Featured

About This Site


“The Winter Bites My Bones” 

Blog Image

Hi, and Welcome to My Poetry Blog,  ©

If you are an interested reader, or are a poet yourself, whether you have very little knowledge of poetry or quite a lot already, this website is mainly intended for you. The bulk of this site contains an anthology of my work from 1981-2013, but it also contains a few contributed surprises. Topics range from light, fun poems to the darker, more contemporary poems (the heart of the website) reminiscent of the two Charles’: Bukowski & Baudelaire.   It’s still young and growing, so check back often for new material.

You’ll see this blog enjoys a vast viewership (in excess of 20,000 readers) and contains up-to-date comments, but the web page itself is permanent.  Guest contributors are welcome to take advantage of this wide pool of readers. Please indicate if you’d just like to share, or if you are also looking for constructive criticism.  To have your work featured on this site,  email me your prose and/or poems to dennis.l.mchale@gmail.com.

Your comments and critiques are not only welcome, they are essential to the continued growth and development of my writing, and that of my guest contributors.  If you prefer reading articles that  range from contemplative to general musings, please see my weblog, Insights and Observations: Critical Meditations @ http://insightsandobservations.wordpress.com/

Thank you for visiting.  Happy reading and writing!

Dennis McHale

blessed

by

Before


calm-before-storm-1

Before the ashes, Vulcan’s fire.
Before the sex, a deep desire
Before the storm, a restless quiet;
before the lightning, thunder’s riot

Before the hunt, the fleeing fox,
Before the race, the starter’s blocks.
Before the cut, unblemished skin
Before the blade, the whetstone spins

Before new love, a hopeful heart
Before sun’s rays, the clouds must part
Before the fall, transcendence rising
Before the gasp, a sweet surprising

Before the flower comes the bloom
Before the family, an empty room
Before the dying comes the life
Before victory, the bitter strife

Before the universe, a single star
Before the nearness was the far
Before the night, a sky of blue
Before the hope of us, the love of you.

by

Fade to Heaven


images

Time comforts me, though the clock winds down
And I’m driven to the ticking of another sound
My heart beats so softly, in erratic measure
Comes now an end to this life I have deeply  treasured

I’ve done my best, or so shall I plead
As the Book of Life will surely read
When comfort was asked, I held out my hand
I shared what I had without a demand

Solace I gave to those deep in sorrow
Lived for today, and prayed for tomorrow
The sick I did comfort, the hungry I fed
If needed I fought, and oftentimes bled

For the weak and the child with no one to care
To fill them with love and crush their despair
My joys and my sorrows, both equally scattered
Like dying fall leaves that no longer  matter

Now days turn to hours, and hours to minutes
Now comes to a close this life with me in it
Softly my prayers in last utterance fall
“Grace be upon me, I’ve given my all.”

by

Secondhand Love


I'm stuck here in this life I didn't ask for. There must be something more.

I’m stuck here in this life I didn’t ask for. There must be something more.

Walked away and I won’t look back
Can’t be bothered now by the love you lack
Saw my reflection in your cold, dark eyes
You heart was closed , but that’s no surprise

Can you tell me, was I just another man
Filling a void in your selfish plan?
Will the love I felt simply fade away
Like a clear blue sky on a cloudy day?

My life is passing like a babbling brook
Devoid of substance because of all you took
Did you think I’d surrender? Did you think I’d die?
Like a worn out book that’s been tossed aside?

I’ll Just say goodbye and be  on my way
You’ve had you fun, now simply drift away
I won’t be played like a child’s broken toy
Your second-hand love is devoid of joy

by

The Tiger Flower (A True Fable Dedicated to Christian)


Christian

This is a short “fable” I wrote inspired by the incredible story of the daughter of Author, Christine Nolfi as told in her wonderful article “The Woman I Raised”  Please take a moment and visit Christine’s post at http://christinenolfi.com/2013/04/the-woman-i-raised/ (Part of her continuing series on The Celebration of Women!

