Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Cold Comfort

Is life poetic? Is life poetry?
I guess the concept is one for long, slow
nights of reflection, and early morning
bursts of proud prose and of profundity.
Today is Tuesday and it’s grey outside,
with just a touch of mottled greenish brown.
White threatened yesterday, majestically.
It fell sloppily from a pewter sky,
and decorated the long, grey/green grass.
It did not stay long in the empty yard,
melting away swiftly as memory;
leaving a chill as welcome as regret.
My mind has no hold on either of these,
and Summer’s grass has no hold on the snow.

Mick McKellar
October 2019

Pondering the changing seasons is slow, chilly work.


Monday, October 14, 2019

The Gift of Bruises

I stumbled, rushing, as today sped by,
Focused on one foot after the other;
Never looking up to admire the sky,
Perhaps too busy to even bother.
I stumbled, and then I began to sway,
A moment of confusion, however
I sensed that my end is not far away,
Knowing no road that goes on forever.
I stumbled, as though rushing to and fro --
My measure of living life to the max --
Had left me lost, with nowhere else to go,
And no idea of how to relax.
I stumbled, I tripped, I tipped, and I fell:
And the gift of bruises has taught me well!

Mick McKellar
October 2019

To stop and smell the roses, sometimes you have to stumble.


Wednesday, September 25, 2019

The Light of Stars Long Dead

As I stood outside on a star-filled night,
Bathed in the luster of a trillion suns,
I sadly surveilled ev'ry point of light;
Knowing some were ghosts, but never which ones.
I treasured each twinkle that I perceived,
As a flickering flame from time long past,
Or a message in a bottle received,
Across a dark, airless desert so vast
It can't be conceived by one such as I.
Yet, I felt summoned to investigate:
Each tiny flash beckoned my heart to fly,
Where the answers to my questions await.
I stood in the dark, at one with the sky,
Knowing just like me, even stars must die.

My words are my star, my fire, my cry,
And glow with a fierce, ferocious light.
I pray they shine even after I die,
And twinkle in somebody's darkest night.

Mick McKellar
September 2019

I was just reflecting on why I write poems.


Tuesday, August 13, 2019


Native Americans met on a path,
Walking the dust of the day from their feet.
One was bright as day, and one dark as wrath;
They both thought was “Bonne chance” that they should meet.
One old, one young, they conversed as they walked.
Tales were told: tall ones and some very small.
Hours went by as they walked and they talked,
And they rested on an ancient stone wall.
“Are you hungry?” Asked the much younger one.
The older man winked, looked at his bare wrist...
They laughed at the old joke, it was such fun,
But this time the old joke had a slight twist:
Hands in their pockets after the riposte,
Held cell phone and watch...and both thought: ”almost…”

Mick McKellar
August 2019

Sometimes, old jokes hold deep truths up to the light.


Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Descent of Blessings

The liquid air was firm as ever wrought,
And silence smothered each begotten sound.
Darkness swaddled every random thought,
Angels took note, and gathered all around.
As sadness swelled beneath my coverlet,
And loneliness entrapped my heart inside;
I ached, a wounded spirit trapped, and yet
A refugee without a place to hide...
When wondrous light illumed my ceiling/sky,
And angels, countless as the stars of night,
Soft, silent choirs and seraphim that fly,
Succored my aching soul and filled my sight!
Each carried prayers and wishes without cease:
Gifts of grace and love, thoughts of hope and peace.

Mick McKellar
July 2019

Sometimes the outpouring of love and a tsunami of good thoughts can trigger a heavenly display and wrap a suffering soul in angelic care.


Monday, July 08, 2019

At the Mercy Gate

I think the leukemia took my tears --
Open desert, dry eyes see shifting sand,
To cover a river of children's fears,
And shadows of cages so near at hand.
The wailing wind mimics children crying;
Icy voices distant in cruel heat.
Loud harrowed cries escape spirits dying:
Brutal life, father of unjust defeat.
Torrid and airless, the place where they wait,
Stench of humanity stealing the air.
A lost chimera without advocate,
Locked out of paradise, left threadbare.
Mercy denied by those steeped in disdain,
Heaven's gates closed against children of pain.

Mick McKellar
July 2019

What must it be like, to flee with your parents, pain and fear behind, uncertainty and fear ahead? To be ripped from your only anchor in the world and be locked in a cage, with little food and no one to care? To swim in a sea of agony and sleep in a swamp of pain, the promise of security and freedom denied? Can you hear their cries among the ghosts of the night?


Saturday, June 29, 2019

Pythagorean Morning

I met a weary fellow,
Standing silent in the dawn.
His companion, dark yellow,
Was watering someone's lawn.

He yawned and shrugged and mumbled,
His canine friend did the same.
I said, "Hello!" He grumbled.
I pressed on, and asked his name.

At first, he hesitated,
Fixed his eyes upon his friend;
At last, "Damon" he stated,
As our dogs sniffed, end to end.

First, I introduced my mate,
My companion for walking.
This did not ingratiate,
And still he wasn't talking...

"What'd you call your furry chum?"
My own name I then proffered.
Still, he stayed profoundly dumb;
A sigh was all he offered.

Quick, a smile broke on his face,
"It's Pythias," he shouted.
(Ice broke in that silent place;
An outcome never doubted.)

I asked why he chose that name,
And what put him on that track.
I heard my new friend exclaim:
"Because he always comes back!"

Mick McKellar
June 2019

Storied names decorate the lives of many of our furry friends.