Window of Love

Window of Love
Window of Love

The Window Of Love

 by Hugh A Tague

As if painted with
the fire of the Sun
the golden sky signals
the day is done.

A gentle white foam
floats atop the blue sea
a fine ocean mist
is carried upon the breeze.

Continue reading “Window of Love”

Flaming Beauty

Photo by Ashok Babu Thangaraj
Photo by Ashok Babu Thangaraj

Flaming Beauty

by Hugh A Tague

Sunshine rain and earth
transformed to feed
the tight little pods.

Vibrant lime stems
delivers nourishment
to the buds of gold
safely nestled among
guardian green leaves.

The day’s light
warms and excites them
the night’s cool air
allows them rest.

In anticipation
of nature’s promise
they patiently await
their debut.

Each in its own time
burst into full display
like a flame held high
upon a branch of life
in brilliant color
beholding to my
adoring eyes.

Springtime’s Glory

Spring Has Sprung!

Hugh A Tague's Poetry & Prose

Sugar magnolia, blossoms blooming, heads all empty and I don't care, “Sugar magnolia, blossoms blooming, heads all empty and I don’t care”~Robert Hunter

Springtime’s Glory

by Hugh A Tague

Winter’s snow falls victim to the sun’s rays
The once hard soil softens with spring’s touch
Sleeping tree’s roots awaken with great thirst
From their mighty branches newborn buds burst.

The sun’s light cuts through the still sparse treetops
Bright green sprouts brake through the earth’s fertile crust
A fast running creek feeds the thawing lake
Tiny birds search about for worms to take.

A spring breeze drifts across the forest floor
A hawk soars high on warm air fed currents
A carpet of clover fills a clearing
Along our path bluebells are appearing.

Broken tree limbs winter’s wrath remembered
The fall’s felled leaves are now spring’s top soil
Shades of brown take on green and golden hues
Migrating birds make the trip home to roost.

The sun’s light cuts through the…

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From High Atop Your Tree

From High Atop Your Tree by Hugh A Tague
From High Atop Your Tree by Hugh A Tague

From High Atop Your Tree

 by Hugh A Tague

Tweet, tweet, tweet little bird,
sing me a song of love.
Sing to me of passion so free
from your perch above.

Tweet, tweet, tweet little bird,
sing me a song of life.
Sing to me of happiness and joy
not of pain and strife.

Tweet, tweet, tweet little bird,
sing me a song each day.
Sing to me of bright sunshine
not of skies of gray.

Tweet, tweet, tweet little bird,
sing me a songs of glee.
Sing me awake each morning,
from high atop your tree.

Demon Domicile

Demon Domasile

Demon Domicile

by Hugh A Tague

My breath quickens
my palms wet with sweat
my heart is pounding
nearly bursting through my shirt.

Once vibrant Victorian dental work
hanging from the porch roof’s eve
beckons to a brighter time
when all my family and friends
were warmly welcome inside.

The spirits of horse and riders passed
stand vigil near the mounting blocks
forewarn me of impending despair.

The weather-worn lapboard
moaned when I tread upon it
as a gentle breeze
brings a tree’s limb to life
tapping against the railing.

With a demonic snicker
from an old wooden chair
immediately next to the door
sat a spirit whose likeness
resembled my great grandfather.

Now only inches from the door
the cedar shake shingles begin to quiver
chattering like every nerve in my body
the tree now angrily beating
the porch railing.

The floor under my shaking foot
feels as if it giving way beneath me.

My breathing labored
my whole body trembling
I reach for the door.

The specter with eyes wide
stands up next to me
his mouth opens and a shrill scream
fills my pounding head.

Unable to stand another second
everything fades to black
I collapse in the threshold.

Unable to control the domatophobia
the demon domicile once again defeats me.

Sunset of the Olympians

Photograph by Jason Schack Photography©
Photograph by Jason Schack Photography©

Sunset of the Olympians

by Hugh A Tague

Poseidon’s waves lap the beach
Helios’s Sun prepares to sleep
Zeus gathers clouds for the sky
Hephaestus colors it with his fire
Aura adds a gentle breeze
Artemis put the animals to sleep
Apollo raises the moon for us
The day’s light turns to dusk.

Day turns to night then back into day
Never again is it exactly the same.

da Vinci’s Masterpiece


da Vinci’s Masterpiece (Constanza)

 by Hugh A Tague

She is da Vinci’s masterpiece.
A canvas brushed with oil paint
Her smile was all but constraint.

Artwork that speaks through centuries.
Comics and clowns performed for her
Leonardo made it occur.

Her sweet smile not all can see.
Bringing great joy to those that can
Sat in a chair made from rattan.

World known her face has come to be.
She lived five hundred years ago
And still her name we do not know.

This special piece by da Vinci.
A sweet young girl from Florentine
Immortal for eternity.

She Saves Mementoes


She Saves Mementoes 

by Hugh A Tague

I’m thinking about a girl
the sweetest that could be
she saves mementoes
that remind her of me.

I can picture her Angelface
when she looks at such things
with a smile and loving eyes
its me she’s remembering.

I know how she feels
because I do the same
like part of a package
that she wrote my name.

Such love and admiration
for each other’s kind soul
a love so respectful
like no other I have known.

