Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘woods’

Where My Father Stepped

I have known the path trodden
through forest floor dirt
where my father has stepped,
the woods in the east whose
leaves hold that warm green
golden light of summer
whose forest rivers
clear and bronze
cast down through smooth stones
cut through steep hills
and hold his best footprints,
where my father stepped and left
parts of his heart on young hearts.

I have known the tragedy
of his bravery after war,
muddy jungle rotting steps
he took far from home
to watch friends step
their last steps
to watch friends gasp
their last breaths.

I have known his last steps,
those shuffling struggling sickness steps
and the march of Marine brethren
who carried him his final steps,
those were his feet
and his feet those
marching linked by spirit
breaths the fate
some soldiers chose.

He has known my first steps in a
humbling father’s joy to see an
early life after taking lives
thanking God my guns were toys.

I know now he steps where I step,
just ahead or just behind
our earthly wrongs matter not
even though he has left
I have known where
my father stepped.

Kyle McHale 2015

Read Full Post »

Meeting Winter

Over out across winter’s day,
A pale blue with wisps of white,
Some sad forest with autumn gone,
Those trees that miss the season’s life.

I wander through at easy pace,
No goal in mind, no worrying,
The cold has me awake and clear,
The trees question what life I bring.

I am no season or the sun,
I cannot stop the season’s sleeping,
I am here by accident,
I can’t replace what nature’s taken.

But life still stirs, just slowly so,
Among some trees the birds still sing.
Among the ground some life is found,
Those hearts still beat under winter’s wing.

Maybe my small heart still glows,
Reflecting golden hopes of sun,
The subtle sounds of winters woods,
Wishing for that warmth to come.

At night when dark and cold must mix,
All living hearts are little lights,
Keeping safe those that are around,
Giving pulse to the lonely night.

At last I’m trapped out here somehow,
My glow is fading but won’t forget,
Those little torches light the way,
That night when winter and I met.

Kyle McHale      2011

Read Full Post »

Barren Bone Place

Across the barren desert land,
Aging red rocks and cracking hands,
A place that I would not call home,
All rots and sits as deep white bone.

The mess I’m in I half know why,
The other half in dizzy sky.
I walk and climb, and climb and walk,
Nothing to say or think to talk.

Illusion’s my friend I believe,
Yet half the things I don’t conceive,
That large black kettle cooking pot,
Cooking the weak and dead that rot

From choosing a red rocky fate.
This place cares not of one’s mistakes,
The only things it understands
Are fleshy boney broken hands,

And broken wills and souls that try
To flee the things that made them cry.
The past is not a factor now,
The crumbling rock forgets somehow.

The past cannot follow one here,
Yet feeling thoughts remains unclear
Of where to go, what rock to climb,
Where to look, what to do with time.

Black kettle pots and vultures wait
For tired flesh to eat and take,
The quitted bones are on the ground,
Those souls gave up, they make no sound.

The small twisted sparse desert plants,
Shift and dance at a passing glance,
Are never there to help or harm,
To scratch my soul or take my arm.

The sky forgets but knows I live,
Not caring whole, will not forgive.
Curving trails of dry stream beds
Curve their way to my bone dry head.

The capsule body carries forth,
Costing what my soul is worth.
I see the vultures circling high,
Black they turn, falling as they die

To hit the dozen kettle pots
That dot the land in different spots.
One on a rock, one on a hill,
Three in a stream this place has killed,

One with the plants that’s passed around,
The rest on dry red rocky ground.
Each vulture hits, squeals and screams,
Sounds of nightmares, unpleasant dreams,

They cook down to their soul and bone,
My eyes watch fearing all unknown,
The water whistling dry pitch high,
Observing this, knowing that I

Have to reach my hand in to eat,
Know not this place and what to keep,
My hand in form of skeleton,
Melts off all my useless skin,

It drips back into water hot,
Awaking peaceful dreadful spot.
I eat the vulture heart as well,
Then wave my boney hand to smell

The air energy peaceful sweet,
In every bite my soul does eat
A piece of fractured split bone life.
Hoping day stays away from night,

Flesh returns to parts of this place,
Warm dusty air blows in my face,
Quitted bones become whole again,
Is this the beginning or the end?

Water spews out of kettles black,
Dry stream beds get their water back,
The bones of beasts fill up with flesh,
Vulture heart spirit in my chest,

Plants continue their dancing dreams,
Barren things I have never seen.
Life became what I did not know,
Distorted place where one must go.

Forces came to lock up my nerves,
Gripping dry time and where I was,
I stepped back to watch all the scene,
Surreal places, days and dreams.

I let everything in to soak,
Fleeting dreams and the last of hopes,
Praying to thank these characters,
I summoned strength back to my nerves.

Hope real finds me after this,
I left my mark and did not miss
What the place showed to offer me,
Those things I saw, now what I see.

Bone-flesh-black-kettle-pots fulfill
Emptiness I no longer feel,
What I choose to live as real,
By pausing once, and holding still.

A touching blend of swirling air
Let me pass to lead me here,
A world far away from that,
Only in dreams could I ever go back.

Kyle McHale      2009

Read Full Post »

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

Read Full Post »

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

Read Full Post »

The Spoken Truth

The truth is spoken by the world,
It speaks in form of natural song,
You will find yourself in nature,
In yourself there will be God.

Kyle McHale      2012

Read Full Post »

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

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »