Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘hot’

Drip-Castles

When I learned how to make a drip-castle,
I felt as though I was an engineer,
Overcoming the dripping hassles
To sculpt my vision by a sandy pier.

I dug a large moat near the changing tide
To sit and collect that wet sandy goo,
Wet sand the cement to build it high,
To defend the coast under sky so blue.

I sculpted the base for the kings and queens,
Then added dripping columns stacked upon
Their wishes for the kingdom and their dreams,
Hallowed ground that spot that it now sat on.

A drip-castle is such a funny thing,
Warped towers bulging at the sides,
Strange places for princesses to sing
Then shackle away at the rising tide.

The week Jale` left I went to the shore,
The sun setting late I began the moat,
I dug until the moon told me no more
And wished for some gull and I to float.

It was as grand as the sand would allow,
Towers that stand when the kingdom has gone,
A lost world that vanished somehow,
A thief in the night, a treacherous song.

Then there was the one I built with my love
On a hazy day filled with sweating skin,
The drip-castle mentor I thought I was,
A castle of love was soon to begin.

Roots in the towers began to sink in,
And rays from the sun boiled the rest,
Founding a drip-castle love and then
A summer red glow did burn in my chest.

So children and men do drip-castle on,
The water your friend, the water your foe,
The tales of love through all the eons
Tell of the castles and where they all go.

Kyle McHale       2013

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Thoughts in Autumn

I become lost in the scattered mess as I always am,
or seem to be, unable to break my unhappy cycle.
When daylight begins to die with everything else I find some peace.
The modern world allows for many of us to
avoid panic before the cold comes,
too much time to think when survival is not the pulse of thought.

I let an early frost-covered weekend morning break the silence,
and watch the cold glisten outside the kitchen window.
The house is asleep, though I am not.
My head hangs, my heart hangs,
my thoughts aren’t of anything memorable or meaningful.

Coffee is a good thing,
I learned to drink it too young with Gramps who would wake
too early to watch frost with a hanging head as well.
A deep sadness carried by men who often spread cheer themselves
but know the grim realities of life,
staying with those who have love in their hearts despite
the darkness of the world.

Slow mornings are good.
I wish I could share them with Gramps and Dad.
I say bring the season on with a quiet passion.
Dying colors have that special beauty,
an irreplaceable hit on the senses.
The air is cold, the coffee hot,
and I somewhere in between.
If anything I am ahead of the day
but behind in everything else,
thinking on this autumn morning.

Kyle McHale      2012

Read Full Post »

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

Read Full Post »