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Posts Tagged ‘life’

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

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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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Barren Bone Place

Across the barren desert land,
Aging red rocks and cracking hands,
A place that I would not call home,
All rots and sits as deep white bone.

The mess I’m in I half know why,
The other half in dizzy sky.
I walk and climb, and climb and walk,
Nothing to say or think to talk.

Illusion’s my friend I believe,
Yet half the things I don’t conceive,
That large black kettle cooking pot,
Cooking the weak and dead that rot

From choosing a red rocky fate.
This place cares not of one’s mistakes,
The only things it understands
Are fleshy boney broken hands,

And broken wills and souls that try
To flee the things that made them cry.
The past is not a factor now,
The crumbling rock forgets somehow.

The past cannot follow one here,
Yet feeling thoughts remains unclear
Of where to go, what rock to climb,
Where to look, what to do with time.

Black kettle pots and vultures wait
For tired flesh to eat and take,
The quitted bones are on the ground,
Those souls gave up, they make no sound.

The small twisted sparse desert plants,
Shift and dance at a passing glance,
Are never there to help or harm,
To scratch my soul or take my arm.

The sky forgets but knows I live,
Not caring whole, will not forgive.
Curving trails of dry stream beds
Curve their way to my bone dry head.

The capsule body carries forth,
Costing what my soul is worth.
I see the vultures circling high,
Black they turn, falling as they die

To hit the dozen kettle pots
That dot the land in different spots.
One on a rock, one on a hill,
Three in a stream this place has killed,

One with the plants that’s passed around,
The rest on dry red rocky ground.
Each vulture hits, squeals and screams,
Sounds of nightmares, unpleasant dreams,

They cook down to their soul and bone,
My eyes watch fearing all unknown,
The water whistling dry pitch high,
Observing this, knowing that I

Have to reach my hand in to eat,
Know not this place and what to keep,
My hand in form of skeleton,
Melts off all my useless skin,

It drips back into water hot,
Awaking peaceful dreadful spot.
I eat the vulture heart as well,
Then wave my boney hand to smell

The air energy peaceful sweet,
In every bite my soul does eat
A piece of fractured split bone life.
Hoping day stays away from night,

Flesh returns to parts of this place,
Warm dusty air blows in my face,
Quitted bones become whole again,
Is this the beginning or the end?

Water spews out of kettles black,
Dry stream beds get their water back,
The bones of beasts fill up with flesh,
Vulture heart spirit in my chest,

Plants continue their dancing dreams,
Barren things I have never seen.
Life became what I did not know,
Distorted place where one must go.

Forces came to lock up my nerves,
Gripping dry time and where I was,
I stepped back to watch all the scene,
Surreal places, days and dreams.

I let everything in to soak,
Fleeting dreams and the last of hopes,
Praying to thank these characters,
I summoned strength back to my nerves.

Hope real finds me after this,
I left my mark and did not miss
What the place showed to offer me,
Those things I saw, now what I see.

Bone-flesh-black-kettle-pots fulfill
Emptiness I no longer feel,
What I choose to live as real,
By pausing once, and holding still.

A touching blend of swirling air
Let me pass to lead me here,
A world far away from that,
Only in dreams could I ever go back.

Kyle McHale      2009

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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

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Man’s Heart

Always now, as always then,
A place to form a perfect age,
When chivalry and better men
Had fine-tuned their sharp, skillful rage,
Or showed their love with letters sent,
With blood and earth on an old page.
Better or worse to woman that
Could then play puppet, tit for tat.

Always now, as always back
When only strength in men had failed,
Crushing thoughts of a woman that
Gave wind to an empty sail,
The only thing that men do lack,
Finding strength in loves betrayal.
Old knights and new knights do their best,
Holding hearts from a bursting chest.

Always now, as always ago,
Carried honor but could not pass,
Through or around the awful show
Of two body prints in soft grass
Where love was formed and made to glow,
But no one told not made to last.
A time or two duration of,
When honor thinks it can keep love.

Always now, as always had
To carry swords and steel plates,
But battle flesh is far from sad
When stacked against loving’s hate,
Of that which kills a lonely lads
Chance at keeping honors fate.
What swords of men, what honor set
Of traits can make good men forget?

Always now, as always past,
Dark ages come and go away,
It’s sweetest things that do not last,
That make men men in honors way,
Carrying forth the only task
To say the words when one must say,
I am man with armored heart,
I lead worlds that once were dark.

Kyle McHale      2009

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Remember to Live

So remains a clear picture in the night,
Half forgotten, off centered, on the wall,
Some room of forgotten candles and wood,
Where moon sees its light on that picture fall.

In this hour the picture is perfect,
Remembered by and painted by light,
A man in that picture standing at
Some high valley stream absorbing his sight.

If it were so to cut out of life
A still piece memory of faith dreaming
Real hopes, perfection driven moonlit landscapes
With true uncertain guides, not plain predicting.

Find me in that lofty moment to freeze,
To capture what will never be again,
A moment of real love, inner faith,
Spirit warming from a real friend,

A first mountain morning mist that lifts away,
A snow covered east-lee wood that whispers,
Moments of greatest loss and greatest gain,
Of midnight madness and shifting mixtures.

Throw those moments in a hidden room of
Misplaced items, lost gathering places,
Where deformed, disconnected from the living,
Hoping to catch lost wandering faces.

But only catching moon light is enough,
Forever living moments need themselves
And a touch of all that midnight light to
Truly dance and breathe with content on shelves.

All that’s past and captured, lost and remembered,
Where is that unknown link from us to them?
That they lived, danced, dreamt for us may be enough,
Enough to love that spirit light again.

To see what is and forever will be,
For who we are is who we were,
Amongst the characters of the absurd
Resides some truth, half clear and half pure.

Lock the door to live again,
Join the man at that high valley stream,
Carrying the truth, the love, the light, the right,
Into the living past and present, into the dream.

Kyle McHale      2010

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Deep at the Roots

When the light fades over the hills,
The world quiet and resting,
Among the creatures place you sit
At odds with what you are thinking.

Know that life is fast, life is slow,
Sit and rest in your wooden chair,
Breathe it all in to cycle out,
Trust your thoughts to that low lit air.

Let it take your troubles out there,
Sit easy for a time and then
Your thoughts will spread in that soft wind
To find you back in a time when

Dirt and cricket chirps had meaning,
When nothing mattered but the sun,
When crayfish waited for your small hands,
When you first had to trust someone.

That breeze will bring it back to you,
Remind you life is not that way,
Then as the early night time falls
Be thankful for the warmth that day,

And sweetness flows deep in the ground,
That pulsing life just under foot,
Just dirt and crickets singing loud,
Touch all of life deep at the roots.

Kyle McHale      2010

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