If acting is my love - Poetry is my passion

Born with a pen in his hand and a muse on his mind, Dean has been writing as long as he can remember. Recognizing early the we all speak in poetry, he has been telling his stories in the richness, he believes, only the poem does justice.

Dean has self-published 3 collections of poetry: Thirteen chairs, Still, and released June 2025 Rain From A Clear Blue Sky.  Interested? contact Dean directly through dean@islandsentiments.com .  The 50 to 70 page books are available in soft or hard copy and range in price from $15 to $30, including shipping in Canada or the USA.  If you want a signed edition the added cost is $20.  This is just to cover additional shipping costs, the signature is free.

Just Sand

Sometimes sand is just sand.

Lingering on beaches remembering

footprints of great and small,

stories too many to tell, washed by time carried in memories of the not so still

sands of time

sneaking into boots,

taking refuge between toes.

-dean Mackenzie Beach/Tinwis

Thirteen Chairs

Away, there is a beach
warmed in tropical winds
washed by blue waves.
There gather twelve on thirteen chairs.
celebrating life given freely
shared by one,
in love with the people assembled
on a beach, surrounded by beauty
renewed in spirit.
Together twelve on thirteen chairs
placed by one, remembered.
-dean Christy, Mexico 2004

Verdun

we all need to see
I wanted more,

to feel the great sorrow, life torn away

fallen among pockmark ground,

hidden under a century of green,

grasping along trenches

richly nourished by the blood of youth.

I wanted to feel heroism, pride,

passion for the cause, for those lost

here and in dreams of those mourning,

I stood waiting for great shadows

surrounded in quiet woods, forever,

clinging to a moment of terror

tearing at the minds of the dead,

of me trying to be part of a scene passed

in a past of fire and fear,

of force and frailty, stolen breaths

whispering among ruins dripping tears

for those buried in walls and fields, weeping

for those never found to stack their bones

in tombs slowly seeping from the minds

of us here now, wanting more

of what they lost.

-dean in France May 2011

A Blue

There is a colour of blue

that lives between day

before night.

A blue known but elusive.

untraceable by the tongue,

embraced by the soul,

shared with the departed,

a blue before life

folds from day into night.

–dean at Augusta 2023

Owen, Ben, David & Rosie

a thief called Dementia

My little ones, so far away,
I will always love you,
I wish I always could

remember you,

but time has a way

to move us all so far away,

and even as this moment sparkles,

I forget just who you are.

Still, please remember me,

I will remember you,

if not just now, but always,

and when we meet again,

I will still be loving you,

my little ones.
-dean Dec 2018

Rain from a clear blue sky - 2

same as “Rain from a clear blue sky 1” but for deep poetic minds, ( I guess)

What was I thinking?

I could capture a girl’s life

found in the trash

nine years of forgotten story

solved, by a dog digging in a field,

I know, feel, nothing of this

darkness, unknown pain of the unknown

no chance to relate to shock. Surprise

the abduction

the everyday agony suppressed

masked, moving in a cloak of hope.

Rain from a clear blue sky.

How do I write the other stories

fluffed by, unlived. Feel the other

lives scratched out, untold. 

Buried, photo of a warrior sharing

the road with a dispatched cur

someplace I will never go,

lost, in last year’s world

No program tells me who he was

his town or school or when

or how his passion made him a man,

his mother.  Someone who does

weeps.

The canine corpse a pet or mutt

lost, to those who fed him once?

Was this what the soldier thought

when his calling came unheard

Rain from a clear blue sky.                

My life so white, protected

on my island of aging trees

love so cherished, safe and home

warmed in a winter’s wall

Dressing each day to live,

in a maze built by my will, still

it confuses and confines

I will not hold back the mongrels,

warriors, and souls

lost, to those that would cover their

unmarked graves with thorns

I will eat the unbleached flour

and look into their eyes

see the smile of the hometown boy

left so far away, and hear the laughter

of play, a girl running

with her dog.

Rain from a clear blue sky

-dean MESSA 1998