Dennis Lange Poems

The wind may roar; the wind may shriek,
In passing trees - a rustle.
But 'tis the sweetest sound I seek,
Wind flexing music's muscle.
...

We better our beginnings or we fail.
Though lads are lads within womb's earliest,
Takes more to make a man than being male.
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The sounds repeated please the soul -
We love the falling rain
That softly pitters on the porch
And patters on the pane.
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Blue is the sky since summer's dry,
And seared and gold the field.
Green is the tractor rumbling through
To reap it of its yield.
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I've had my share of trouble - death and woe
(Perhaps it never came like blizzard's snow) ,
But I would wake at times to find ground white:
A blanket, even drifts, fell in the night.
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The long, gray winter's cold we bear
With caps and coats our daily wear;
In patience, face the wailing wind
And waves of snow that never end -
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As I was walking, deep in thought,
I saw a penny on the ground.
I stooped to pick the copper up;
Erect, the thought could not be found.
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Grow, little love, from a match that's lit;
Leap upward, love, or grow bit by bit.
Flame like the logs in a fireplace roar,
Or steady burn like a coal's hot core.
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Three days ago, the falling rain
Gave life to limb and root.
And now the sage bursts forth in song,
Enriched by liquid loot.
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In spring, the last of winter's cold
Rolls south across the Plains,
And often with that marching front,
There is a line of rains.
...