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Posts Tagged ‘heart’

There

that’s where mirrors break
from reflecting the broken,

that’s where books close,
a story done,

where real tragedy
in good music starts

where surges of waves
storm in unbroken

and writing one more page
seems gone,

there, it’s a long way back
from that dark flooding
of the heart.

Kyle McHale` 2017

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The Way We Live

Woven into a living fabric
an item of clothing that was a gift
that became meaningful and was
unintentionally ruined,
like ourselves,
given this gift ruined by us
on every scale,

bleeding the globe
bleeding our personal souls
and their need in the actual
living of life,

do not accept the formula passed
down as necessary,
whatever it is or was for you,
cycles of poor trailer-trash shit
uneducated and pregnant
neglected and unfair
given an inheritance of the burdens
heavy, sick as sin,
inescapable, cry-able,

spiders that spin webs to trap
themselves and eat their own hearts
and burrow into their own flesh and
poison the tissue that connects our
hearts to each other, our minds
to a future and our spirits to the earth,
a poisoned vein that sprouts, stunted,
toxic roots, spills the overflow into
and back out of us
so we all hurt the ones we love
hurt ourselves and this place we live in
so warmness feels uncomfortable and
misery normal,

label it whatever you want,
create the form it manifests for you,
call it a disorder or depression
make it a substance abuse problem
treat the symptoms of misery
and stay in it forever because
it’s become normal,

or claim it unacceptable,
pick up the shit you’ve
been given, smear it on
your face as war paint
smile and say, “fuck it”,
I’m going to play the
hand I’ve been dealt.

Kyle McHale          2016

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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

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Meeting Winter

Over out across winter’s day,
A pale blue with wisps of white,
Some sad forest with autumn gone,
Those trees that miss the season’s life.

I wander through at easy pace,
No goal in mind, no worrying,
The cold has me awake and clear,
The trees question what life I bring.

I am no season or the sun,
I cannot stop the season’s sleeping,
I am here by accident,
I can’t replace what nature’s taken.

But life still stirs, just slowly so,
Among some trees the birds still sing.
Among the ground some life is found,
Those hearts still beat under winter’s wing.

Maybe my small heart still glows,
Reflecting golden hopes of sun,
The subtle sounds of winters woods,
Wishing for that warmth to come.

At night when dark and cold must mix,
All living hearts are little lights,
Keeping safe those that are around,
Giving pulse to the lonely night.

At last I’m trapped out here somehow,
My glow is fading but won’t forget,
Those little torches light the way,
That night when winter and I met.

Kyle McHale      2011

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Hanging Heart Dripping

Running, running, running away,
To peaceful place where heart has fled,
I need, I need, I need to catch
My heart before my spirit’s dead.

Before the buzzing flies go round
My corpse, my corpse, my corpse that sees,
Just black in distance, distant air,
Catch up, catch up, catch up to me.

When my body finds my heart
In that serene swirl color,
I promise, I promise, I promise I will
Keep my word to friend and brother.

I’ll then be able to complete
The life, the life, I wish to live,
Bitter heart and angered soul,
Release, release, release, forgive.

That heart of mine I think I know,
Waiting on a steep face of rock,
Around it a protective orb,
Protect, protect, protect its thoughts.

I hope it waits and thinks of me,
Sends out a guide in white light beam,
So please, so please, so please arrive
So I can show it what I’ve seen.

To fill it whole and put in chest,
The face of rock is mighty steep,
I climb, I climb, I climb the beam,
My brain with memories to keep.

The only color is the heart,
Blank eyes, blank thoughts, blank skies, blank trees,
Life would be with a touch of grey,
Life is gone with no memories,

Unless the hanging heart decides
To wait, to wait, to wait for sight,
Sight my lost eyes could provide,
To call, to call, out into night.

Roar at the wild hanging heart,
Sitting, thinking, color-dreaming,
Ensure it’s mine and not turned black,
Raining, raining, raining, thinking.

