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Posts Tagged ‘loss’

Love After Love

You noticed a floorboard slightly out of place,
under it, you found a poem, a love poem,
you read it and saved it in the piles of things
we become,
that was forty years ago.

Folded and tucked away through decades
drifting from house to house and box to box,

it followed you

people lived, loved, and died as usual.

You lost love.

But you found that poem again,
it had never left,
you read it, gave it new breath, so now,
forty years later you’ve discovered
it was a love poem from a man to
another man,
kept under the floor and under shame,
hidden in confused tragedy
under the weight of the piles
of the things we become
and like blowing on a fire
you sparked love again
long after it was lost,

so a lost wife is not lost,
she loves you in a different way now,
her breath reaches you in delicate things
like the way a feather flutters down from the sky
or a snowflake dances to touch and
melt on the tip of your ear.

To love in whispers from re-read paper,
whispers from the warming sky full
of all of your breath and mine and hers and ours and theirs.

A poem and love, decades ago,
lured you in,
shifted shapes
to show you
there is love
after love.

 

Kyle McHale        2016

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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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Dying in a Chair

I don’t want to die in a chair,
I’d rather be afoot somewhere,
To be out there when I’ve no air,
The men before me died in chairs.

For Pop-Pop faded in a chair,
All that he saw way over there,
The Pacific blood he went through,
Then understood what men must do.

For Gramps faded in a chair,
All that he saw way over there,
The prison camps that he went through,
Then understood what men must do.

For Dad faded in a chair,
All that he saw way over there,
That jungle hell that he went through,
Then understood what men must do.

I don’t want to die in a chair,
I’d rather be afoot somewhere,
To be out there when I’ve no air,
The men before me died in chairs.

Kyle McHale      2010

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Reflections

The way our souls are drawn to the underground
As if roaches were surviving the end of times,
Crowded, shoulder to shoulder wishing the
Worst to be over.
We travel in trains under the earth like blood vessels
Moving us to work everyday, from light to darkness to light.
Time moves normally above ground.
The complexities in a day that never cross our mind
Lead us somewhere unknown in the layers of daily routines.
Outdated D.C. metro trains pass by through mind numbing tunnels,
Our reflections flicker in train windows
And we rarely notice them spying on us,
Like mirrors aligned at a barber shop
In endless worlds of ourselves,
Each receiving a slightly different haircut.
My reflection self may have had a better day than I,
Stepping left instead of right to avoid tripping,
Or arriving a minute earlier to catch a train on time.
Our reflections live every part of our lives and theirs.
The poor ones who live only underground,
Stuck to the windows of things,
Remind us that when we have a chance for light, or love,
We must take it without flinching.
Time is patient, though we are not,
And we must love so that our
Limited reflective selves know there is hope for them too.

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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Roses

Come close, come close, then whisper down,
Quiet as a soundless sound.
So close to touch a beauty rose,
That swirls love into the nose,

With petals wound into a bulb,
Like secrets that the lovers told,
Those among those scared scents,
Questioning all loves innocence.

A gardener knows to wear his gloves,
Tending to his lovely loves,
Sneaking under and crawling out
Of all the smoke that’s dressed as clouds,

While others plant up in the sky,
Then let red petals wilt and die.
To dance at times that deadly dance,
Safe in the ground or sky with chance.

A story that a heart may know
Against good judgment from the soul,
To pick a hanging dripping red,
That love is life, the rest is dead.

Kyle McHale      2010

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That Spot on the Trail

Chances are you’ll wait for me
At that spot out on the trail,
That spot I know that I have seen
Where beams follow that light trail.

And tailing out from sacred place,
The stones, the view, the forest leaves,
All breathing and dancing deep,
At last at peace, at last at ease.

Chances are you’ll wait for me,
Your tattered medal on your shirt,
In life wisdom is loneliness
And bravery is left on dirt.

But in it all I feel you now,
The order of things all in place,
That spot on the trail in dreams,
Becomes awake as real place.

As you guard, protect, and see,
That spot where gentle wind derives,
Chances are that you are there
To watch where all comes alive.

For with that gentle wind I know,
It travels to the sea from there,
To help the sails push on through,
To gently move through salt kissed air.

Guiding all from that trail spot,
Good company I know you’ll keep,
To show the others all you know,
To let the world beat so deep.

Then when I think of brotherhood,
I remember your handshake,
That so few sons and fathers shared,
In death, in life, asleep, awake.

The natural forces weigh on me,
When I think that I may fail,
That place will be there that we know,
That sacred spot on honored trail.

Kyle McHale      2010

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