Author: Dennis McHale
by Dennis McHale
The slaying of Cecil has galvanized thousands of individuals who have in dismay and agony expressed their collective outrage for this incomprehensible tragedy. The murderer (a word I chose carefully to express my own dismay) is now in hiding, fearful of retribution against his physical self, no doubt in fear for his life. The mob is assembling, the pitchforks are gathered, the torches lit.
I can not, and will not deny them their anger, nor will I offer any defense for the dentist who perpetrated this senseless and cruel crime against nature…but neither will I deny that he is not the only villain in this blood-fest. We are all culpable in the slaying of this majestic lion, for when was the last time any of us demanded an end to this business of savagely hunting down and killing the world’s precious and endangered species for sport and for profit?
When was the last time we raised our voices, as we do today, to cry out for protection for the lions and rhinos and elephants and whales and seals, and indeed, all defenseless creatures charged by nature and by God to our care? Ask yourself, as you hunt down the perpetrator of Cecil’s demise, what have you yourself actually done to prevent such craven and barbaric acts…not only against animals, but against ourselves?
It takes more than flooding social media with tear-soaked tweets and emotion charged re-posts. It takes sacrifice and commitment. It takes money and it takes action. Words are a cheap substitute, and even this, what I write, falls woefully short of what Cecil needed most in the awful hours as he slowly bled with an arrow sticking out of his majestic body. As he endured the hunt in his final hours.
Diane Fossey gave her life defending lowland gorillas. Jane Goodall devoted her entire earthly existence to the protection, understanding, and preservation of chimpanzees and other primates. And what do we do? We content ourselves with casting the first stone. We hunt for one depraved man who feeds his lust for massacre upon our very apathy and inaction. We text our outrage and then just as quickly check our “likes” on Facebook.
Shame on this man for his near psychopathic yearning for destroying Cecil. And shame on us for not beforehand putting in place protection against such acts of depravity in the first place.
What joyful dreams while our summers seemed
To stretch forever beneath hopeful bending skies…
It was a a marvelous thing to watch love take wing
To feel ascedant and true, to hear the sparrow sing
But now decends the northern winds –
Icy reflections, the weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long,
While I, because of my insidious wrong,
now grieve, and mourn, and fast.
This poem is dedicated to Hastywords,
who taught me the value of true friendship
A bowman knows his craft and his art
The deer only knows its fluttering heart
When the arrow pierces its tender mark
The bowman knows he must give
The deer knows she must part
I never knew of you before we met
Though in my heart you lived
For Love is born in the beating heart
Which the bowman hears and hunts
What once was a sacred mystery
Now lives on the tip of his arrow
But she broke it and lives in the dark
Not daring to hope, so full of sorrow
Distrustful of the bowman’s mark
He knew he could never hold her
Though she cried of lustful hunger
Rather than accept his tender gifts
For of a debt she would never owe
He wanted to tell her, but she said no.
She was locked in battle with her insecurity
But her defiance was all too polished and real
Not wanting to stray, not wanting to feel
Not wanting to falter beneath his loving touch
Denying her heart, for the distance too much
He broke his bow and beheaded his arrows
and blew out candles and laid them to rest
He wanted no shadow to witness
Her struggle, her half-hearted protest
He wanted to protect her dreams and her fears
So she could stop hiding her sweetness
Embrace new love, and cease hiding her tears
She knew she had fallen in impossible love
The kind she would lose and later write of
One heart divided would not much long beat
His arrow lay broken, like his heart at her feet
So she gathered the pieces, her joy and her bliss;
and offered the bowman her sweet-scented kiss
Then she thrust the arrow deep into his heart
And whispered goodbye as he entered the dark
by Dennis McHale
Our unheard voices,
silenced in the crumpled lies
daily and soundly trumpeted
by the world of false authorities!
Cities crumble beneath
the weight of their own conceit
and concrete concealments
and governments, but wisps
of foul winds blowing in the deserts
of corruption and covetousness greed.
Are we to submit our precious few years
and the infinite possibilities of life
to a blind obedience to this pile of dust?
We will not! We cannot!
We must live for love, or else we die,
and love requires freedom from all
false restraints, be they societal or
or subjective – it must be unfettered
and at liberty to express the authenticity
of human experience.
We should with deep and soulful
glee pledge our allegiances
to the elegance of nature
and the exquisiteness of tender acts
of mercy and unrestrained love.
Let us, therefore, express unbridled
compassion toward our neighbor.
than mindlessly march, day by day
into the dark void of hate and self-pretenses?
With love and patience, we shall prevail.
Let us council with the philosophies of the
woodland creatures before that of immoral
false prophets, and beneath the wings of
of the soaring eagle let us find our truths.
Where injustice reigns, we will struggle
with all our might to unshackle the chains
that bind us to fabricated obedience, and
band together beneath the social hammer
that crushes our capacity to love.
We are made of clay, but not to be lightly
molded into conformed shapes fired in the
blazing ovens of social orthodoxy – but
rather let us emerge as the shining gods
of glory and infinite adoration and peace and love
we were, from Eden, meant to be!
(My introduction to my dear friend’s beautiful poem) Life is not linear. It is a jagged road with no directional posts along the way to guide us. Each step we take falls under the heading of self-determination. But we all know there are moments…sometimes long moments that stretch into days, months, even years…where we stand completely still…lost in a fog of uncertainty about not only the next step…but whether there is any meaning in the journey at all. My dear and treasured friend, Hastywords, captures so eloquently that shared moment of doubt…and eventual renewal. This poem, Waves of Gravity, moved me, and I know it will pierce a part of you as you, too, walk that sacred journey…step by step. Please click on this link and read this compelling poem.
I awoke to a kiss, a whispered taste
softly pressed upon my face,
and in that moment, my soul, it wished
to know once more that soulful kiss!
Yet it was a vapor of a waking dream.
Nothing more; not what it seemed.
These wretched ghosts that find delight
in morning’s light, dancing and playing
betraying with the dust of sorrowed dreams
promises broken, and vows false spoken!
Violently shaken in the sudden waking
arms no more to hold me tight
through winter nights…I am awake. I am awake.
Where, gentle caress of morning rain?
that eases my pain; The merciful patter
that shatters my hold on false dreamt love
each drop above my window pane, slowly
washing in rivulets the memories set
under granite stone..I lie alone. I lie alone.
Enduring ink upon the page, how do I gauge
What’s real? What’s myst? What’s relevant?
Unlock the night, Release my dreams
silence the screams, and write for me
an ending poem, whereby I lie here not alone.
How sweet the dream that never ends?
Where love ascends and kisses dealt
are truly felt in dark of night.