Bridge In extremis

In my dreams I follow paths untrodden,
Leading me to places long forgotten,
Or hidden from the view of prying eyes
Beyond dark water, wind, and crying skies.
The strangest of my dream journeys it seems,
Are those that cross the Bridge of Broken Dreams.

It floats alone in mists of tattered night,
A glowing span of wood, shimmering white.
When the bridge appears, my dream paths merge.
My feelings and my need to touch it surge,
And as my hands and my bare feet arrive,
I know at once the white bridge is alive!

Sometimes I only stand there, connected
As my love and lifeforce is directed
With both amazing care and lightning speed,
To another suffering soul in need.
And rarely I am asked to cross the span,
To walk a living bridge as best I can.

Last night I felt an urgent call to walk
Upon that mighty span that cannot talk.
Walked a long way, until I was spying,
Fuzzy globes of men and women crying
For their loss of freedom, country, rights,
Seen in their broken dreams on fretful nights.

As shaken and disturbed I turned to leave,
The bridge had taken hold of my left sleeve.
Now, out beyond the confines of the bridge,
Were fractured nightmares of the privileged.
The winners of the contest for the world,
Lost sleep as fears of losing it unfurled.

I thought our journey ended in this place,
But now the bridge arched up toward outer space!
From there I saw the dreams of all mankind.
I saw the wonder, peace, and joy they find
When they release the worries of their days,
To visit Heaven in so many ways.

At last the simple message crossed my mind,
The truth the Bridge of Broken Dreams defined:
The cheating of the oligarchs might win,
And some of us will suffer and give in.
They’ll struggle to control their sad bounty,
But in our dreams each one of us is free!

Mick McKellar
September 2025

Squishy

Today is squishy.

Not wet and sloppy...

Quaggy, maybe, 

But not blooty or sticky.

A day to savor my recliner,

In the main room

Of a bouncy house,

And to snack on the crisp, cold air

Of an uncertain Spring.

In the shivery last touch

Of a Keweenaw Winter.

Mick McKellar

May 2025

Canyon Fall

On a hazy day in late upland spring,
I swam through clouds of noseeum bugs,
And balanced to walk on the razor's edge
of the rock wall that Canyon Falls hugs.

My old running shoes wiggled and wobbled,
They were teetering and to and fro.
To balance the extra baggage I bore,
On a frame only couches know.

The shifting stones made very little noise,
when they broke and separated.
I sensed no danger and shifted my weight,
To the foot whose redoubt had skated.

I felt myself go in motion so slow,
My legs shot out from under me.
I looked at the glistening rocks below,
Gritting my teeth for catastrophe.

Panic set in, then surprise and chagrin.
I uttered an animal sound.
I drifted, a leaf afloat on the wind,
Riding on drafts to the ground.

My drop was slow, as though falling through snow.
Until I lay on the river bank,
And though wet, I had no damage to show,
And the mystery of who I should thank.

I stood stock still on the slick river shore.
I pondered for a little time.
I wanted to thank someone, more and more,
As out I endeavored to climb.

To this day I still don't know who saved me,
Who slowed my fall through the air.
Though I'll never be sure who they might be,
I think that my Angel was there.

Mick McKellar
May 2025

Stinky Cheese

During the years I worked for Social Security, I spent many hours visiting clients in nursing homes and medical care facilities. There is an odor that permeates such facilities -- one I came to  think of as the smell of advanced age. As I advance, I fear developing that characteristic...

Stinky Cheese

The silent passing wind in our abode,
Leaves more than saintly treacle in its wake:
A distant dance of offal a la mode,
In league with moldy stockings -- baked in cake.
Like all creatures that venture forth to die,
Our species slowly ripens without cease.
Seasoned with sun and salted when we cry,
We age akin to wheels of stinky cheese.
Active in our youth, we mix with others,
Homogenous, we seek to be the same.
Time brings differences with sisters, brothers,
And others, as we all seek who to blame.
You may call it character, if you please,
But winds of change have made us stinky cheese.

Mick McKellar
January 2025

Stones

I stand knee deep in the lake of my days,
And gather a stone for each memory,
Some jagged and sharp in a hundred ways,
Some are worn smooth or are polished by me.

A few are so large they are hard to hold,
And the tiny ones slip through my fingers.
Moss covers many, having grown so old,
Though the weight of their impact still lingers.

Time and the waves push and roll in and out,
Smoothing sharp edges of sorrow and pain,
Helping me gather my stones all about,
To treasure each memory once again.

Mick McKellar
December 2024

Sky Music

The sky is bright.
A silver glow
Of brilliant moonlight
Limns all below,
And sparkling starlight twinkles in the firmament,
Of softest velveteen, endless and permanent.

Music ethereal
Caresses night,
Silent and aerial,
Essential, right,
And filling up my senses with the sound,
Of silent music love makes when around.

Mick McKellar
November 2024

Please Tell Me Why the Media Are Mad

Please tell me why the media are mad!
Why do their crises often make no sense?
Stories that should scare me just make me sad,
Reading the news leaves me depressed and tense.

Presidents confront thousands of issues,
Yet all they talk about is two or three.
I can’t watch the news without my tissues,
Their talking points are now my allergies.

Daily come expensive, flashy mailers,
And each extols a candidate’s strong suits,
Or why some slightly bent ones need jailers,
For with the devil they are in cahoots.

Slowly, I’ve adapted to the clangor,
Although I think the waste of time is sad.
My response is neither hate nor anger,
Please tell me why the media are mad!

Mick McKellar
November 2024