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Posts Tagged ‘love’

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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Fishing on the Bushkill

When all that meant everything
Was a fire burning deep at night,
With friends to share life’s comic air,
The moon above to steal sight.

That was right, that was right, a time
And place suspended still somewhere.
A vault, untouched, unnamed, floating
Above those who wish they could stare.

Protected there my father lives
At that scout camp Resica Falls.
In his teens and full of living,
Hearing that Pennsylvania call.

One summer out there out posting
Past the main camp to staff Fawn Run,
My young father was on the edge,
A place where deep thoughts had begun.

He had time in those woods alone,
And ran his post when campers showed,
He’d often talk of Bushkill Creek,
Of its bronze color and how it flowed.

He’d make a fire, grab his rod,
At evening time he’d fish the creek,
Time spent in that flowing sweetness,
Relying on brown trout to eat.

Like a bear that is so content
To fish and eat and sleep so well,
Under stars from heavens glow,
The years to come no one could tell.

What thoughts my father had before,
Standing there on Bushkill’s shore,
Before he lost love and fought a war,
When life was moments, nothing more?

Did he know what the future held,
Or simply watched the river flow?
Was Vietnam even a thought?
Into that jungle he would go.

Did he know he’d be scoutmaster?
His sons to be and that boy the same,
All destined to be Eagle Scouts,
I knew the man that boy became.

Navigating rivers and life,
In that protected vault of then,
Trout, Brotherhood, Spirit, being
Among the links of boys to men.

Deep in the woods where wild calls,
Links that are not seen, are not heard,
Father’s gone but the Bushkill flows,
He has become that secret word.

Some of his ashes flow there now,
To keep the Bushkill’s spirit safe,
To guard by way of bird and fish,
To strengthen love and heighten faith.

What thoughts my father had before,
Standing there on Bushkill’s shore,
Before he lost love and fought a war,
When life was moments, nothing more?

Kyle McHale      2011

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What is Left?

After death
what is left?
When heart break wins
what remains?
Melting skin and
spirit sweats,
what is there and
what has left?
Broken dreams or
family gone,
so it seems some
more sad songs,
life remains, life remains
but what is left?
One more time or
every time
a mirror shows a
sad soul blind
to all the wonders
that are left,
that are left,
after rage, war, and death.

The world is
still there somehow,
love is left,
love is left,
If only it filled
every breath.

 

Kyle McHale         2014

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Love on its Own

There is nothing love won’t do for itself
When left enough alone and on its own.
A festering burst of blossoming plumes
Of red liquid dripping on long preserved tombs,

Of daisies pushed up through old lover’s dirt,
A long ago tale of harsh loving truth,
That spoke of a journey known by so few,
But when told to others everyone knew

What to do, and what was best and who was who.
For the unknown is what to truly do,
And guided love lasts out the rest,
Like a frozen moment when the sun must crest

On new day’s horizon, an early breath
Stretching far across a valley or sea,
Where ever it happens to be just then,
Love the beginning and love at the end.

Kyle McHale         2013

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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

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Sweet Pickings

A farmer’s field picked up sweet
Summer scents from a sunrise glow
And vision had a feast to eat
So did scent when the wind did blow.

A basket filled with summer fruit,
Hard hands in dirt to smile high,
To Kokopelli and his flute
Blessed harvest it’s not too dry.

Please play a little note or two
Way out on the horizon line,
Those notes carry when sky is blue,
Perhaps this night is meant for wine.

For knowing love has filled the ground
At least for one more year,
Deep in the night the whispers sound
For rest and wine and hope and cheer.

A season lived, a season kept
In memories of cheerful kind,
Summer nights when the peaceful slept,
When a spirit flute had you to find.

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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