A Thread In Time

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Mankind walks upon a very thin line
Each but a tiny thread in the great fabric of time
Twisting and turning, weaving as they go
Always moving, sometimes fast, other times slow.
The past and future are connected by the now
That is the only absolute that time will allow
Variables make up the rest of the space,
Affording individuals a unique freedom of pace.
Each of our threads’ tethers one day shall fray,
From time’s great continuum, they fall away,
Unable to stay in the present, the future will not come,
As we take life’s last breath, our thread is done.

True Love Found Them


True Love Found Them

by Hugh A Tague

There were two hearts pure and true
each seeing life from a different view,
Teaching love and respect to all,
for the other, each just happen to fall.

The two met early one night
under the stars and in the moon’s light.
Neither expected to find their life’s love
It must have been written, in the heavens above.

Her kiss took him to a place he had never been,
a place he had locked away deep down within.
His kiss also opened an all but forgotten door,
it led to a place in her heart to often ignored.

Their lips came together for the very first time,
their bodies heated up as their limbs Intertwined.
The world so vast, the universe without end,
on that warm summer night
True Love Found Them.

The Quantum Kiss



The Quantum Kiss

by Hugh A Tague

Our precious love transcends all time and space
With no dimensional bounds this love reigns
Exposed through universal elements
The combustible exhaust of a match
A residual image takes its form
Caught not in the present past nor future
Existing not in the real or unreal
A shadow etched in a place far away.

Interdimensionaly often missed
Eternally begotten quantum kiss.

Peeling Away Winter’s Mask


Peeling Away Winter’s Mask

By Hugh A Tague

The pure polar blanket of alabaster
that once lay at the feet of sleeping trees
no longer reflects the faint day’s light
from barren skies of grey.
Vanquished from the surface,
transformed into liquid tinder,
fueling the inferno of rebirth overhead.

The lake’s opaque tempered shell
falls victim to longer days of Spring.
Solar rays peel back Winter’s mask
from the great mirror’s face,
once again allowing Mother Nature’s image
to rebound into the heavens.

I am but a single bard, standing in awe
as the muse of the cosmos whispers
gently in my ear; inspiring my voice,
empowering my pen, painting my soul
with respect; a respect of this place
here and now, this beautiful place,
adrift among the stars.

Photograph  by Hugh A Tague
by Hugh A Tague

Jack Frost’s Storm

Jack Frost's Storm

Jack Frost’s Storm
by Hugh A Tague

A white birch bows to Jack’s command
laden with ice upon each limb and branch
all of Summer’s color, his magic blanched
silent, it’s burden held within a frozen trance

Nearby an old willow stands up straight
once flowing branches completely encased
Her limbs pulled to the ground from the weight
Summer sleeps under a canopy of crystal drapes.

The landscape has become unknown
locked in place with tools of ice and snow
a tranquil wonderland only he could sow
Jack Frost’s Storm, a spectacle to behold.


Here Comes The Pain


Art work by,

Here Comes The Pain

by Hugh A Tague

The sky darkens with clouds of deep despair
Streets glisten in crimson as the pain falls
Now it’s time to tread where others have fled
Through these streets of grief now painted in red.

An umbrella my only protection
Safely in the shadow of this shelter
Flooding negativity is insane
The streets now run red with sorrow and pain.

Sounds of suffering thunders from above
Freefalling from ominous dark black clouds
Can I weather another storm of pain
Am I strong enough to walk through this rain.

All that is good takes shelter from the storm
Nothing I can do to make it all stop
Searching the sky for a glimmer of hope
Just one ray of sunlight will help me cope.

Streets glisten in crimson as the pain falls
Sounds of suffering thunders from above
Now it’s time to tread where others have fled
Through these streets of grief now painted in red.

Springtime’s Glory

Sugar magnolia, blossoms blooming, heads all empty and I don't care,
“Sugar magnolia, blossoms blooming, heads all empty and I don’t care”~Robert Hunter

Springtime’s Glory

by Hugh A Tague

Winter’s snow falls victim to the sun’s rays
The once hard soil softens with spring’s touch
Sleeping tree’s roots awaken with great thirst
From their mighty branches newborn buds burst.

The sun’s light cuts through the still sparse treetops
Bright green sprouts brake through the earth’s fertile crust
A fast running creek feeds the thawing lake
Tiny birds search about for worms to take.

A spring breeze drifts across the forest floor
A hawk soars high on warm air fed currents
A carpet of clover fills a clearing
Along our path bluebells are appearing.

Broken tree limbs winter’s wrath remembered
The fall’s felled leaves are now spring’s top soil
Shades of brown take on green and golden hues
Migrating birds make the trip home to roost.

The sun’s light cuts through the still sparse treetops
The once hard soil softens with spring’s touch
Sleeping trees roots awaken with great thirst
From their mighty branches newborn buds burst.

“Twas Just The Irish In Me”

“Twas Just The Irish In Me”

by Hugh A Tague 


It started much like any other day.

Stretching, I let out a great yawn.

My hounds bolted outside to play

As a marmalade sun cracked the dawn.


It was an early brunch for me:

Bangers, eggs and a bit of bread.

Then a short walk next to the sea,

Stopping in town to make right my head.


I cheerfully shuffled into Paddy’s Pub.

The keep poured me a pint of Guinness.

A gracious few had gathered in the club:

Just Helen, Hugh and his brother Innis.


Then a voice unfamiliar to my ear

asked me why I was not wearing the green.

