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Posts Tagged ‘stream’

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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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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The Wild Ravine

Remembrance of a wild spot,
Paths unknown through time’s web,
Holding deep some sacred rock
Where all stays amongst the sacred thread
Of all that’s gone and up ahead,
Everything, alive and dead.
Whispers only a few may hear
When most don’t know locked behind doors
Seeking comfort on man-made floors
And miss the wonders in a year.

For crashing in and letting out
The cries of beasts and past dead men,
Some may know when nature shouts
Linking now to what was then.
A deep ravine that hides its place,
Where glowing ferns fill up the space,
Where thoughts and dreams are frozen still,
The canopy becomes the scene,
The whispers flow in secret streams
And all is subject to its will.

Trapped is time, the motions flow,
The ground stays touched by natural hands,
The crafty creatures stay down low,
All is harmony in the land.
The quiet sounds are so profound,
Except the feet that trudge the ground.
Join the place carved by the knife of
Ancient shaping artists who wait
Eons of perfection to create
Nature that takes but also loves.

Kyle McHale       2012

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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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Ticking Travel

Venture to a most peaceful spot,
In city, or woods, or vast plains,
A spot to slow the inner clock,
To slow the beating of the brain.

Stop the flooding head of much,
Too much to bear, feel, and see,
All little clocks with ticking parts,
All tiny thoughts that visit me.

Nothing can work all at once,
The world with its timing,
All little greased up ticking parts,
All long roads with their winding.

That dry desert road once had all
The dreams I always tried to chase.
To get there and find them full of
Dry land, filth, and dusty waste

Let my vision pass itself
To see the green road up ahead,
Led to a rotting jungles end,
A jungle with its spirit dead.

Each road of ice, fire, and rain,
Had an end of freeze, burn, and flood,
At expense just one ticking part,
One part brain, one part drop of blood.

For blood the grease that works the ticks,
Which vision knows to change with it,
Where I let the stars and the moon
Consume my thoughts for a little bit

You may have just heard the water.
For I saw a streaking vast sky,
A place too large for all my blood,
You may have seen a fish swim by

To stare at you, to read your thoughts,
To understand the driving force,
Because complete had time to wait
To think about the one true source.

All perceptions to contemplate,
Though one part lost in each pure spot,
A piece gained from water and rock,
From thick jungle air steaming hot.

Once pulse slows down to learn something
And experience is gained,
The ticking body falls apart,
All blood bleeds out with pouring rain,

Yet peace may have flocked to the heart,
All peaceful spots become the same.
To see, to live, to think, to do,
To bleed, to die, to know what’s tame,

To feel the parts left out there,
To know they are filled by those places,
Blood has mountain jungle in it,
Peaceful things fill up those spaces.

To remember, cherish, and save,
To smile on earth, and in grave.

Kyle McHale      2009

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