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Posts Tagged ‘sleep’

Floating Over

This mystic world, those colored trees,
Those rolling hills my dreams do paint,
My gloomy head and foggy thoughts
Collecting to precipitate.

For this place through eyes of men,
Or eyes of bear, or fox, or deer,
Their world’s see what I cannot,
My world’s smoke, theirs is clear.

Pure instinct makes those hearts guide true,
While clouding thoughts weigh on me,
For what to do in such a scene
But sit and think with large pine tree.

Colorful land, colorless sky,
These worlds meet at sheltered creek,
Autumn bronzed and flowing peace,
Pine needle forests pulsing deep,

And oh to sleep but it’s too cold
To rest and escape these thinking things,
You mystic world let me in,
Tell me what my heart can bring.

 Would I add to your confusion?
Or maybe I the one confused,
And this world makes all clear sense,
Or am I the one that has to choose?

Land shutting down, sky holding still,
What’s asleep and what’s awake?
Do shedding leaves mean drowsiness,
Would proper be my hand to shake?

But mystic world answer me,
Take me up in this color mess,
Where trees meet sky and sky meets trees,
Me to float between back and chest

So heart becomes the mystic line.
For land you have a spirit here,
But I the beating heart that’s true,
You confuse with your graying air.

My natural guide will let me hear
Half of your secrets in the ground,
And half the creatures’ place I’ll see
And know your whispers have been found

And placed in my secret pocket,
My thoughts on page, my diary,
But only by pouring out
And floating over all the scene.

Kyle McHale      2009

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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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In the Hours

When do we live
After hearts snap
In the hours
Between sleep and wake?

As if these times
Are surreal,
Sunrise, sunset,
Hours of sleep and wake.

We live, or live dead.
Not every dream
Is a pinch from
Over nor seem

The least bit dreamy.
It could be a dream
And nightmares
Cannot harm you.

Nothing can,
For it could be a dream.

Kyle McHale      2004

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Where Poetry Sleeps

When society aches words become the
Medicine. Aching now, as always, where
Does poetry sleep, if at all?
Lost art at the mercy of much diluted art.
The quality hidden. Spray paint over
Van Gogh, Levittowns over Gaudi’s Barcelona,
Best sellers over Yeats.

All the earth lost in the wrong kind of madness,
The impure madness, the non-thinkers madness.
Bells have never sounded for only poetry,
Maybe once. Somewhere poetry is still spoken,
Like times of revolution, covered over,
When ideas spread by the soft light of fire,
When quiet fear was quiet hope, when
Spoken words carried weight like slaves carried stone.

Sleeping verses tucked in their respective
Slumbering settings. Under dorm room beds
Next to beer bottles. On lonely shelves,
Though created, sit unread, unused, unloved lines.
Worn dusty books that creak open like old vine
Covered cellar doors after a generation has passed.
The light that wakes the earth when most are not awake,
When normal light arrives they emerge from their dream poems,
Shake them off and go about the day’s business.

The hidden word, the lost word, as if one
Is instructed to not stare into the glare of an
Angel’s wings, or into the darkness of a demon’s desire.
The past aching, the book quivering
At the trudge of history’s destruction,
At the SS boots thumping in the night to
Incinerate thought at the heart of a Nazi book burning,
Or the loss from the Chairman’s Cultural Revolution,
But poppies grew from the wreckage of No Mans Land.

Then eventually, society aching, words become
The medicine, poetry rises from the ashes
Without asking for much. Streets fill up
With goodness for awhile, then it fades
Back to the hidden state and sleeps again.
Flourish then burn, then rise and be forgotten,
So the cycle goes, so the poetry sleeps.

Kyle McHale        2012

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The Sleeping Pond

Just out of reach of this world,
There lies a simple sleeping pond,
It will sit, and it will stare
At all who try to enter there.

Around it a protective wood,
Far off from any working map,
A wood of old green growth and deep,
Cradles the pond so it can sleep.

Sleeping well under an old spell,
The pond lay dormant, quiet still,
Behind the reeds that slowly sway
At waters edge through night and day.

Though creatures roam round all the scene,
But hidden down and blending in,
They keep the water’s secret close,
For they all fear the sleeping most.

A place only the lost can find,
Then further still the blue ponds spell.
The last who wandered off the map
To find the ponds secret trap,

Was a fairy with flapping wings,
Beautiful and innocent.
Where was she exactly going?
Once off course, without knowing,

The creatures let her pass to see
All the place and enchanted wood,
For they all know the thirst that comes
When one arrives by blue pond sun.

Thinking it safe for it to drink,
Those tiny hands took up a cup,
And put it to her tiny lips,
Such beauty in small finger tips.

At an instant she fell asleep,
Then lied so peaceful on the ground.
Creatures not phased by fairy sleep,
Came in to set the beauty deep

Into the old blue sleeping pond.
They watched her slowly sink down in,
So beautiful they watched her fall,
As her hand wished farewell to all.

For three slow days she floated down,
While turning slowly like the earth,
With no more fairy thoughts to sing,
A lovely type of hovering.

Water having her thoughts and wings,
At three days end she found the truth,
Softly landed on a pile,
As lightly as a dreaming child.

The selfish water had it all,
A mound of sleeping things to keep:
Humans, elves, fairies and nymphs,
Monsters, souls, and ghosts, a prince.

All have found the sleeping secret,
The one the forest creatures keep,
All drifted down that three day fall,
Not knowing what their sleeping saw.

No one leaves, no one leaves, to tell
The world what happens there,
The pond wants all to slumber down,
To dream with water, not the ground.

No chance at all of an escape,
The creatures guard, the water sees,
The pond has all their dreams and thoughts
For fear its secrets may be lost.

Kyle McHale      2010

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