I said, “Anyone know who is this here?

St. Paddy’s police, or so it would seem.”


He knew right off he had misspoke.

To this stranger I had nothing to prove.

Still, an answer his question did evoke.

An Irish gentleman shouldn’t be rude.


Loosing my belt, I rose from my chair,

Dropping my trousers for all to see.

Helen’s face turned as red as her hair,

My knickers were a brilliant green.


I turned a bit, so Helen couldn’t see

Taking the stranger’s empty glass,

Brandishing my God- given Irish shillelagh,

Filling it with pee as green as grass.


I left little for the stranger’s mind to doubt.

A St. Paddy’s Day miracle he had just seen.

On his way out he bought me a stout.

Nothing is sweeter than a pint that is free.


Once he was gone, my friends had to ask.

I said, “It’s really quite simple you see:

Last week my legs held water like casks.

The pills from my Doctor make me pee green.”


I made them promise that day in the pub,

“My friends, this secret we must keep.

If the visitor ever comes back to the club

Say only:  ‘Twas Just The Irish In Me.’ ”


HAIKU, English 3-5-3

by Hugh A Tague, 俳句ヒュー ©

Japanese art wallpaper 01 2560x1600 - Copy

laden boughs
Winter’s white dress coat



ramo Laden
Abito bianco mantello invernale

Laden branch
White dress coat winter

Laden branche
Robe blanche manteau d’hiver

Laden branch
White dress winter coat

A Ladder of life



A Ladder of life

by Hugh A Tague

All that you are
and all that you aren’t.

Shadows of those
who came before you
destiny’s written
yet remain unknown.

A double helix tablet
etched in space
with moon dust
seasoned in starlight.

Each strand yours
and yours alone
a most exclusive gift
from infinite expanse.

A ladder of fate.
A ladder of life.

They Will Dance



They Will Dance

~ Hugh A Tague
They will dance in the day’s light
they will dance in public or alone
they will dance in their bed at night
they will dance in their house or a home.

they will dance

They will dance to a tune no one can hear
they will dance for they have no voice
they will dance without hope or fear
they will dance because they have no choice.
they will dance,  they will dance
One day their agonizing dance will cease
no longer will they move their hands and feet
that look in their eyes we shall never again see
until that day when they are finally set free…
they will dance.   they will dance,
they will dance.

Haunted by Huntington’s


Haunted by Huntington’s
by Hugh A Tague

From this chair of questions
that have no answers
I look out the window
at a world I no longer know
once a vehicle
to enjoy life’s bounty
a prison for my mind
is now my body’s role.

The monster that attacks me today
for a lifetime slept quietly inside.

It fears nothing
there is no known cure.

What enabled it’s genesis of destruction?
What awoke this unforgiving beast?

How can something so evil
seek and achieve asylum
inside a pure and precious life
yet unborn?

The killer hid inside my father
he unknowingly passed it
to my brother and me
It took them to another place
and now for me
there they wait.

My pain is one of emptiness
from a life that was once so full.

Even surrounded by loved ones
still there is a loneliness
a loneliness
that no one
should ever have to bare.

The tears that fill my eyes
are not for me
but for my children’s lives
and that which is unseen.

My insides twisted with a guilt
few could understand
that which consumes me now
I hope never finds them.

A Promise Made

A Promise Made
by Hugh A Tague ©
Late Winter’s dusk set in shades of magenta and tangerine.
The Sun’s promise to the frozen soil, and sleeping trees
That Spring’s thaw will soon arrive, warming the land and seas.
Mighty trees’ boughs and limbs caressed by a warm breeze
As sunshine feeds their new and supple leaves of green.


Cabin Fever

Bars of Ice

Cabin Fever

by Hugh A Tague

The day’s radiant sunshine gives them life
a clear cloudless blue sky grants full access
white crystals begins to glisten then flow
thawing them from the rooftop’s stock of snow.

Droplets of water ride down the steep pitch
slowing as each falls over the ice edge
racing toward the cold snow covered ground
these lucid travelers polar air now surround.

Gravity draws their essence to the earth
cold tempered their form is compromised
riding the surface of those that came before
and still they are pulled toward the forest floor.

Winter hands down its sentence onto me
confined by the warmth inside my home
cabin fever is driving me insane
bars of ice now my prison’s window pane.

Droplets of water ride down the steep pitch
the day’s radiant sunshine gives them life
racing toward the cold snow covered ground
these lucid travelers polar air now surround.

by Haiku Hugh 俳句ヒュー

Hiroshige, Shrines in Snowy Mountains, by Utagawa Hiroshige 歌川 広重
Hiroshige, Shrines in Snowy Mountains, by Utagawa Hiroshige 歌川 広重


Ice cold winter wind
Reign of frost unforgiving
Summer hides from snow

by 俳句ヒュー
(Haiku Hugh)

Art work;
Hiroshige, Shrines in Snowy Mountains
by Utagawa Hiroshige 歌川 広重

Winter’s Barren Beach

Winter’s Barren Beach

by Hugh A Tague


Winter has come again
and nothing is quite the same
the sun has all but gone
and the skies are always gray.

Jack Frost’s snow
has enveloped the barren beach
his ferocious wind
whipped up the stormy sea.

Still it’s really quite beautiful
in its own way
each of nature’s seasons
must be given its own day.

