CRY OUT TO THE HEAVENS



by D.L.McHale, Sept., 2021

i.

Two sparrows
beneath the hand
of fate –
does the omniscient eye
behold need
or does it blink
and look away?

ii.

Life offers choices…
to accept the solace of belief
in a benevolence
that oversees;
or to know the loneliness
of your singularity
in a vast universe.

iii.

A guiding hand
that shelters,
that traces a path to follow
is security;
yet the soul is strong
who charts his own course
through infinity.

iv.

Cry out to the heavens
and listen long
for an answer
that does not come…

except in the heart
of the believer

THROUGH A LOOKING GLASS DARKLY


I grew up in Wonderland. I can say this now, after having lived and died a little in some of the ugliest cities. Brevard, NC is an impossible town, and it should have died like it did every night at 9 PM when the traffic lights down town went off duty and reverted to four-way flashers. It should have hemorrhaged to death when so many of us left it, bleeding.

Life after Brevard consisted of marrying your high school sweetie, snagging a second shift job at Du Pont or Olin with the right influence, and hopefully, getting a double wide so say, in ten years and with a lot of overtime, you’d get a real home one day. Or you could get out, go to college, find a decent job never once thinking of the wounds or how inane it was, back then.

Exactly an hour later almost as an addendum, the one TV channel with consistent reception reminded our parents it was 11 o’ clock, and somehow, as if it were possible, not knowing where we were was the last thing they heard, the constant back question: Do you know where your children are?

Yes, we were cuturally deprived. The population inside city limits strained to top 5500. You knew everyone and everyone knew you, and even if you did not comprehend it, there was security in this, and a little resentment at not being able to live so unanonymously. The lone radio station was AM, and on week nights, the melodious voice of John Anderson brought us serenely to “the close of another broadcast day”, promptly at 10 PM and the strains of his voice were the last heard of the day for many of us.

You waited on everything in Brevard, and you waited for Brevard to catch up to the rest of the world, but it could not, and you knew it.

Mustangs, Barracudas, Chevelles, Impalas- all those horses and nowhere to run- the dichotomy of excess speed in a town that prided itself, almost to the point of codification, on operating at the pace of thickening molasses.

Go ahead and laugh at this, but on Friday nights in summer, the parking lot which now comprises Princess Plaza was cordoned off for square dancing. Do-se do, I kid you not. The whole town turned out. You slapped your face with Canoe or English Leather, slick in your favorite jeans, leaning against -something-until you found the courage or waited for the competition to die down so you could sidle up to Anne or Beth or Cindy or Marsha and ask for this next round?

You could not help but worry just a little because what if the Hokey Pokey really IS what its all about? How would you know? Left foot in, do-se-do.

Maybe you’d get lucky. Maybe a friend shared a can of beer with you, fresh from a “run” to Hendersonville. Not enough so you could feel it, but enough to leave a taste in your mouth for more, and enough to taint your breath and enhance your image. Image was all we had at times.

The bowling alley was the hottest place in town, except of course for Hardee’s. Before everything and after everything, there was Hardee’s. The simplicity of it was its appeal: you want to be found, go to Hardee’s. There you’d catch a glimpse of a wild Mustang perhaps, or split an order of fries. Even the cops had names like “Elvis” and “Tinker” and most of the time, they’d be hanging too, only parked conspicuously in the center of the lot with the window down.

Paegentry and dances were relegated to the American Legion, and we cut up, showed off, smoked an joked under the ancient machinery of a WWII anti aircraft gun whose trajectory would have placed a round about three feet over the court house and made impact say, close to Wal Mart, windage and elevation being considered.

To the students at Brevard College we were “townies”; to the tourists we were “hicks”. Always, there was this battle for our own town. Some of us fought it while others hung back considering Brevard not worth an ass kicking. But we shared a common perplexity, and try as we might, could never grasp the concept of driving 100 or maybe 150 miles just to look at LEAVES. White squirrels were common as mud, and any kid who had his driver’s license over 60 days knew every waterfall within 30 miles by rote.
.
As inevitable as daffodils in spring were the well-intended young women who arrived from UNC-Asheville. I never asked, but there had to be some deep spiritual power that propelled them onto the capstone of the court house retaining wall to save our dying town.

This was done usually at the top of their rather expanded lungs and usually, when mixed with the background of traffic, was for the most part unintelligble. But you learned to read their faces and even if you missed your appointed hour, you knew something serious was going on, and that there would surely be a next time.

“The City On The Hill” has been euphemised since the time of the ancients. In the Bible, it signifys both strength and depravity. Nostradamus saw it over and over and over. Those few of us fortunate enough to have lived there knew its pinnacle conjoined at the corner of Main and Jail House Hill, precisely where the wisewomen from Asheville stood.

They call Rome the Eternal City. I argue with history from time to time.
If you lived this Brevard, you know it like you knew your first kiss, you know it now with your eyes closed, it has always been. It resides on tongue- tip like the good news ready to spring forth across the land, it is deeper than skin, a fabric of which a part of you is indelibly woven.

My best years. Wonderland and “The Last Picture Show” with a Buck Owens twist. Red pill or blue, it is waiting for you.

The Holiness of Suffering


By Dennis McHale

I am not yet dead.

Do not call this a miracle or raise your hands in praise.
First, you should know how long I prayed, and how I came to know the silence of the Lord.

He does not arrive in a ball of light blinding on the road to Damascus. He comes in silence.

Lie there night after night and you will come to know the things I speak of.

My God speaks in the tongue of suffering.

I have survived, but do not call that brave.

I rattled this body from the inside out. There are those who dared get close to me who can testify. I could not find its latch. I would have escaped it if I could.

I say this to you because I know, you too have suffered — a body can be rummaged through like a medicine cabinet.

The flesh can be unfurled. Stitched, unbound, mended and stitched again.

Nothing is lost; nothing can be unmade.

But do not underestimate how hard it is to die and do not think death will save you.The dead have forgotten suffering.

Remember what I tell you here.

Remember how hard I held on. Remember the long nights I prayed.

Remember: whole days and nights I wandered outside myself. My body opened to wind and latched like a door against it.

There was pain in the opening and pain in the parts that healed.

Remember what I said of prayer: to house the soul in a body is a way of it.

Sometimes we suffer for one another. I am sorry for those who have suffered for me. But mostly, I am grateful.

If you like, we can call it holy.

THE HANDS of the ARTIST


The hands of the Artist,
emissaries of the mind –
separate from all musing
and aspiration.

What can be imagined,
what must be created,
from the heart upward
flowing into thoughts
downward streaming
to hopeful, colored hands.

The hands of the Artist
makes visible the width,
and breadth and depth
of expressive imagination
while paint-stained fingers
creatively caress canvases,
illuminating and breathing life
into the visceral void.

What remains are not
the hands of the Artist.

What remains is enduring
grandeur and grace;
the blessing of the soul
the echoes of the heart,
a gift for future generations.

What remains is truth;
his inspired vision,
her lasting legacy.

WATERCOLOR DAYS by Dennis McHale, 2017




centralparktwilight1

With the careful flick of her wrist

the sensual stroke of her brush

She gives us a watercolor day

Purple blue skies, a soft ochre sun,
Summer winds begin to sing
Blurred pink and white blossoms
Shady walks of lilac and henna
Far away jade and twilight green,

A loose balloon or two

Floating lazy and proud

Against titanium clouds

A water color day, quiet colors run
Run with water spilled edges
Revealing shadowing birds nesting

Amongst slender olive stems

Beside indigo blue streams
Moving slowly as the water blends
Wondering, dreaming, what to do

Splashing one color upon another
Within her watercolor day

THE BEAUTY WITHIN 


Beauty, I’m told
comes from within
From the depth of the heart, 
not from the skin
From fierce independence 
softened by grace
From the splendor of hope, 
not just the face

I didn’t see this coming, 
yet I accept it as true
I was seeking my equal 
the day I found you
When I look in your eyes, 
my heart is inspired
And I think to myself, 
“She is filled with such fire!”

I was captured by beauty, 
but I’m held by respect
For what makes you strong 
makes you perfect
I’d gift you my heart 
and my soul, if you please
If you walk by my side, 
not to follow or lead

Perhaps one day 
we’ll share deep love and desire
Built not upon beauty, 
but these strengths I admire

THE ARTIST AND THE ROCK by Dennis McHale, 2017


Love

This poem is dedicated to all members and artists of The Rock of Ages Consortium, for your love and support of fellow artists everywhere who we honor on this site by exhibiting their incredible works of “colour” online.

“I am a Rock! and yield to none!”
The swelling words of a tiny smooth stone,
“Neither time nor season can alter me;
I am abiding, while the ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt,
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There’s none that can tell about my birth,
For I’m as old as the spinning earth.
Generations of man arise and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That’s gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a Rock! but who art thou,
Painting beneath the restless bough?”

The painter was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute;
She never before had been so near to here
A rock that spoke, this mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
“Since it has happened that you were thrown
Into this river that’s become your home
From beneath this tree, as a child I grew,
Now listening to a stone, so hard and new.”

And so it shall be, this Rock that speaks to me,
I will cover it with paint, and then we’ll see,
And quickly adorn with the stroke of my brush
It’s time, it’s season, it’s storm, it’s touch,
Not the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel
Shall ever subdue, or make it feel
Abandoned, unloved, unwanted, alone
For I’ll paint this rock and take it home.
But soon, from this Rock, she sunk away
From the comfortless spot where the pebbles lay.

But it was not long before the soil broke
The artist sat once more ‘neath mighty oak!
And, as she painted and painted; the colors spread,
The Rock looked up, and wondering said,
“Modest artist!  Please, I shall never to tell
If you covered me in paint, this granite shell;
See the pride of the river has swallowed me.
Won’t you pick me up? Won’t you set me free?
Am I to meekly sink in the darksome earth,
Never to attain my potential, my worth!
And oh! how many more will tread on me,
While you sit and paint beneath this beautiful tree?
Your artistic vision towering towards the sky,
Can transform such a Rock as worthless as I!
Useless you release me, for centuries here,
I’ll be sitting in this riverbed from year to year.

But never, from this, shall a complaining word
From the painted Rock again be heard,
For the artist transformed it, without and within,
Gave it new purpose, and love again.
The Rock its vow she could never forget,
It lies brilliantly painted in painted silence yet.

10 Reasons You Should Not Discuss Politics on Facebook by D.L.McHale


facebook

I see a lot of things I disagree with on social media. And, to be honest, I’ve probably posted more than my share of things that are disagreeable. It’s hard to keep our personal beliefs to ourselves when we see things online that we take issue with. Let’s take the subject of politics on Facebook.

For me personally, I have many friends and family members on Facebook who are on both sides of the fence politically. From time to time I have posted something politically charged, only to go back a little bit later and remove it after I’ve thought about the possible repercussions. I am now fully committed to never doing it again.

So, I’ve come up with some reasons why none of us should post about politics on Facebook. Nothing that I’ve written is intended to silence anyone. My sole motivation is to keep relationships on Facebook intact, and invite the reader to look toward more appropriate forums for political debate.  Here you go….

