The Morning Swarming by Dennis Lange

 

One cannot be upon the sand
…And smell the salty air,
And hear the crashing of the waves
…Without the seagulls there. 

Their presence is pervasive as
…The omnipresent wind
Which strokes the surface of the sea,
…And makes the water bend. 

When seagulls see, with eagle eye,
…A bite within the hand
They mob and move to skin as near
…As moves the gritty sand. 

We see the gulls swarm ev’ry treat,
…So no surprise this one:
That early in the morning light,
…The seagulls swarm the sun.

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photo by Photonut at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dQN5hw/Sunrise+with+Gulls

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

 

 

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The Smoky Mountains by Dennis Lange

Gray ghosts afar, like elephants,
…More massive than the men
Who gaze with awe upon the wall
…That rises from earth’s den. 

Green-coated shoulders, forest feet –
…The sight as one draws near;
And donned in Autumn – Joseph’s coat,
…That jealous brothers jeer. 

Ridged behemoth, cloaked dinosaur
…Whose crested, arching back
We crawl upon like helpless ants,
…So tiny in attack. 

Receding Nature’s safe preserve,
…The soul’s would-be retreat
If one finds how to get away
…From all the other feet.

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The photo is mine, taken on a trip through Smoky Mountains
National Park last month (Oct., 2015).

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

 

 

 

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Wind And A Leaf by Dennis Lange

The north wind blew a single leaf,
Dried like a golden harvest sheaf,
Across my driveway’s cool hard sheet,
Near where the grass and concrete meet.

I heard its scuttle’s scratchy call
Before I saw that beetle crawl.
It was as though a finger nail
Across a chalkboard scraped a trail.

I shuddered as I heard the sound;
I shivered as the wind blew ‘round.
I knew within my still warm heart
That both were signs of Winter’s start.

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

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Wind Asks by Dennis Lange

.
………………………..Wind Asks

The breath of the morning is testing the leaves;
It’s whipping through trees as it wanders and weaves.
It blows like a whistle; it blasts like a horn;
It whispers; it tickles; it moves branch and thorn. 

The sparrows that perch in the trees as they dance
All wonder in whispers how likely the chance
That leaves, little leaves, have now learned so they know
Why wind with wild whistling does over them blow? 

The answer’s a question the wind has in mind,
And blowing is how it the answer will find.
It’s wanting to know of the leaves: fall or spring?
And blowing will find if they fall or they cling.

 

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photo by Hanspeter Klasser at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/ojvEN4q/forest+in+autumn+4

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

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