Soon the Summer’s sun
shall warm the shore again
the beach no longer barren
it shall fill with family and friends.

Photograph by  Dave Richartz Photography
Photograph by
Dave Richartz Photography

Father Mandela

Father Mandela
by Hugh A Tague

Shackled and lead to a cell,
freedom revoked by hatred
and fear.

Nearly three decades of complete darkness,
then into the peoples light
he appeared.

His dream of equality unchanged,
freedom’s resolve

Retribution for sins against him
were forever

Confessor of the dark and the light,
our voice of freedom,
endowing our country with sight.

He no longer walks by our side.
Never shall we forget
this man’s stride.

Father to his countryman,
teaching his children
patience and peace.

His wisdom and sacrifice
forever lives in the hearts
of all who are free.

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Cyrano’s Insidious Deceit

Cyrano’s Insidious Deceit

by Hugh A Tague

His rapière merely an instrument,
one he need only play for a fool.
His swaggering panache,
few men, and less a warrior
could ever hope to own.

Wielding a pride-piercing foil of intellect.
Divesting his adversary of dignity,
shredding their vocabulary,
depriving them of all they once
thought themselves to be.

Lunging forward, Cyrano threads his foe,
releasing their soul’s bonds, leaving just
a mound of quivering flesh.
Short of a poetry-laced eulogy,
Cyrano’s passé concerto;
Le Rapière de Combat et fini.

Façade cloaked, Cyrano cast out his heart
painting a mirage with his pallet of passion.
Oblivious to the disfigured poet, the enchanted
Roxane sees only her paramour.
She sees only Christian.

Mortality concluded about the battlefield;
a cadet’s body, and the truth, forever lay cold.
Cyrano maintained le charade.
Roxane’s image inamorato intact,
she laments to unconsciousness.

15 years her confidant, Cyrano’s end in sight;
his final battle facing shadows.
The spectres, this time victorious.
Roxane found the truth as he drew his last breath;
Her heart now shattered twofold.

Insidious deceit, or honour among friends?
Lives self-sabotaged; Love and affection forever forfeit.
True love’s only antagonist: The Truth.

Savinien_de_Cyrano_de_Bergerac (1)

I Love being in Love With You


I Love being in Love With You

by Hugh A Tague

As I get ready
to drift off to sleep,
I think of the words
you just said to me.

“You loved being in love with me“
that’s what you said;
those words and feelings
still swirling in my head.

Like a flower
that blooms just for me,
your words of love
are as sweet as can be.

I know how wonderful
this feels for you.
“I love being in love with you too.”

My Everything

My Everything

by Hugh A Tague

When I thought that my life might not be worth living;
You gave me hope.
When I thought that I had forgotten who I was;
You reminded me.
When I thought that I would never know true love’s kiss;
You kissed me.
When I thought that I would never know passion’s sweet touch;
You touched me.
When I thought true love did not exist;
You gave me your heart.
When I thought that I had nothing;
You became my everything.

My Everything

Trespass of the Ice Fairies

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Who boldly trespass in the dark of night,
leaving only etchings for me to see?
Eluding detection, hidden from sight,
truly clever intruders they must be.
Gravity to them simply does not apply,
frolicking about on my sideways pane.
Is it magic? Or perhaps they can fly?
Ah yes! Flight is the secret of their reign.
Visions of whimsy, my mind’s eye beholds.
Dancing and skating upon my window’s ice.
Seemingly boundless, thriving in the cold;
who’s impressions vanish with the new day’s light.
As I sleep, they flutter about my home.
I take solace, in that I’m not all alone.
                                                  ~Hugh A Tague

Freed By My Confession


Freed By My Confession
by Hugh A Tague

Each deep dark secret
haunts me, body and mind.
So complete is its grip
death is a welcome cure.

Dissident of humanity
riddled with man’s sin,
each binding me more
enhancing my madness.

My surroundings stark,
void of all expression.
My repressed thoughts
match my prison perfectly.

A façade of ignorance
runs rampant inside me.
Compressing the guilt
compounding my disability.

Rising to the surface
a bubbling brew of evil.
It’s pending release,
I can curtail no more.

Then it happens!
My most sacred digressions
articulated for others to digest,
degrading my personal mask.

As the pressure subsides,
pure space, or grace is created.
Light penetrates the bowels
of my once darkened soul.

From the light comes a warmth
filling a cold emptiness.
An inner peace I had not known
freedom I begrudged myself.

My bindings detached I am
carried on wings of forgiveness,
freed from my personal prison.
Freed By My Confession.

Heaven’s Gate


Heaven’s Gate

by, Hugh A Tague

Atop this case, for me it waits;
beyond its arch, lie my fate.
You, and you alone debate,
my sins, and acts of faith.
Embracing love, denouncing hate,
praying deeds of good negate
my digressions and my mistakes.
Truly nothing can equate
to be free from such great weight.
Drifting with you throughout space,
the newest light, in your vast estate.

Ode to the wind

Tamara de Lempicka

Ode to the wind 

 by Hugh A Tague

My Love,

Our bodies dance together,
setting the universe aglow.
Kissing under the stars
sipping a fine merlot.

Your free loving spirit
feeds my hungry soul.
Because of your kindness,
as a man I have grown.

Love of my life,
my choice, this I know.
Once, you chose me,
no longer was I alone.

Still the wind is wild,
a force I can‘t control.
I love you far too much,
not to let you go.

If I live a thousand years
my memory won’t forgo,
throwing my heart to the wind
allowing my love to flow.

Forever yours my darling.


by Hugh A Tague

It was a particularly cold All Hallow’s Eve almost 13 years ago.
In a cottage tucked away deep in a thick dark forest, long forgotten by humanity. A nameless, soulless old witch stirs her brew as it bubbles and boils in a large, thick, black cauldron set into the stone hearth of the small unkempt cottage. The steam from her evil brew funnels its way up the chimney and then drops right to the ground. Blending in with the rolling fog circulating around the cottage grounds and throughout the forest on the cold autumn night. Using nature’s mist as a vehicle, her lethal brew poisons the fog. Just one breath was enough to drop a full grown deer in its tracks. Nothing was immune to its toxic effects. Plants withered, animals fell over dead, even insects died instantly.

The old witch had twelve children. Each was fathered by a different evil demon or lord of darkness. They, like her, were nameless, soulless beasts that had no concept of human emotion. Each offspring was more evil and disgusting than the last.

Tonight was feeding night. And by the light of the full moon, she released her beast from the cottage so they could scavenge the forest and devour all of the plants and animals that she had poisoned for them with her evil brew.

Pregnant with her thirteenth child, and tired of being evil’s incubator, she cursed it from the first day of its conception. But this child was sired by Lucifer himself, and was about to change the way things worked in the little cottage of horror. For this night marks the sixth hour of the sixth day of the sixth month of this creature’s gestation inside the old witch.

Now resting in a wicker chair near the warm fire, taking full advantage of her children being outside gorging them selves, she feels movement inside of her. Throughout the six months there had been no movement. She assumed the curse she conjured had struck the beast dead. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

The pain was so intense. She stood, and as she did, the creature began to kick its way out of her. Blood ran down her legs and filled her shoes, as he tried to take a step in the direction of the cottage door. Then a furry hoofed leg shot out the bottom of her dress knocking her balance off and her body crashed to the cobblestone floor. On her back in a pool of blood, she took her last breath, as a razor sharp hooked claw sliced open her abdomen and the winged beast clawed its way out of its host.

Flapping its bat-like wings and stumbling to stay standing on its hoofed feet, the beast looks upon the world for the first time. It then let out a blood-curdling, intensely loud howl, that could be heard in the bowels of hell. Beelzebub’s bastard beast announced to all that he now walked among the living. Hoofed legs of a deer, the tail of a serpent, its body almost ape-like, with thick, black, stiff hair, a long, muscular neck topped with an almost horse-like head, but with carnivorous fangs three times the size of any wolf’s. The horns atop of the creature’s head were that of a ram. His goat like eyes glowed red as the fire in hell from which they were forged. Its bat-like wings seemed tattered and misshapen, but none the less, were topped with hook like razor sharp claws, perfect for climbing and killing. But sustained flight wasn’t going to be a strong suit for this wicked monster. This flawed creature was the way he was because of the curse placed upon him by his mother, the old witch.

Satan, not pleased with the image of the malformed demon, cast an eternal spell, barring his offspring from ever entering his kingdom of fire and suffering. Dammed to be earthbound for all eternity, the demon’s fate was sealed.

He then turned, looking at the carcass of the dead old witch, and with an appetite unknown in the human realm, he began to devour her, making her his very first meal. Then with his thick, black, forked tongue, the beast licked even the smallest drop of blood off of the cobblestone floor, not wasting anything. He did the same to each of his twelve demon siblings as they returned to the cottage, bellies full and completely unaware their newborn brother, straight from the gates of hell, was waiting to make a meal of them.

The past nearly thirteen years now, the beast has honed his killing skills in the only place until now that he has known as home. The dark forest that surrounds the cottage of his birth. His furious appetite has now depleted all the wildlife in the area. He has learned to kill quickly and silently from the darkest of shadows.

As foretold in folklore and legend, on the thirteen year anniversary of the day he entered our world, the beast shall taste his first human flesh. This All Hallow’s Eve, in the year of our God, twenty thousand and THIRTEEN, marks that day.

No one is safe from the evil clutches of this monster. There is nothing we can do to assure the safety of ourselves or those we love. This Halloween, don’t let the candle in your Jack-o-lantern burn out, and keep that porch light burning bright. Because he will strike silently from the darkest of shadows, not leaving even a drop of blood as evidence that you have been devoured by his ravenous jaws.

No one will ever know what happened to you.


Father Time’s Great Clock

Father Time’s Great Clock

Stars high in the clear night sky twinkling bright,

the ground covered with a new blanket of white.

The air is still, not so much as a breeze

soon winds of change shall blow through the trees.


Tonight is the beginning of a brand-new year,

Mankind looks back, at all they held dear.

Celebrating the special event with great mirth,

just another trip around the sun, for Mother Earth.


The Moon’s light gently kissed the fresh powder coat

making the carpet of snow glisten with new hope.

Winter’s darkness now battles with the Day’s light,

soon Spring’s Sun shall win the age old fight.


Tonight is but a tick of Father Time’s great clock

reminding us, that for no one can time stop.

To all that will ring in this promising new year,

I wish you health, peace, wealth, and cheer.


