Posts Tagged ‘trees’


(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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The sun, some days, now burns away the gray:
The fog, the dreary mist will cry, but go.
We, too, will brighten; “Spring is here!” we’ll say.
But ask the old mesquites; they always know.

The robin seeks a harvest on the lawn,
His red breast like the color of Spring blooms.
We celebrate, think all the cold is gone,
But old mesquites are mute as if in tombs.

The saplings green; the fruit trees start to bud.
The earth was pale; now color’s in its cheeks.
And we exult o’er end of snowy mud,
But old mesquites are without leaves for weeks.

The robin says that Spring begins its run,
But old mesquites must say that Winter’s done.


The photo is mine and the big tree on the right is an old mesquite.


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

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I drove across the river bridge,
The traffic smooth and light,
And down below, the river ran,
A silent, silver sight.

The cypress trees that lined its banks
Were sturdy, strong, and tall.
They wore the multi-colored frocks
That trees don in the fall.

Then, from the river, rising, right,
Were two birds – heron, crane?
And one winged white and one winged gray
As Nature’s weather vane.

For as they crossed the copper leaves,
Their colors seemed to say,
“We supercede the yellow, orange –
Old Winter’s on his way.”


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

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I hab a liddle trouble wid my node and allergies;
I’m allergic do the grasses and de bollen ob de drees.
My throat will start do dickle and my node will start do run,
Den, coughing and a-wheezing, I’m nod habbing any fun.
I’m stobbed ub like de water in de back of Boulder Dam
But my node is flooding dissues like de sea floods Amsterdam.

It goes down in my donsils and id gurgles all around,
And oud my monkey boice comes and makes a fuddy sound.
So while I’m habbing trouble, de boor folks who hab do hear
Are habbing trouble also and deir trouble id sebere.
Bud as I wride my liddle poem, I dink of dose who read.
And wonder why my written words have also atrophied.


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

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Under The Wing

Cones nestled
Against a pine branch –
Its children.


Drooping down,
The scales overlap –
Wooden fish.


God’s design:
Some don’t open up
Until fire.


photo by Agnes Schollers at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nPOQDQk/Pinecone


**** For an explanation of the third haiku, read the first paragraph under the first picture here:  http://www.apologeticspress.org/APContent.aspx?category=12&article=1557


* 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, 2013.

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