The Poet’s Solitude


Image

Solitude whispers a deep and silent story
From the shadowy depths of the heart’s abyss
Where the pitiful quest for either fame or glory
Withers upon the lips like a poisoned kiss

From the shadowy depths of the heart’s abyss
Poet and his quill spin their twisted verse
Words whose understanding and mark are missed
Whose meaning is lost, ne’er to be conversed

Poet and his quill spin their twisted verse
Word trail bleeds upon an empty page
The song of the muse like a dying star burst
Showering phrases full of grief and rage

Word trail bleeds upon an empty page
Passions quenched before a smoldering fire
Poem now dances upon an hollow stage
Then the poet tosses it upon the funeral pyre

IF JUST ONCE MORE by D.L. McHale


 

A heart divided cannot beat for long
An unsung note cannot be called a song
The dancer spins a lonely pirouette
Who dances only with her silhouette

The un-prayed prayer on deaf ears fall
Despite the soul’s relentless call
This crowded world is such an empty place
When from heaven, too, angels fall from grace

The flames of love that burn so bright
Without lips to kiss becomes a dying light
The promise of love that is unreturned
Is the loneliest truth for man to learn

The sun may rise, but each day descends
Like a long, dark night that will never end
The longest path for he who walks alone
Are the shuffled steps toward an empty home

In winter’s grip, luscious gardens shorn
Though the wilted rose still bears its thorns
Yet all these sorrows I would dare embrace
If just once more I could see your face

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We Shall Remember: Ode to a Dying Poet


moon words

Your night has fallen;
the brilliant light
of the new moon
filtering through the
broken mass of clouds,
a brilliant ray reflecting
upon your tongue-kissed works.
Your verse remains standing,
redeeming the world from darkness:
they seem to move and
we are filled with awe.

Your words were mountains;
iron-like masses thrown heavily
against the somber sky –
and as the dark blue deepens
into purple and purple-black
we reflect upon your poems,
which were gurgling streams
of naked visceral truth
cutting through our consciousness.

One never thinks of velvet
when the light is cold and thin;
when snow lies deep
and the intense light dazzles the eye.
But your lines were velvet in their
silver light and inky blackness
and we shall remember.

Writer’s Block


block

 

Half smoked cigarettes fill the vapid air
the poet hunches over in total disrepair
His dalliance with the muse is such a sad affair
When words won’t come, he slouches in despair
The night mist lingers though he doesn’t’ really care
Surrounded by empty bottles, his vision is impaired
The empty page taunts him, “Fill me if you dare!”
He reaches even deeper, but there’s really nothing there
Another evening of this is more than he can bear
In absolute surrender, his pen flies through the air

 

You Decide


Seasons change, the world revolves
On setting sun, the moon evolves

A star explodes, new worlds are born
A birth exalted, a death is mourned

A nation rises, another sets
New love rejoices, old love regrets

The tide rolls in, and out again
Sometimes we lose, sometimes we win

A battle won, a war is lost
Some live for free, some pay the cost

An eagle soars, a starling dies
We hope for vision, we close our eyes

Some have homes, some walk alone
A forest burns, new seed is sown

A child laughs, another cries
Sometimes the truth, more often lies

So much to love, so much to hate
Some step up, some hesitate

Whether ying, or perhaps yang
It’s either nothing, or some great thing

The choice is ours, it’s plain to see
Some choose death, some destiny.