© 1/1/2014 Hugh Tague

Art work by; Alex Stone,

Art work by; alexstoneart, Alex Stone

Mother Nighttime

Mother Night by PAtScHWOrK
Mother Night by PAtScHWOrK
Mother Nighttime 
by Hugh A Tague

Mother of darkness and all that is unseen.
The full moon’s bright light is all her glory.
Daytime’s warmth surrenders to her cool shade,
releasing her nighttime into the day.

Her sorrow falls to moonless pitch darkness.
Her silent cloak envelopes everything.
Nighttime’s mystery belongs to her,
to not another can darkness refer.

Nocturnal creatures lurk in her shadow.
Dense evenings clouds block the heaven’s light.
Nighttime’s high seas reign black from shore to shore,
until morning’s first light, the darkness adorns.

Possessing all that is considered nighttime.
The moon’s beams and all that they shone upon,
whose reflections in hues of blue and gray.
A star’s light that twinkles from far away.

Mother of darkness and all that is unseen.
Dense evenings clouds block the heaven’s light.
Daytime’s warmth surrenders to her cool shade,
releasing her nighttime into the day.


#poetry #art #HughATague #freerhymequatrain

A Hunter’s Swan Song

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A Hunter’s Swan Song
by Hugh A Tague

I grew up on a small island that was part of the “Barrier Islands” of New Jersey. During the summer, the entire area became inundated with tourists. We had the cleanest, safest beaches on the east coast, an award-winning boardwalk, and both Philadelphia and New York City were within driving distance. The summers were great for making money. There were part-time and full-time jobs aplenty. But the winter-times were a whole different story. Not only did the tourists go home for the winter, most of the property owners also left for warmer places or lived inland, leaving the islands all but desolate in the winter months.

The islands, just as suggested, are surrounded by water; the Atlantic Ocean, on the east side, and the intercostals, or bays, on the west. The ends were dotted with inlets where the ocean met the bays. The intercostals were mostly marshlands, with canals and creeks and bays of saltwater and mud.

The mud was a constant in the marsh, and had the consistency of baby-poo! During low tide, twice a day, it didn’t smell much better than it looked. But still, these marshlands act as nurseries for fish and supported a host of wildlife, including almost every migratory duck there is: black ducks, mallards, pintail buffleheads, loons and coots. Even the somewhat rare-at-the-time wood duck, just to name some off the top of my head.

In the winter, there were precious few year-round jobs. Most natives worked two, maybe three during the summer, and collected unemployment in the winter. It wasn’t by choice; it was just the reality of living at the seashore year ’round.

Firearms were a passion of mine, as was nature. So hunting was a favorite hobby. With a lot of practice, I became pretty good at it. My love of nature helped me to track and locate animals. My passion for guns provided me with the knowledge to know the right tools for the job, if you will. For example, most duck and goose hunters use a 12 gauge shotgun. An excellent choice. There is a host of different shells, (ammo), to use, and it’s a great choice, most of the time. But duck and geese often fly just out of range of a 12 gauge. So I sometimes opted for a 10 gauge and was able to reach out just a little farther, giving me a slight advantage. It was a single shot and it was quite heavy, but I was a big boy, so I could handle the recoil. I was deadly accurate with it. I mostly used it for geese as they were much bigger than ducks and much smarter. They always stayed just out of range of the standard shotguns, even firing magnum rounds.

Goose season is what this story is all about. Well, more or less, as you will see. Anyway, my best friend’s name was Pete. Most of Pete’s family owned motels, and they made a decent living, but Pete was the furthest thing from a spoiled brat. While he did have a lot of the newest toys, and a few luxuries that most of us didn’t have, he was humble, and very nice guy. I certainly wouldn’t have hung around with him if he wasn’t.

So, Pete decided to take up hunting and, even though I wasn’t able to go deer hunting in early December, (due to work), I gave him some very good advice. On his first day of his first season, he landed a buck. As I stated earlier, he was great guy, so all that I knew was at his disposal.
Well, later that winter, goose season rolled around, and Pete wanted to learn how to hunt them. So naturally he came to me. He made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse. He would pay for ammo, gas, and supply a vehicle, if I were to take him goose hunting and teach him what I knew. Well, this was a no brainier! Not only would I save money, but I liked spending time with Pete, so we had a deal.

Another benefit was Pete’s family. Pete was Italian. His parents and grandparents were right from Italy. His grandfather didn’t even speak English. And boy, could these people cook!! Pete and I would go out hunting, early in the morning, and hunt for four to five hours, then go back to his house and have lunch. We would walk into their gigantic kitchen, and the women of the family were always cooking something delicious! My favorite was the fried cheese. Being of Irish decent, I had never before tried most of what they fed me, but I enjoyed every bite.

We always took our boots off outside after a long morning of walking through the baby-poo mud and wind-whipping in sub-zero temperatures. A dry, warm place to sit, and some home-cooked food was always a great distraction. If we had ducks or geese, Pete’s grandfather would take them off our hands right away. He would take them to the back and butcher them just like he did in the “Old Country.” This family was very traditional, and Pete and I were supplying the family with nature’s bounty. Something they all appreciated and respected. We were treated like princes coming back from a hunt, with food for the village. They took very good care of us, I suppose it was something like what it might feel like to be part of a Tuscan village in Italy and be appreciated for your work to feed the village. I remember and carry that great feeling with me to this day.

