Scary Love


Image

Day and night
Her complexion changes;
Love or fight
These are her ranges.

And here I am locked into the midst of it,
Trying my best to make out the gist of it.
I’m caught in her spell; she has such a hold on me.
It can feel like hell, but it’s just where I want to be!
When the morning comes, do I stay, or do I go?
With the rising sun, there’s so much I need to know.
As I hold her close, our two hearts will beat as one,
But don’t assume they will beat when tomorrow comes.

Night and day,
Haven’t got a clue!
Fight or love
Either way I lose.

And here she is right in the thick of it,
Trying her best not to get sick of it.
My love for her is far beyond doubt –
But should I love her from the inside or out?
She loves like an angel when all’s going well,
But burns like the devil when things go to hell!
The best I can do is to commit to the fray;
Praying to God I can survive one more day.

Day or night
When will she come to me?
Love or fight
What will her method be?

I try to predict, but she’s much too slick for me,
And if I run, she’s much too quick for me!
This love we share is hopeless and wonderful –
In a black and white world, it’s so bright and colorful.
My fate is cast, so I’ll just make the best of it –
I’ll hold her close, and just take the rest of it.
She’s a riddle, that’s true, but I’ve got her figured out;
At least I think I do, but still, I have my doubts.

Day after day
I’ll continue to work on this –
Night after night
She’ll reset with just a kiss.

 

Amazing Photographer: Hardik Gohil (You Must See His Work!)


About.

Hardik

Hardik is a wonderful photographer and writer.  You would do yourself a great good to visit his site.  Incredible images and writing. http://mang0pe0ple.wordpress.com/

~Dennis

UNREQUITED LOVE


Image

Unlucky you, who didn’t come last night…
I took the bed’s hard wood post for a man!
You sit and write all night and I lie here
like a shriveled cornstalk blackened by mold.
Am I too old? I’d rather die than have you lie
that you’re afraid to kiss me. Do you miss me?
Leaving me in my nakedness, sprawled
across the unslept bed, open like a blossom
spreading beneath the sun,
offering her nectar but left to wither on the vine.
The night possesses you,
the unfinished verse obsesses you,
but don’t say I won’t give you a kiss.
I offer all of this, but no, you have your Muse!
That wretched bitch that sucks the passion
from the very air you breath and pours her
empty promises in your goddamned poems!
Do her words comfort you; can you find
your release in her couplet or a metaphor?
Does a well turned phrase caress your face,
or stroke your thigh, send shivers down your spine?
I offer you the whole of me, yet you prefer a simile!
Who am I to you? What am I to do?
Come to me! When the morning’s light
pushes the night away, come to me.
I am the ending you are looking for!

 

A Poet’s Affection


Image

The phases of life, the marking of time;
I lived two weeks, four months,
six months before moving on.
There were no long-term relationships –
one night, maybe a week, perhaps two.

Love was too expensive for a traveler,
much too heavy to carry in a bag or box.
I put my days on paper, ending one story,
another poem filed away, me moving on.
There would always be another day,
another pretty face, a warm body
to hold through another cold night .
True love by the hour or day, I could afford that.

That’s what I thought at the time.

I sold my poems, sad stories, many years ago.
I didn’t sell them for money;
it was always a trade , a fair exchange I thought.
The perfect and ideal love
burning so bright, but not very long.

 

Where I Live


Image

How temperamental is the man in me
who misses you but will not call this because
I find the thought of romance more alluring
than actually opening myself to you?
I drink to burn the voices in my belly
that mock my tenuous hold on sanity.
I buy my smokes one at a time because
I have no vision of or faith in tomorrow
and I make my living scratching the underbelly of
this wretched world;
This desolate city, crumbling beneath the
broken wings of blackbirds…it is my home.
It is where I live. My pen scrapes past
its veneer of civility and sheds light upon
the ugly, the lost, the torn asunder. My people.
I take my walks at night under many clouds
all dressed in muted black.
I am callous with the hipsters and the tweakers
camped by the muddy rivers, and the hookers
and the pimps and the holy man and the
goddamned garish fluidity of this headache world.
I live in a city of fifty thousand accumulated flesh tombs
or more pretending about the news and the weather
with their minds drifting always back to the same
goddamned thing. How pathetic to be so far away
in space but not in time?
How desperate is the faith convinced by two arguments;
Both to be and not to be?
When I stumble, I lean against the wall or the lamppost
reading a page of Plath or passage of Hemingway
and all I can think is how courageous their exits were.
I yearn for their knowledge of the final crossing.
I read words, not novels, because words
are better spit than woven.
I refuse my fate gazing at my expiration date
and pouring another drink, I turn off the radio and
sit silently in the dark chambers of my thoughts.
I remember you, but me? I do not.

