Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘deer’

At the Pond

At the pond with Gramps I
did not know what I was
becoming, I thought it would
be like that forever, that I
could always catch bullfrogs
and fire-bellied newts with
my small hands, Gramps
guiding me over my shoulder.

Years later the pond changed,
I caught catfish and large-
mouth bass, my fishing line
that connected me to the web
of every living thing, to the pond
Gramps fished on his childhood
farm, Gramps confined to a chair
I could still march up the hill and
tell him the days fishing stories,
I thought it would be like that forever.

That I crossed that pond in every
way; in a small rowboat that leaked,
by foot around its edges, by a
young brave swim, in my mind,
was proof of it all, of
early earth when life began to
more developed creatures to
a place, a pond teeming with
all that makes life pleasant.

In his eyes I from boy to young man,
some potential he saw in youth,
in my eyes Gramps from old to older,
strong to frail, life to wisdom to rest.

To know Gramps gave time as
if he were the pond, as if he had
an infinite mound of sand in some
hidden room somewhere that he
could fill up the hour glass with,
fill up the pond with creatures to
fish for after he had gone, fill up
my head with infinite cherished
gifts, birds and frogs and snakes and fish.

 

Kyle McHale        2014

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Floating Over

This mystic world, those colored trees,
Those rolling hills my dreams do paint,
My gloomy head and foggy thoughts
Collecting to precipitate.

For this place through eyes of men,
Or eyes of bear, or fox, or deer,
Their world’s see what I cannot,
My world’s smoke, theirs is clear.

Pure instinct makes those hearts guide true,
While clouding thoughts weigh on me,
For what to do in such a scene
But sit and think with large pine tree.

Colorful land, colorless sky,
These worlds meet at sheltered creek,
Autumn bronzed and flowing peace,
Pine needle forests pulsing deep,

And oh to sleep but it’s too cold
To rest and escape these thinking things,
You mystic world let me in,
Tell me what my heart can bring.

 Would I add to your confusion?
Or maybe I the one confused,
And this world makes all clear sense,
Or am I the one that has to choose?

Land shutting down, sky holding still,
What’s asleep and what’s awake?
Do shedding leaves mean drowsiness,
Would proper be my hand to shake?

But mystic world answer me,
Take me up in this color mess,
Where trees meet sky and sky meets trees,
Me to float between back and chest

So heart becomes the mystic line.
For land you have a spirit here,
But I the beating heart that’s true,
You confuse with your graying air.

My natural guide will let me hear
Half of your secrets in the ground,
And half the creatures’ place I’ll see
And know your whispers have been found

And placed in my secret pocket,
My thoughts on page, my diary,
But only by pouring out
And floating over all the scene.

Kyle McHale      2009

Read Full Post »

The Warming Cold

Sweet snow powdered white wintry ground,
A place where my senses are keen,
Big sky is far from black with stars,
Serious ways, confusing dreams,

Have led to this culmination.
The coastline is out there afar,
Water holding secrets to life,
Floating pieces of what we are.

Cratered moon is in second place,
Though any other night it would
Steal my gaze to its secrets.
A night alone in deep cold woods.

Ice shield sides of far ridge lines
Parallel the ridge in my thoughts,
Tempting my senses to tingle,
Wishing for bear or arctic fox

Spirit to help contain my mind,
For cold white wild is calling.
Coastline follows to meet the ridge,
Ridge then seeks the live sky falling

Away to vast arctic places
That stretch their wonders to my feet,
To ask me questions without answers,
A place where cold and soul do meet.

It’s frozen time that keeps me here,
Just one thing is moving slowly,
The colors dance up in the air,
Reflecting on me fully.

This place is known by several names,
The sky is called different things,
Frozen rocks and trees lay still,
Compilation of all things,

Stir up my thoughts and frozen dreams
To hit my heart so very deep,
For in this wild dancing place
The warming cold I have to keep.

Kyle McHale      2008

Read Full Post »

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

Read Full Post »

Gramps

I write for the hands that cannot,
And for those of us full of fear,
I pace a life to burn and live,
To fit all moments within few years.

Then I look at a man named Gramps,
At a life I do wish to know,
Then I shall see a golden heart
At a Korean hell in snow

That prevailed through three dead years
In a camp I don’t wish to know.
That one heart kept warm that dead chill
In a place where the dead don’t go,

Is a triumph of faith in life,
For one more day to give a try
Is a will to live again and
For the chance to see an eagle fly.

Then I look at a man named Gramps,
Who had two shots at all true love,
Then I learn from a man named Gramps
Who taught more than life and his love.

I listened through the years to learn,
“Do right, work hard, be a good man.”
I watched as the watchful will do,
The deer, the bear, the dogs loved him,

In a way most creatures did do.
He died in a most peaceful spot,
Not in the days of cold Korea,
But on a gentle sweet hilltop.

Kyle McHale      2006

Read Full Post »