This one morning started like most others. We grabbed coffee and headed out to the marsh in Pete’s station wagon. Just before the inlet, in a small salt-pond, maybe fifty or sixty yards off the road, was a Canadian goose. The most common of geese to be encountered and the ones we almost always harvested. It was out in the open, so sneaking up would be tricky. I decided take this one myself, and Pete would be taking notes So I grabbed my 10-gauge and slowly began walking out to the target. I knew that the goose wouldn’t let me get too close, so I only walked when it wasn’t looking. Before long, I had closed the gap, and brought myself within 10-gauge range. I got down on one knee, and slowly raised my gun to my cheek. I looked down the barrel at my target and waited until it turned and walked away from me. You should always shoot waterfowl against the direction of its feathers. The bird’s feathers can, and will deflect shotgun pellets, causing you to lose the bird or worse wound it. When the time was just right, I squeezed off the shot, and the goose dropped straight to the ground. Pete was back at the car watching my every move through a pair of field binoculars. He was so excited. he said it was perfect, just like he had seen in videos and read in countless magazines.

With one in the bag, we headed over the draw bridge that connected the islands and went over to the inlet. We paid our toll at the top of the bridge and the toll-taker saw our hunting gear and wished us good luck hunting. They were really quite nice, no doubt just happy to talk to a human on some long winter days.

Just on the other side of the bridge, lay two, maybe three miles of marsh before the next town. The marsh of prime duck and goose hunting. I saw some fly overhead, so I told Pete to pull over and we will find a good place to sit and see if any fly low enough for us to take a shot. It was quite cold I had a wool hunting coat and pants on. The coat pockets full of ammo, a knife and a goose call. Of course, as always I had the all the important hip waders for walking through mud and water when necessary. We were well hidden behind a wall of high reeds, but still squadron after squadron of geese in “V” formation flew over us just out of reach of even our magnum rounds. Then finally the honking of the birds became louder so I peered out through the reeds and saw the next group coming directly for us was lower, defiantly in range of our shotguns. Pete had a 12 gauge automatic, loaded with three rounds and I had Old Betsy, my single shot ten gauge with one round in the chamber. I whispered to Pete, “On my count, we stand up you set your sight just ahead of one goose and fire.” After I counted to three, we did just that. Two birds fell from the sky. One was dead before it hit the ground, but the other went down just behind us in the inlet. I ran as fast as I could in my waders, reloading as I ran. There, in the inlet, was the bird floating up and down with the waves.

The inlets were almost always very rough and choppy because the bay or intercostals water current meet the ocean currents. Today was no exception. Inlets are also very deep. 20-30 feet at low tide, and double that or more at high tide, depending on the moon phase and the wind.

I was loaded and ready to make the kill shot. The goose was not swimming away, but was swimming toward the shore and myself. I carefully reached out with my shotgun extended, trying to use it to pull the bird in. Then it happened. I slipped off the muddy edge of the shore line and fell into the deep cold water of the inlet. A 30 lb. shotgun in my hand, I was on my way to the bottom for sure! But to my surprise I was not on my way to the bottom of the inlet. I was in fact, floating over each little wave with ease! I hadn’t so much as lost my hat! My arm around the goose, my shotgun still in hand, the bird had become a personal flotation device! Pete now was there. He held his shotgun out to me. I grabbed it and pulled myself and the goose ashore. I sat there for a second to catch my breath and I couldn’t believe what just happened.

With my now freezing hand around the beast’s long thick neck, I brought his head to my face. I stared into his eyes from across his beak. I saw a little blood in the corner of his eye and I remembered what got us to this point. Goose hunting. I released his neck and thought I would see what he would do next. If he were to take flight, I would simply bid him farewell and that would be that. He waddled off in Pete’s direction, and there next to Pete, was the other bird dead. He went right to the other goose and laid his head on top of the dead bird. As I sloshed over to him, I noticed a couple more places where the red was bleeding through the birds pure white feathers. I knew what I had to do next. I grabbed him by his neck and as quick as I could I twisted his head around three times and stretched his neck, breaking it. I then held its beak in my hand tight being sure to cover up the holes that it breathed through and I held the bird’s head to my chest until I knew he was gone.

This is not what I signed up for. I wondered how Pete was digesting all of this. He looked at me with a very inquisitive expression on his face and asked, “What kind of geese are these?” And just like that, I was snapped back to reality. Pete didn’t over think things, and I almost always do. I said that they were snow geese. But as I looked closer, I noticed that there were no black markings on the tips of their wings like most snow geese have. And the truth was, despite all my experience hunting waterfowl, I hadn’t ever harvested a snow goose until now. Typically snow geese are hunted in a field. Especially in a farmed or tilled field. I mostly hunted marshlands and usually shot Canadian geese. Our birds were all white, but that wasn’t unusual from pictures I had seen of snow geese, some had more black in them than others.

I began to strip off all the wet and muddy clothes I had on. And in my long johns and socks, I took the muddy things to the inlet and rinsed them in the sea water. Oddly enough, I wasn’t cold anymore. Pete took the geese and the rest of the equipment to the station wagon while I cleaned up. As I got close to it, I realized just how big our geese were. Pete had tied them to the roof of the wagon. I thought to my self, “Wow that’s a lot of duck!” We jumped in the car and headed back to Pete’s house. As we went over the bridge, the toll taker was quite impressed with our bounty and congratulated us.

