Heartaches by Dennis Allen Lange

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I looked at this, and looked again
…At flowers spelling DAD.
I may be dreaming, but e’en they
…Seem teary-eyed and sad.

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photo by Robert Linder at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mzhlU8m/Cemetery

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

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Pearl Harbor by Dennis Allen Lange

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Japan bombed Pearl, won by a crooked score.
Though U.S. fleet was famed, they left it sunk and maimed.
But cost to Japs and Germany was more. 

The Japs pretended peace instead of war.
With many subtle lies, they took us by surprise.
Japan bombed Pearl, won by a crooked score. 

Our sailors did not hear the distant roar
Till death was overhead, and bombs were in their bed.
But cost to Japs and Germany was more. 

The Arizona sank to harbor’s floor
Eight battleships were hit; war’s fire by them was lit.
Japan bombed Pearl, won by a crooked score. 

Two thousand U.S. (more!) went out death’s door.
Japan lost but a few of all the ones that flew.
Still, cost to Japs and Germany was more. 

True victors are the ones when war is o’er
Not at the rising sun when war has just begun.
Japan that day won by a crooked score,
But cost both them and Germany the war.

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

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Birds And Men – haiku by Dennis Allen Lange

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A perch fight –
That’s the main reason
For most wars.

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photo by Phil Edon at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mVi1QKQ/Flight+on

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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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He Cometh Late – anonymous

The strings of camels come in single file,
…Bearing their burdens o’er the desert sands.
Swiftly the boats go plying on the Nile –
…The needs of men are met on every hand,
But still I wait
For the messenger of God who cometh late.

I see a cloud of dust rise on the plain.
…The measured tread of troops falls on my ear.
The soldier comes, the empire to maintain,
…Bringing the pomp of war, the reign of fear,
But still I wait
For the messenger of God who cometh late.

They set me watching o’er the desert drear,
…Where dwells the darkness, as the deepest night;
From many a mosque there comes the call to prayer –
…I hear no voice that calls on God for light.
But still I wait
For the messenger of God who cometh late.

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The Old Men And The Young Men by Dennis Lange

…The Old Men And The Young Men

The old men sit in chambers plotting war.
The generals push pieces here and there.
The young men sent to fight are seen no more.

The wise and white-haired aged walk the floor
And find young fools so they the burden bear.
The old men sit in chambers plotting war.

And they remain where they have been before
While others are uprooted like a tare.
The young men sent to fight are seen no more.

In meeting rooms and offices – no gore.
There, ideologies seem pure and fair.
The old men sit in chambers plotting war.

Somewhere, a selfishness is at the core
The meal is greed or power, life’s the fare.
The young men sent to fight are seen no more.

One is removed from battle where blood pours
The other from a field, cold, unaware.
The old men sit in chambers plotting war.
The young men sent to fight are seen no more.

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

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Under A Spreading Tree by Dennis Lange

…………..Under A Spreading Tree

Was there a shade at Gettysburg or Waterloo?
At Marathon, was there a spreading tree, a view
Where one could set his chair and watch the battlefield,
See flash of swords – while from the sun his own face shield? 

Beneath the safety of a branch, with drink in hand,
Was the advance of one against the other’s stand
Watched as an act within a play upon a stage,
Or read as if one’s eyes were on a distant page? 

Did one e’er watch and hear the mighty battle cry,
The call to charge across the field, and there to die
And be at ease as if the hounds were at the fox,
While men were shedding blood on grass and hollyhocks? 

Perhaps there is no one whose heart and blood’s so cold
That there could sit as if he’d bought a ticket sold.
It’s easier to be detached from agony
While safe at home and sitting ‘neath a spreading tree.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nbZdcvA/Autumn+park

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

 

 

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Three War Haiku by Dennis Lange

Looking For Coloring Books

Crayolas –
They’ll color you dead
One hue – red.

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Stalking Stalks

In the grass
And among the flowers –
Deadly stem.

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Saw To See No More War

Here, we saw
Ruins left in Warsaw
That war saw.

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Coloring – photo by Dave Dyet at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mlJJ7rW/Military+1

Stalks – photo by Hans Thoursie at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dRYZSc/Defense

Saw War – photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhiGTtg/A+ruin+in+the+center+of+Warsaw

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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, 2013.

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I Have A Rendezvous With Death by Alan Seeger

I Have A Rendezvous With Death

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air –
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath –
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear…
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

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In Flanders Fields by John D. McCrae

In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.  Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
…………In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands, we throw
The torch – Be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
…………In Flanders fields.

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