  1. You could alienate family and lose your friends.There is no reason friends and family can’t discuss political issues calmly and respectfully…but for heaven’s sake, do so in person! If you don’t feel comfortable expressing opinions at the dinner table, why would you feel so comfortable doing so online? Don’t be a coward! Most people feel righteous and powerful when they are safe behind their computers and post things they would never say face to face. Being an online political bully is no different than being a bully in person. Remember, even if you are right doesn’t make it right! And what does it say about you as a friend that you are willing to hurt the ones you love just to express your political leanings?
  1. You could lose your job. Posting your strong political beliefs on Facebook is personal, and it’s not business…correct? Bullshit!  If your employer feels strongly about a political issue and you go on Facebook and post totally derogatory rants counter to what they believe, they might take your post personally and professionally. You want your employer to like you and factor you into the culture of the business they built. And while you have every right to hold opposite beliefs, you don’t need to invite career disaster just to put your opinion online.  Employers hire people they know, like and trust. Period. If you are willing to accept the consequence, by all means, post away.  But after the election is over, and you sit there unemployed, not sure what happened, don’t blame others for your indiscretion.
  1. You are wasting your time. “Your clever meme changed my political beliefs” said no one ever! You’re not going to change someone’s political beliefs on Facebook. You may think you have the most compelling argument, but guess what? You don’t, and neither do they. You can debate and debate, but you’re just wasting your time. People are different and believe different things. If you truly love and care for your online friends and family , quietly accept it, agree to disagree and move on. Life’s too short. Let your vote be your voice.
  1. Facebook is the wrong platform. If you’re bound and determined to spend time arguing over political issues online, perhaps you should go to a political blog or a news site and do so. Don’t ruin everyone else’s experience on Facebook with your political rants, no matter how passionately you think others NEED to hear your point of view. No one wants to limit your freedom to fight for what you believe, but ask yourself, is Facebook the right forum? Last week you were posting photos of your precious niece at a ballet recital.  This week your niece’s parents don’t give a shit about you because you called them stupid on political issues.  If you are willing to damage your close relationships to express an opinion that evaporates in the next political cycle, by all means, do so. Perhaps you should go into politics yourself where you can sacrifice your loved ones as long as you get your soap-box to stand upon. Fair exchange, right?
  1. There’s enough politics in the media. One of the reasons I use Facebook is to laugh, have fun and converse with my friends and family. I don’t use it to get worked up or stressed out over something I see that I disagree with. There’s enough political coverage in the mainstream media. More than enough. Keep it there and leave the politics to the pundits. As much as you believe you are the end-all in political debate…you are not. Get over yourself. When all is said and done in this election, you Mom will still be your Mom; your maid-of-honor will still be your best friend. Your aunt and uncle will still be part of the fabric of your life.  (Well, maybe.)
  1. You might lose 50% of your clients. If you’re marketing your business on Facebook, you absolutely NEVER want to go down this road on your Facebook business page. When you post your political beliefs on your business Facebook page, I guarantee you just lost up to 50% of your potential client base.  And for what?  The right to feel right?  I have a lot of strong opinions, but none of them are valued over $1.00.  But hey, it’s your business.  If you feel everything you’ve worked hard for and sacrificed for is easily given up for the right to be King of the Mountain of Facebook, by all means go for it.  I’m sure your candidate will mail you a check to cover your loss.  What, nothing in the mailbox.  I’m sorry.  Keep posting…maybe it will be in the mail next week.
  1. You’re just feeding the troll. I’m sorry for name-calling in a post that despises name-calling, but let’s face it: you’re just making yourself another Internet troll. And Facebook is infested with trolls. It’s too easy and you are not nearly as clever as you think you are. Half-truths and shallow talking points are what the internet are made of. The troll diet consists of apples and oranges as they attempt to equate things like the rainbow flag to the confederate flag. These people don’t deserve your attention; they’re just antagonists. They don’t want rules. They just want to fight and prefer it to be unmediated. That is exactly the platform Facebook provides. It’s a place where people feel comfortable making huge rhetorical leaps, without facing the challenge or consequences of having to back it up. Do yourself a favor and just stay out of it.
  1. Keep your political posts to facts and figures and funny (not mean) things. Don’t pretend you know what you are talking about. Are you an expert on foreign policy, or do you just have a personal opinion? Can you talk with expertise on the nuances of global economics, or are you just pissed because your paycheck is shrinking, rather than growing? Keep it to the facts as it applies to you
  1. When you comment on a friend’s post, don’t make it personal – ever. If a friend’s Facebook posts are offensive to you, “un-follow” them until Election Day 2016. That way their posts and cheap memes won’t be visible to you.  Or, if they really go too far, “unfriend” or “block” them. But please, don’t do this for family members with whom you may be breaking bread or sharing turkey in a few weeks’ time.
  1. Join a closed Facebook group dedicated to your political point of view .Rant all you want with those like-minded individuals. But don’t think that just because it’s closed, your posts will be private; they won’t be. Join Twitter and leave Facebook behind for now. You can “follow” those who believe what you do and they can reciprocate. In that way, Twitter is very incestuous, but keeping it all in the family can sometimes be a good thing.