Rock face wet and fingers bleeding,
A storm I will not soon forget,
Blank heartless land should not have rain,
What’s heart’s, what’s heart’s true habitat?

Pulsing, pounding, waiting, needing,
It needs, it needs, it needs to stay,
Was that a touch of color sight
Or are my hopes falling away?

Drip-drop red in front of grey,
The rain is not the rain I thought,
My heart, my heart, my heart it drips,
It drips, it drips down into rock.

Dripping liquid frozen love, and
Spraying, raining a forceful spit,
Into my eyes, the cracks, the brain,
I slip, I slip, my finger tips

Still seem a hundred miles out,
All that’s here are red and wishes,
I wish, I wish, I wish to cry,
Shades of redding-grey blow kisses.

My thoughts, my thoughts, my thoughts alone,
I ache, I climb, I shake alone,
I miss, I cry, I shatter bone,
Dripping heart, drip my love, take me home.

Too much this scene has weighed on me,
Storming, flipping red collection,
I think, I think, I think it has
More than one color reflection.

Reach the ledge, hope it wants thoughts back,
Liquid rocky mess, hope it knows,
I touch, I touch, I touch my heart,
It then, it then, it then explodes.

Kyle McHale      2009

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Strange Hung over Me

What was to be a normal afternoon,
A Sunday, Quiet and pleasant, a mild winter day,
Suddenly a strangeness hung over me
Dropping down close, stratocumulus hovered
Intensely near my brain, a strange light,
Not the normal blue and gray, enough blue
Let into sight by the hovering forms
That it almost seemed on purpose.

A peculiar color as the connective tissue,
Muscle and fibers, veins and vessels
That held the sky together, each cloud a
Spider in a blue electric web-spun world.
Almost a lack of emotion. A freezing of thought.
It watched only me for I acknowledged
Its existence, others had not. Singularly
Bearing the weight of the entire heavens,
At least the weight of its glare.

Someone hanging from strings, like puppets,
A hundred uncomfortable paintings
About me, a maze of mirrors of the
Great scream by Munch in every direction,
Inescapable, that long face in an
Awkward world, brilliance in the discomfort.
Some surreal aura that dripped down to
Surround me, melting strangeness from a sky
That I wish was more Monet-like,
Monet’s clouds do not freeze thought or shake one’s core
Or stop inspiration.
His sky is for lovers and dreamers.

Perhaps it was Munch’s psyche during
Every brush stroke of his scream that
Governed the sky that afternoon.
Haunted and taunted by the insane,
The screamer from Munch’s twisted world heart,
Whatever pushed him to paint that now glared
Down on me from above.
Though beautiful, that Sunday
Strange hung over me
And it took several days to
Escape its influence.

Kyle McHale         2013

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At That Site

Somewhere in the heart
My world’s beating slow,
While resting on a stone
My heart has come to know.

At a dying site
Where the stones sit still,
Type of life in air
Only souls can fill.

And moments so in time,
Thinking peacefully soft,
Swirling dancing air,
Dancing dreadful lost.

A site of life and death,
Of strong earthy mud,
Connecting air and ground,
A site where flowers bud,

And rain and rain goes round,
And up and live left down,
The rest of beating faith
Leaves without a sound,

The rest of fleeting love
Leaves the heart to run,
That only person’s left,
Just senses and the sun,

To keen eye all the air,
All surrounding place,
Knowing only body,
Knowing fight or chase.

And in this primal state,
Of life and death and love,
Will it be the rabbit,
Or the hawk and the dove?

Or creature that is new,
Still a heart and human soul,
Knowing fear and loss
And all that sadness goes,

 Feeling heat and cold,
Howling for the pack,
Turning out all soul,
Letting heart come back.

Real human faith,
Eerie place hold still,
The ending and the start,
My breath is what is filled.

Kyle McHale      2009

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