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

Fairy Tales


fairy-tales-l

 

Rainbows are illusions –
There are no pots of gold,
And unicorns have never grazed
In emerald fields of old.

No knight in shining armor
Has ever rode a day
To save a damsel in distress
And carry her away.

Merlin the magician
Was a phony and a fraud –
King Arthur but a fiction tale
That causes one to nod.

Wizards are a special breed
Of fantasy it seems,
And magic castles little more
Than figments of our dreams.

And what of dragons long extolled;
Flying lizards breathing fire?
I do believe the product of
Some pathological liar.

There dwell no trolls beneath the bridge
To thwart it’s passage way –
Belief in goblins, ghouls, and ghosts
Has long since passed away.

Wicked witches have never flown
On gnarled brooms of straw,
And gypsies with their crystal balls
Is truth stretched much too far.

And yet, of all these fairy tales,
The hardest to believe?
This silly notion we call “Love”…
What utter fantasy!

 

Like my post? Please support me by clicking on the Mersi button

Mersi ME!

Omnipresent Love


Beautiful-Couple-After-Making-Love

If flowers bloom when winter ends, their fragrance rising, too,
These I, on bended knee would give, and even more to you.
Celestial stars and distant moons I’ve gathered up for thee –
And as the angels sweetly sing, profess your love to me.

The tides should rise and surely ebb with every breath you take;
Each heartbeat to mine own entwined a passion full awake!
Softly pressing palm to palm, our fingers tightly laced,
Pulling closer, closer still, a warm and tight embrace.

Each minute to the hour unwinds, and still the night unfolds
Timeless and eternal as we lay in sweet repose.
The morning comes on the rising sun, our love in warm reflection
Whispering low, we are even so lost in introspection.

Such is our love, so tightly stitched, the seams appear transparent –
And to the world our vows are writ in verse now made apparent.

Like my post? Please support me by clicking on the Mersi button

Mersi ME!

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.

Half-Measures


razor cuts

I watch in morbid fascination
the quickening pulse of the vein
on the soft underside of my forearm;
each throbbing beat a silent protest
for the living of life, the loss of love,
the failure of faith in the future.

Warm blood trickles
slowly down my naked wrist
and into my loosely cupped open palm;
rivulets of life’s sweet essence
spreading out like the night-seeking
roots of a moon-flower plant.

I am amused that the heart beats unaware
of its complicity in this life-ending act,
this betrayal of self-contempt
and abject surrender.
Blood meanders across the slightly raised
scars from last year’s failed attempt,
and in that moment, I finally realize
what my father meant about the
importance of half-measures,
of keeping commitments.

So, I cut a little deeper.

Lady of the Night


moon-like-face

Her face is frost etched glass
floating in the blue-black winds of the night;
She illuminates footsteps hushed
on decayed and dampened leaves,
and grieves for freshly planted souls
who have turned from the light of day.

Her midnight corset is tightly laced
by the dazzling tails of falling stars,
and she moves in phases
with the hushed and tempered grace of a
childless empress wandering forlornly
through the cold shadows of winter’s garden.

She seduces the wolf and the poet with
equal ambivalence, each of whom
compose for her dream-soaked arias
and haunting sonnets that speak of
promises which will not be kept.

She mourns her powdered reflection
as it ripples across frozen lakes, and
hides behind silver-lined clouds when
she can no longer bear the loneliness
of her shadowy journey across granite
mountaintops and sleeping meadows.

At last, in the cool, grey light of morning,
as the sun softly caresses her porcelain
cheek with warm fingers of breaking light,
she sighs but once, then slowly fades into
the rose colored blush of a new day.

Fallen Angel


tear

He writes for a fallen angel
but the rhymes don’t appear,
not in words, but in stilted

verse, in outpourings of
watered down love. She spreads
her wings and hunts the night.