Agree or disagree with my advice? Instead of beating up on others, go ahead a beat up on me at dennis.l.mchale@gmail.com. Trust me, I have nothing to lose. I promise, I won’t be offended and perhaps your family and friends will still love and accept you after election day.

SHE FILLED ME WITH A LASTING BREATH, by D.L.McHale


She whispered softly in my ear
such tender words to ease my pain;
soothing verse to calm my fears.
Though, she was gone when morning came,

The essence of her love remains!
Here even in my darkest hour
soft echoes of her song sustains,
which fills me with a lasting power.

Where has she gone? my life unwinds!
If I must die, I’m so resigned,
for dying unites and gently binds
my heart to hers, two souls entwined.

She filled me with a lasting breath;
Once more within my arms I hold
the height of love, its width, its breadth,
spanning dreams that now unfold

So cast me down into death’s abyss,
But allow once more her lips to kiss.
I shall not pray for more than this –
Once more I love…eternal bliss

BEFORE by D.L.McHale


Before the ashes, Vulcan’s vengeful fire.
Before the sex, a deep and burning desire
Before the storm, a dark and restless quiet;
Before the morning, a deep and somber night.

Before the hunt, the frightened fleeing fox,
Before the race, coiled tightly in starter’s blocks.
Before the cut, such soft unblemished skin;
Before the blade, sparks fly, the  whetstone spins.

Before new love, the queasy, nauseous start;
Before the kiss, a young and hopeful heart.
Before rejection, all things possible, bright, and new;
Before enlightenment, faith in what we say and do.

Before Sun’s rays, dark clouds enshroud the planet
Before the sculptor, beauty locked in blocks of granite.
Before the fall, transcendence true and boldly rising;
Before the gasp, in silent awe, a sweet surprising.

Before the rose arises first the lowly bloom –
Before the family, a dark and empty room.
Before old age comes the child full of life!
Before victory, the pain of loss and bitter strife.

Before the Universe, a bright and solitary star
Before the nearness, a cold and distant far
Before the night, a day of brilliant cerulean blue
Before the “Us,”  a prayer for joining “Me” to “You”

BEHOLD, MY LIGHT by DLMcHale


 

I wrote this poem a few years ago the night I visited the haunted
lighthouse in St. Augustine and then I lost it….until tonight!

Behold, my light so brightly burning
Guiding wayward sailors home.
Covered in breaking waves now churning
Battered ‘neath the angry foam

Awake, my Captain; tend my fire
The ships are blind upon the sea
Night has come so dark and dire
Bring them safely home to me

Push back your fear and never fail me
Do not tarry, nor think twice
No time for prayers on bended knee
The sea demands her sacrifice

Many a keeper survived the commotion
Tending my flame with ardent care
Many more forever lost to the ocean
Swept from my winding, icy stair

I am the hope of every seamen,
Warning of the rock and shoal,
And you, my Captain, tend my beacon
With all your heart and weary soul.