—————————–

The Elder Women of the villages spoke of a legend; they told a tale of a rare and exotic flower that grew in the dense lush jungles of the Philippines. It was said that no other flower existed like it anywhere in the world. No one had ever seen this flower live, for it was said that to actually see it, one had to be a True Believer and to date, none of the Elders could remember such a person ever coming to the islands.

Yet, although no one had ever seen one, everyone on the islands knew its name: it was called, quite simply, the Tiger Flower.

While the islands were full of bright, sun-dappled meadows dancing with flowers of every imaginable color, the Tiger Flower grew alone, somewhere deep in the jungle beneath the dark tangled palms and fronds.  At its base grew three distinct shoots, huddled diminutively beneath its protective pedals.  The three shoots needed the Tiger Flower to survive, and the Tiger Flower needed the three shoots to give it purpose.

In the depths of the jungle, no sunlight could penetrate the dark tangle of palms and fronds, but the Tiger Lily, it was said, survived because it had Fire in its veins.  Despite its estrangement from the flowers of every imaginable colors dancing in the bright, sun-dappled meadows elsewhere on the islands, the Tiger Flower was not a jealous flower, nor did it consider itself a victim.  It  fought each and every day simply to survive, and to ensure the survival of the three distinct shoots huddled diminutively beneath its protective pedals.

One day, a very special Woman arrived on the island.  The Elder Women knew she was special because she wore beautiful flowing robes of Compassion and Understanding.  On her feet she wore bejeweled sandals of Hope and Promise. She was full of Light and Laughter. She was a Weaver of Words, a Story Teller, and a Poetess.  They called her  “Mother” because she was of the Earth and full of Nurture.  But they could see she was one more thing as well.  One more very important thing:

She was a True Believer.

You see, she had come because, back in the World, she had a dream of the Tiger Flower. When she closed her eyes tightly in Faith and Unconditional Love, she could see the Tiger Flower, there deep in the jungle beneath the dark tangled palms and fronds, fighting for meaning.  She could see at its base three distinct shoots, huddled diminutively beneath its protective pedals, fighting for survival.  In her Dream of Dreams, she knew she had to come to the islands to bring the Tiger Flower and the three shoots back to the World. To bring them back into the Light.

The Elder Women of the villages led Mother to the bright, sun-dappled meadows dancing with flowers of every imaginable color, where it met the edge of the depths of the jungle, where no sunlight could penetrate the dark tangle of palms and fronds.  They watched as she disappeared into the darkness.

Once more, Mother closed her eyes tightly in Faith and Unconditional Love.  She did not need open eyes to lead her, for she had her Dream.  She walked deep into the jungle, and when she had walked an hour or so, she felt the air rush from her lungs and a single tear of joy fall from her closed eyes.  Slowly, she opened her eyes and there, beneath the dark tangled palms and fronds, she saw what she had waited her whole life to see: a Tiger Flower, surrounded by three distinct shoots, huddled diminutively beneath its protective pedals.

She kneeled gently upon one knee, and with a Kind and Loving Hand, she thrust her fingers into the soft earth, careful so as not to severe the island’s Heritage from the flower and the shoots, and she lifted the flower to her bosom in a warm and tight embrace.  Slowly, and with Patience and Enduring Love, she carried the Tiger Flower and the three distinct shoots, out of the jungle, back to the World, and into the Light.

——–

Nearly twenty years has passed since Mother returned from the islands.  The Tiger Flower has bloomed fully in the Light and is now a beautiful young Tiger Lily, dancing in sun-dappled meadows.  She named the flower Christian, for she was truly “Christ-like” in her own growing abilities to Forgive and Love and Nurture others into fully flowering.

The three distinct shoots, too, have blossomed, in every imaginable color.  When they are older, she will tell them of the Elder Women of the villages, and of dense jungle and the dark tangle of palms and fronds.  But for now, she is content to see them all Dream their own Dreams.

by

Them Logs


logs

The logs that was put in that barn
are up there until this day, an’ it turns out,
they were made by my Gran’pa
an’ were a part of his home a mile up this here creek
where he lived an’ where my kinfolk are resting.
Those logs are older than my Ma.
She was borned in that house after they moved there,
an’ she was borned ‘round 1891.

