Posts Tagged ‘Joyce Kilmer’


(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.


photo by Michael and Christa Richert


© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.


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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.


photo by Jay Simmons at


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

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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.


The photo is mine.



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






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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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