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Posts Tagged ‘breath’

Love After Love

You noticed a floorboard slightly out of place,
under it, you found a poem, a love poem,
you read it and saved it in the piles of things
we become,
that was forty years ago.

Folded and tucked away through decades
drifting from house to house and box to box,

it followed you

people lived, loved, and died as usual.

You lost love.

But you found that poem again,
it had never left,
you read it, gave it new breath, so now,
forty years later you’ve discovered
it was a love poem from a man to
another man,
kept under the floor and under shame,
hidden in confused tragedy
under the weight of the piles
of the things we become
and like blowing on a fire
you sparked love again
long after it was lost,

so a lost wife is not lost,
she loves you in a different way now,
her breath reaches you in delicate things
like the way a feather flutters down from the sky
or a snowflake dances to touch and
melt on the tip of your ear.

To love in whispers from re-read paper,
whispers from the warming sky full
of all of your breath and mine and hers and ours and theirs.

A poem and love, decades ago,
lured you in,
shifted shapes
to show you
there is love
after love.

 

Kyle McHale        2016

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What is Left?

After death
what is left?
When heart break wins
what remains?
Melting skin and
spirit sweats,
what is there and
what has left?
Broken dreams or
family gone,
so it seems some
more sad songs,
life remains, life remains
but what is left?
One more time or
every time
a mirror shows a
sad soul blind
to all the wonders
that are left,
that are left,
after rage, war, and death.

The world is
still there somehow,
love is left,
love is left,
If only it filled
every breath.

 

Kyle McHale         2014

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You in the Winter

And so I see you with me forever
In a snowy world wood.
The kind that would kill a lonely man
But give magic to true love.
In those woods flurries do fall softly.
The whiteness consumes all but
The slender grey tree trunks that decorate.

It is the calm of embracing perfection.
A place where only two voices are ever heard;
Mine and yours.

We would smile and play in the landscape.
A painting on a wall that has been kind enough to
Let us crawl into it and become lost forever.
In its dead dreamy scene.
Dead to those who cannot enter,
Dreamy to those who are let in.

Such frigid air burns the lungs
But our warm clothes are bundled high
And our hearts are burning red.
Our breaths are seen,
Like dragons breathing smoke.
They cross and swirl together,
Drawing us to one another.

The cold breath,
A breath that reminds the living they are so.
A breath that carries pure beauty,
A breath that is so perfect
No man should be given rights to see it.

You in the winter, breathing.
Moments of triumph and of love.
You in the winter bundled up and beautiful,
In this landscape from my most precious dreams.
No one will ever share this with me,
Except maybe a brown deer, or a red fox.

Kyle McHale      2005

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