Yep, them logs has been there some.

An’ the house was there an’ them logs,
an’ twice since we’ve taken over the land,
since they all be gone an’ sweetly passed away,
someone has approached me to buy them logs.
An’ the first one offered me eighty dollars for the logs.
An’ Lord knows, we needs the money
‘cept I can’t sell them. They’s history in em.

They are still sound ‘cept where they’re layin’ on the ground.
The ones that were axed an’ are in the earth,
look as perfect as the day they were put there!
An’ it was only last week that my kinfolk that live up there
said some man ask him to talk to me could he buy them.
An’ they had been there that long.
But I reckon I won’t sell them,
cause they has my Gran’pa’s sweat in them.
At least eighty-five years since I’ve been here.
An’ my Pa–there’s his axe marks
where he made them, on them very same logs.

by

Mountain Hogs


mountain hogs

Why, they would sleep, them hogs,
would stay right back in them mountains
and under cliffs and brambles and things.
But these old timers, my grandpa and my uncles,
would be whoopn’ and shoutin’ to the hills,
calling his hogs, to go to the barn, and buddy,
they’d come out of them mountains a flyin’!
He’d feed them corn, and just as soon as they et
right back in them mountains they’d go.
And they got learnt to that, they did,
and about feeding time every evenin’
they’d come out all by themselves.

But in the summertime you’d never see one.
They’d stay right where they could get plenty
of mast and roots and stuff to eat.
They’d stay right in them hills, them hogs would,
growing fat n’ orn’ry like!
And there’s bunch of wild hogs here,
and my mother, she’d sent me to school
and I’d run into a bunch of these old timers
going a wild hog huntin’ they were.
They’d have three or four old dogs tied up,
with plow lines, big long ropes,
and I’d go hog huntin’ with them ‘stead of school.

I’d follow and they’d head right to these tree stands
at the top of the hill and that’s where you’d find em.
I’d seen their teeth sticking out this far right side of there
and the dogs would run one down,
run him ‘til he got tired and he’d be fighting them dogs!
And them old timers would walk up
and they’d use an old caliber called 25.
And shot a shell about half-finger long.
They’d take him right between the eyes
and kill it.

Drag it out, two or three of them would,
right down the mountainside, and git it to the creek
and they’d come to the house all puff’d up on ‘shine,
get their mule n’ sled, and they would load him up
and haul him to down yonder to the house.
After a spell when they’d be all licker’d up
and sangin’ and hollerin’ and carryin’ on
they’d hang em by his feet upside down
‘bout shoulder high on a sour maple,
and they’d bleed him.

We’d be dancin’ and sangin’ and hollerin’
and eatin’ like kings come Sunday.

by

Before the Chestnut Blight (Part I)


chestnuts

 

Old people had them a sayin’,
that when the chestnuts bloomed,
they were so tall they stood straight
up above them other trees,
‘n they’d say ‘the snow is in the Mountain.’

Well, we had chestnut trees,
before the blight come in.
When my daddy cleared the ground,
you know to farm -
it was covered with chestnut trees.
He’d sifted out about an acre of chestnut trees,
for our pikcin’ up use.

‘N when they would get ready ‘n start falling.
We would get our sacks ‘n buckets ‘n stuff,
‘n the men would get up in the trees with big poles
‘n they’d thrash them out ‘n we’d pick em up

But, when they fall, usually the burrs open on the tree,
‘n they fall as they come down.
You don’t ever touch that burr,
you get those needles in your fingers, that’s bad.
You stay away from that.
You just pick the chestnuts up. They’re on the ground.
Now ‘n then you find a burr open with the chestnuts in it
‘n you can take your foot, if you got shoes on,
‘n step on them, ‘n they’ll come out.
After it frosts, they’re easy.

Anyways, we’d get them in them sacks
‘n take them to the chicken house, ‘n hang them in thar,
the empty house, it had been a chicken house,
but we had et the chickens, ‘n it were empty.

You hardly ever, at that time,
a chestnut with a worm in it.