photo is mine.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

 

 

 

 

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Trees by Joyce Kilmer

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I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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