Posts Tagged ‘rich’


There once was a man from Kentucky,
Whose fortune was made by the clucky
(Chickens, that is);
The recipe his,
Sans feathers, it made him quite plucky.


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


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Cushioning The Blow

A pink slip
Would go better with
A pink rose.




High On The Hoof

If horses
Lived like that, how did
The people?




Smooth And Rough

Life’s river:
Moments serene; some


Cushioning – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs  at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mgV6fx4/Pink+rose

Hoof – photo by Phil Edon at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n6XQHke/Old+Stables

Smooth – photo by Marja Flick – Buijs at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mEecBCs/Troubled+water


* 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/


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

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………..The Intruder


Between the cities that I drive,

There is a rich estate –

Three houses and a handsome price,

A high rock wall, and gate.


It is a fortress wealth has made,

Like ancient cities built

To keep an army or a man

Away from life and gilt.


It had an inner guard, no doubt,

Black devils running wild

With four legs faster than man’s two,

And teeth to sharpness filed.


Alarms throughout the house were set

Like trap to catch a rat,

If one got past the snarling lips,

And still looked for a spat.


And given they were country folk,

A gun was by the bed

In case a snake slid through the door,

And wanted to be dead.


Despite the caution and the care,

There came a dreadful day

Each line was crossed; security

Was weak as straw and hay.


The shotgun never left the rack;

The drooling hounds ne’er growled.

No walls were scaled; the gate not breached;

Alarm bells never howled.


The rich estate was up for sale

Since Death crept in one day

And took the treasure held most dear –

The rich man passed away.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.


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If all we hold and all we touch
Determines rich or poor,
Then those who live in little huts
Are sore in need, for sure.

If pedestals and public praise
Are measures of a man,
He’s poor when fickle turn away,
And he’s an also-ran.

If men are rich by length of days,
Then newborn babes are broke,
As well as those in early days
Felled by Grim Reaper’s stroke.

But if there is a something else
That all can have or not,
A something that’s the greatest pearl,
Then that’s man’s Camelot.

Then, fame and fortune fade away.
For, lost is their allure.
Perhaps the one in hut is rich;
The one in palace, poor.


photo by Stella Bogdanic at


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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