Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘white’

Pearls

I imagine a thousand oysters drifting
away slowly, keeping perfect space,
like synchronized swimmers hanging in air,
suspended there like an oyster chandelier,
and then all at once begin to laugh, happy as
a thousand clams, crooked smiles opening
chuckling in a choking manner, coughing up
and letting drop a thousand perfect pearls,
white as ivory, clean as young river water from high in the hills.
Peaceful pearls in air, silent, like a pin before it drops,
like the sun before it rises,
hitting water a thousand droplet splashes turn into five thousand
water rings that for a moment do not touch and are in perfect symmetry,
a thousand pearl epicenters.

I close my eyes before the rings collide to keep
the moment frozen and think of the white orbs
sinking deeper into black water.
A calmness comes over me and I realize it was only a thought.
I opened an oyster once to find a perfect pearl,
It felt smooth in my hand with a sense of purpose
like a children’s marble resting on the thumb before it shoots.
Pearls do not remind me of any women though I’m sure they do for some.
One may find it a strange thought to think of
an oyster somewhere in some ocean, bay, or river,
sitting there not knowing it’s place in the world.

Kyle McHale       2013

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

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

Read Full Post »

In it’s White Madness

The veil of a moonlit cover
Dusts the woods and open field
With an eerie sense of wonder
And the moon dance that is real.

Attempt anything in it’s madness,
What seems hidden is highlighted,
What seems forgotten is remembered,
Those secrets kept are spilled over
And seep into all that’s covered

By that strange keeper over head,
That has tortured through the ages.
When in secret fashion revealed
Like prisoners broken from their cages.

A split rail fence won’t keep it in,
Nor stone wall or stiff tree line,
No door, no tarp, no roof is safe
From the casting white spell of moon time.

Go hide, go run, go lie in the field,
Seek shelter under birches or pines,
Run from the past or the darkness,
Finding you the spell of white moon time.

Dance in its strangeness and give up
The secrets, for it already knows.
The victors are mad and dancing,
The victims are hiding down low.

Kyle McHale       2012

Read Full Post »

Red and Black and White

It can be more than meets my eye,
Red fire, black sky.
A color of a thing shall rot
And give me wrenching stomach knots.

For the black and the white are still
One without the chill.
It seems to pour hot tar on me,
Sharp razor salts in cuts from sea.

Worlds stop for love red fire,
And black desire,
Sometimes a black and white T.V.
For vision knows we still can see.

Oh things of universe collide,
Show me where to hide,
And take my hand for spit-fire rides
To places where I can see new highs.

Colorless ends are not for me.
I know what I see.
But soon when color has no home,
My heart will chill down through my bone.

Kyle McHale      2005

Read Full Post »

Orange Moon

Moon you are orange tonight,
For stars, clouds, my delight?
Moon you seem so in tune
And yet you are not white

Like when we stayed up all
Those times during the fall
And shared lovers secrets
In white chill I recall,

I gave you great thought for thought.
You rarely lit my way. I rot
When you need a peaceful word,
From my counsel you shall not.

Now sickly, faintly pale,
No orange men do prevail,
You stay so ugly orange
And lose your guided trail.

No moon of mine a bore,
For sailors on a shore,
To see almost red for
Good bait? Good hook? No lure.

May the sun cut you up-
The sphere to burn you up-
Who needs safe orbit now?
You have been killed enough.

If ever white again,
Do not call me my friend,
Because I want no more,
Of whiteness pure and lure.

Kyle McHale      2004

Read Full Post »