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Posts Tagged ‘wings’

That is No Place for Birds

After heavy loss, sorrow stricken streets,
crushed towns, broken houses,

that is no place for birds
but still a robin sits and sings
on the gate
through the rainy window,
knows you’re sad, and waits.

After heavy loss, torn, convoluted earth,
shell holes, blood-stained muddy puddles,
lost young souls,
it has been one hundred years
since the Somme,

that is no place for birds
but they found perches
even on bare trees
with no leaves
even if the worms they
ate crawled out of the eye-
sockets of the dead,
they were fed
singing still, knew the
sadness in the air,
and waited still.

In my dreams that
I cannot control
a shock of living
re-living in a
make-believe dream world,
a make-believe real world,

that is no place for birds
but a giant eagle appears,
tucks me under his wing
to rest on his warm breast
to keep the bad noises out,
he knows my sadness
he lets me sing
and waits.

Kyle McHale       2016

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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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