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Posts Tagged ‘rain’

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The green’s green;
The yellow’s yellow
Due to blue.

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photo by Crystal Woroniuk at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nxwUue4/July+Storm

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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 and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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The moon and the sun are providing
This minute a sky that’s exciting.
I’d like to say “howdy”,
But here it’s too cloudy.
So I’m at my desk these lines writing.

I wish, since I can’t see the wonder,
Because the thick clouds will not sunder,
That it would just rain –
Pitter patter my pane.
I’d like to see lightning; hear thunder.

I’ll guess I’ll just wait till the next one.
In two ought three three, there’ll be more fun.
Egads! I’ll be old!
……Oh.
I shouldn’t have told.
……Sigh.
Eclipsed super moon brought admission.

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I did get to see the eclipse. After I had
written the second stanza, I checked the
sky again and the clouds had parted and
there was the red moon in the heavens.

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

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Wedges

Cattle, sheep
With green hill focus
Ignore storm.

— 

Green hill slant
Presents to the eyes
Slanted storm.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oEh77ja/Passing+storm

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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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

 

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   The Poet And His Songs

As the birds come in the Spring,
   We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
   From depths of the air; 

As the rain comes from the cloud,
   And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
   Out of silence a sound; 

As the grape comes to the vine,
   The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
   And the tide to the sea; 

As come the white sails of ships
   O’er the ocean’s verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
   The foam to the surge; 

So come to the Poet his songs,
   All hitherward blow
From the misty realm, that belongs
   To the vast Unknown. 

His, and not his, are the lays
   He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
   And the pride of a name. 

For voices pursue him by day,
   And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
   When the Angel says, “Write!”

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The sounds repeated please the soul –
We love the falling rain
That softly pitters on the porch
And patters on the pane.

Alliteration fills our ears
Like trilling r’s in Spain,
Like opera singers singing scales
Of la la’s in a chain.

Perhaps it is the heart of man,
The pulsing in the vein,
That whispers sweetly, whispers for
A whispered back refrain.


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

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