As soon as we got to Pete’s house, I called my friends Jeff and Earl. I knew they were hunting near my house that was about 5-6 miles south of where Pete and I took our birds. I noticed that the geese were all heading in that direction and I wanted to brag a bit about our “giant snows.” I asked Jeff what was the biggest goose they got. He said about 14 lbs. That’s a good size Canadian for sure. I said, “We got you beat. We got two giant snow geese. One is 32 and the other 35 lbs.!” He said, “Really?” I’d like to see them!” I said, “Okay. We will be their in about 20 minutes.”

I changed in to some clean, dry clothes and we headed over. On the way through town, we definitely drew attention with almost 70 lbs. of duck strapped to the roof of the car! Mostly just people giving us the thumbs up. And of course we would wave back. We pulled up at Earl’s house. He and Jeff came out with their eyes bulging! Earl turned and went back in the house and emerged about a minute later with the Audubon Field Guide (bird identification manual).
He flipped through the book for a second or two and while pointing at a page said, “They’re swans.” Now I was bug-eyed! We cut them down and put them inside the wagon Good thing the game warden didn’t see us driving through town earlier with swans on the roof of the car! We took them back to Pete’s grandfather for butchering. Delicious Dark Meat! No sense wasting them. That would be a bigger crime then accidentally mistaking a swan for a snow goose.

Perhaps the best part of this story is what happened the next day when Jeff and Earl decided to hunt in the spot we got the swans. When they went over the bridge the toll taker noticed they had hunting gear on. He asked them if they were going duck hunting? Jeff said, “Yup!” He said, “Well good luck. These two guys came through here yesterday with two of the biggest ducks I have ever seen!”

Romeo and Juliet

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Romeo and Juliet
by Hugh A Tague

Unrest fills the cobblestone of Verona
Feuding nobles Capulet and Montague
The Prince decrees peace or death by his corona
A punishment that assured none shall argue.

Juliet’s young hand promised to Paris
Romeo’s heart rejected by Rosaline
The masquerade feast hid not Juliet’s Clarisse
Instantly Romeo knew for her heart he will pine.

To each other their names still unknown
That very night their lips lovingly met
This powerful new love most will not condone
For he is a Montague and she a Capulet.

From the garden wall Romeo professed his love
Unable to leave that night without doing so
Juliet accepted his heart from yonder window above
despite their families’ distaine they soon shall know.

Thinking an age-old feud may come to an end
Friar Lawrence secretly wed the two
That night together the lovers did spend
Juliet’s nurse with a ladder gave them a honeymoon.

Mercutio and Tybalt the next day died by the sword
Romeo was banished for the part he played
Having killed their kinsman this Juliet must ignore
Her love for her husband she could not betray.

Destined to marry Paris her father still in the dark
Juliet and Friar Lawrence hatch an elaborate plan
Romeo knows nothing as Friar John fails to embark
A life without Juliet, Romeo could not stand.

Romeo killed himself but first took Paris out
Juliet woke and fall on upon a dagger brave
The Capulets and the Montagues their pain devout
To this day statues of gold stand upon the grave

The Eyes Of Hope

The Eyes Of Hope

(English Sonnet)
by Hugh A Tague

My eyes look upon the land of plenty.
From this shelter of canvas and timber.
And still our stomachs are all but empty.
Feelings of happiness are hard kindred .
My breast near empty of life giving food.
I take what I can, that came from the field.
Little comfort for the youngest of my brood.
Mother Nature’s wrath has lessened the yield.
For my children, what future lies ahead?
Will they prosper in the land of the free?
Will I be there? or will I be dead?
A few of the thoughts that keep haunting me.
Thankful that I get to see the sun rise,
And the love and hope in my children’s eyes.

Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother”

What to Say


What to Say
by Hugh A Tague

What to say
about one whose words
have touched so many,
words not just read
and spoke out loud,
but are felt
by all they fall upon.
Words that inspired so many
to read, to write
and to see.

What to say
about one who has
not just bared witness,
but engaged in life
with a limitless vigor
few will ever know,
but for a read of our Lady Maya.

What to say
about one’s whose sight
has touched minds of
school-aged children,
as well as the minds of
men and women;
who shoulder
the weight of the world.

Four score and six years;
five of those fell silent,
for none knew better
the power of words
than she.

Perhaps all the words
that could be spoke,
or wrote,
about this great poetess
have been just that.
For even a man of words
such as myself,
I can think of but two….
Thank You.

Summer’s Bounty


Summer’s Bounty
by  Hugh A Tague

The mid summer’s sun
enveloped the rich canopy
feeding leaves of green
held high atop the mightiest of trees
as their bows cast a gracious shade.

Sumac and Mountain Laurel
edge the river’s bank
Honeysuckle’s alluring scent
captivates, while Baby’s Breath
whispered of the warm summer’s breeze.

Fern completely unfurled
blanket the forest floor
cloaked amidst their lush display
fairies evade detection
despite the most cautious of trespass.

Tiger Lilies and Queen Ann’s Lace
ascend above a bed of
Buttercup and Daisy
just beyond in a field
reaching for the horizon
stands the seasons first harvest of hay.

Nature’s abundant wealth
seized by the senses
captured from every view
on this most amazing
mid summer day.

© Hugh A Tague 7/21/14

#poetry #hughatague #nature