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Posts Tagged ‘home’

Nana’s Bears
Nana bought us brown and grey teddy bears
that each sat proud in their old fashioned chairs
before we had known or felt any fear
she had worried for us and kept our bears.

Her long life triumph of happy tears
of God-guided vision to combat fear,
I know she’ll return home one day to care
and again become sweet Virginia air,

two boys grown into men, both now aware,
though she had ours, we were Nana’s bears.

Kyle McHale       2015

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Christmas Eve

Enough sun is left hanging low to
turn one side of everything golden.
Depending on how you enter into the fading day,
your mood is decided by which part
of your body enters the light first.
Golden hands. Golden feet.
Golden heart. Golden mind.
Filtering that light the neighborhood,
sifting that horizon gleam, every house,
every chimney, every small branch on every tree,
seeping into things as it passes by until it hits you.

Gold-kissed flurries swirl around,
gentle wind swept snow clouds whip up
and look painted in the cold sky.
Wind enough to chill your breath and let it
wrap around to your opposite ear,
almost a whisper to yourself,
wind enough to sneak a snowflake into
your mouth to melt on the tip of your tongue,
freezing all other senses for a moment,
or maybe you ate a flake of gold that circulates your veins,
maybe those clouds have gold trim like one of
your childhood pillows had.
Maybe it was all there just for you.

Standing where you used to live, thankful.
How could you have ever moved away?
How could you ever live here again?
Which side of you must be golden?

One day in the future on this night,
you’ll sit in a chair with a good view of the room and the tree,
among certain things, everyone else asleep,
whiskey in hand,
perhaps a fire softly roaring if you’re lucky enough,
what will matter most on that day of all days?

Your thoughts will say, “I hope what’s golden is seen
by those for whom my love is truly meant.”

Kyle McHale                                2014

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Red and Black and White

It can be more than meets my eye,
Red fire, black sky.
A color of a thing shall rot
And give me wrenching stomach knots.

For the black and the white are still
One without the chill.
It seems to pour hot tar on me,
Sharp razor salts in cuts from sea.

Worlds stop for love red fire,
And black desire,
Sometimes a black and white T.V.
For vision knows we still can see.

Oh things of universe collide,
Show me where to hide,
And take my hand for spit-fire rides
To places where I can see new highs.

Colorless ends are not for me.
I know what I see.
But soon when color has no home,
My heart will chill down through my bone.

Kyle McHale      2005

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