One Way Trek – haiku by Dennis Allen Lange

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One by one
We walk through Time’s veil,
Vanishing.

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photo by marmit at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nVktJjy/Expedition+in+fog

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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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Happy Birthday To Me! by Dennis Allen Lange

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My body tells me that I am,
…With ev’ry ache and pain.
It wants to tell me to be bound
…To bed, by Time’s long chain. 

But all the signals are denied
…By the essential me,
Which says it simply isn’t true
…That I am seventy.

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photo by Prawny at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oRxvtji/Happy+Birthday

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

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Church-Monuments by George Herbert

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While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of death’s incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last.  Therefore I gladly trust

My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines:
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at Jet and Marble put for signs,

To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting.  What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true decent; that when thou shall grow fat;

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust.  Mark here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

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The photo is mine, a church cemetery in Cade’s Cove
in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.

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Magic Touch – haiku by Dennis Lange

 

In the sun,
The grain turns golden –
King Midas.

—

Sun and time
Turns growing green to
Valued gold.

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photo by Photonut at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dQN1yJ/Sunset+in+the+Bush

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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, 2015.

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The Bridge by Dennis Lange

……………….The Bridge

There lies the bridge; we cannot see the end.
It disappears in shadows ‘round the bend.
We know the way is littered by the leaves;
And, darkness falls upon it – there one grieves.
But here we are, already on the bridge;
It seems to be a type of heritage
From which we cannot flee. It is our feet
That walk upon this path without repeat.
We came from somewhere? nowhere? anywhere?
And step to-ward the end at which we stare.
It is incumbent that we make our way,
Since Time stands right behind and we can’t stay.

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photo by Isabella Bart at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mxtMKaI/Wood+road

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

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Love’s Not Time’s Fool (Sonnet 116) by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.  Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height is taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
…If this be error and upon me proved,
…I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

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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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