What the poet will not write is,
You hunger for your father’s love;
It never was, but may you find

through the spilling of my ink
Some noble affection upon
which to rest. But I cannot touch

your pain. He drinks a toast
to the memory of her beauty.
No one wants her faded

charms this night. She stands
beneath a waning moon

with a single tear, a cigarette
from her too red un-kissed lips.
The cars no longer slow

down to guess her meaning.
She traces a vein
to where the needles brought

peace a million times.
I hear your poem, thank you
but I must be home to
where the razor whispers.

Featured

Hi, and Welcome to The Winter Bites My Bones

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 100,000 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

Poet’s Defeat


fallen angel

 

Let the night unfold as may;
I am sleepless and nocturnal
a carpet of stars lights the way
across blank pages of my journal

Though little light is cast, and sure
No verse forthcoming pours from me
for all the emptiness I endure
One inspired word would set me free

Yet these droplets fall in un-metered rhyme
for me to unravel, on bended knee
I am as useless as soliloquy to a mime
Or autumn leaves to a winter tree

So loose my bonds and set me free
No more my pen to scribe
No vacuous lines of poetry
There’s simply nothing left inside.

 

A Bucket Full of Words


bucket-list-words

I went to the muse market
bought myself a bucket of words;
just a pail full of random nouns,
verbs, adjectives, pronouns and such.
Too cheap to purchase any rhyme or reason
(too expensive and out of season),
struggled home with my overflowing bucket
balanced on my hip, splish-splashing
similes and metaphors all along my path.
Arrived home just before sunset
and placed my now half-empty bucket
in the darkened corner, far from the open
flame of inspiration.
It sat there, settling, growing cold.
Later that night, I took a ladle, dipped
me a spoonful of now soggy words
carefully pouring them upon the
withered sheet of paper splayed across
my wooden desk.
I sponged off the excess dribble and
let the rest dry freely in the night air
The next morning, I rolled up the paper
tied it with a black ribbon
and sent it to my editor
He sent it back the following week
now tied with a red ribbon,
a matchstick tucked neatly beneath the bow,
both attached to a bigger bucket.

 

Betrayal


Like a black-velvet curtain slowly falling,
I was not prepared for your numbing descent;
I am cleaved in two, a house divided against itself.
My thoughts, sharp as a honed razor, dribbles
incoherence as it passes over my muddled tongue;
thick molasses reluctantly oozing from a honey dipper,
but without the sweetness.
Do not pity me – I am yet fully housed within this melted
shell and am quite aware that my left side has betrayed
my right, but I no longer possess the mastery of pointing this out.

 

We Shall Remember (An Ode to Dan)


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.

Little White Bird


We counted, huddled, precious hours
two lovers sheltered against springtime showers
‘Neath the down-stretched arms of a weeping willow
My arms your shelter, my lap your pillow

And there, like the myth of an ancient love
Carried upon the wings of a snow white dove
Sunlight breaking with the flutter of wings
From the little white bird who softly sings

We watched it flit with a delicate glee
From branch to branch and tree to tree
Against its soft wing nature pressed
The storm abates, the day is dressed

Beloved skies where imagination weeps
These our newfound white bird keeps
Beneath her wings, winds lifting higher
Chasing clouds for her heart’s desire

Until she finds her true love rising
On thermal bands, her flight revising
The two winged now as one together
Each wingbeat now in equal measure

And so do we, in love’s all knowing
Feel this precious love now growing
In awe we sigh, love’s prayer now heard
In the shadow of our little white bird

Omnipresent Love


If flowers bloom when summer ends, their fragrance rising, too,
These I, on bended knee would give, and even more to you.
Celestial stars and distant moons I’ve gathered up for thee –
And as the angels sweetly sing, profess your love to me.

The tides should rise and surely ebb with every breath you take;
Each heartbeat to mine own entwined, a passion full awake!
Softly pressing palm to palm, our fingers tightly laced,
Pulling closer, closer still, a warm and tight embrace.

Each minute to the hour unwinds, and still the night unfolds
Timeless and eternal as we lay in sweet repose.
The morning comes on the rising sun, our love in warm reflection
Whispering low, we are even so lost in introspection.

Such is our love, so tightly stitched, the seams appear transparent –
And to the world our vows are writ in verse now made apparent.