Friday, November 11, 2016

Invisible Voices

Invisible Voices

I sing my song of patience from the wings,
Where curtains sap the vigor of my voice.
Although the chorus wrapped about me sings,
We do the best we can with Hobson's choice.
The audience might notice we are there,
If once the featured singers took a breath,
Or noticed us, and just because they care,
Paused their constant, scripted shibboleth.
How can the grand assembly understand,
The beauty and emotion in our cry;
If amplified lead voices and the band,
Leave us unseen, unheard, an alibi?
Let us loose, and as our throng rejoices,
We will shake the rafters with our voices!

Mick McKellar
November 2016


Voices unseen and unheard can suddenly rock your world.

Mick

Thursday, September 08, 2016

Wisdom of the Wildwood

Wisdom of the Wildwood

Far under the deep forest canopy,
Within the bright haze of the morning mist.
I dream of the light that I cannot see,
As sunbeam and forest begin their tryst.
Souls of the deep woods and wraiths of the trees,
Move through the greenwood as wistful dark dreams.
Arboreal titans bend with a breeze,
That ruffles their coverlet with its streams.
With daunted wonder, at reverent pace,
I silently tread the cathedral floor;
And whispering stillness imparts its grace,
As trees share memories of brake and moor.
Woodland and grove only slowly impart,
The ancient wisdom of the wildwood's heart.

Mick McKellar
September 2016


I have always loved long, slow walks through the green peace of the deep woods.

Mick

Sunday, September 04, 2016

To Sing The Story of the Night

To Sing The Story of the Night

    Are all dark nights truly empty?
    Soundless skies say nothing to me.
    Perhaps they are only waiting:
    For patient hand, or restless mind,
    To sow amid the sweet silence,
    To write upon velvet softness;
    For willing arms to reach out, and
    Gather harvest from out the stars.

    Does timid silence rule the night?
    As fleeting thoughts dance, dart, and play
    Mid lights — of silver, blue, red, gold,
    I climb the towering darkness.
    I glean the precious, fabled fruit;
    To hoard, to cherish, then to share.
    Saved in my sweet, elusive dreams,
    Such grandeur, idle fantasy.

    To free my mind is all I ask —
    To hear sweet music in each light,
    And courage to complete my task:
    To sing the story of the night.

Mick McKellar
September 2016


I love to gaze at stars in a velveteen sky, and see the serenade, the majestic music of starlight in the darkness. What I capture and share is but a pale portrait of colors without name and music that moves the spirit.

Mick

Monday, August 22, 2016

Reflecting Pool

Reflecting Pool

    As generous softness of sunlit waves,
    Traces a tender touch dance on the wall,
    Their simple serenity soothes, and saves
    A worried mind driven nearly to fall.
    The wonder of water — to bathe in light,
    Borrowed so freely from afternoon sun,
    All things of shadow, or covered by night,
    Or hiding in twilight barely begun.
    I gaze at the flickering tongues of flame,
    So energetic they might be alive;
    They call to my soul, they sing my true name,
    And they warm the garden where my dreams thrive.
    Their golden caress upon shadows cool:
    Stirs the magic of the reflecting pool.

Mick McKellar
August 2016


Watching light dance upon water and then reflect upon a wall or a window, has a magic all its own — that can bring peace and quiet to a mind troubled and fretful.

Mick

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Becoming

Becoming

At first, I stood alone on the bare hill;
All around me was blasted and laid waste.
I gasped, my eyes swimming, I stood stock-still
For a moment, and turned to leave in haste.

But the path that my old life had followed,
Was in darkness, or was no longer there.
I looked up to the sky and I swallowed,
Then I cried in fear and shattered the air.

I fell, I screamed, and I pounded the soil.
The curse from my doctor's lips I denied.
I grew angry till I felt my blood boil;
When it cooled, I collapsed, and simply cried.

Deep inside, a small voice: "You're not dead yet!"
A whisper emerging from inner void?
I gathered what courage I still could get
From my self-respect, so nearly destroyed.

Still shaking, I stood and I faced ahead:
A new path, challenging, rocky, and steep
Presented itself, but not where it led.
It was full of ravines that I must leap.

I noticed a small bench, off to one side,
Hidden in shadow and offering rest.
At once, I knew t'was a place I could hide
And wait for the end, a painless quest.

I almost sat down there, but then I thought:
"Why just wait with my mind shut and numbing?"
I began walking, though fearful and fraught,
To find out just what I was becoming.

Mick McKellar
August 2016


I was asked to write about some aspect of living with cancer. I remember the trauma of receiving the diagnosis and then the apparent failure of chemotherapy. Finally, I remembered having to decide whether to pursue a blood and marrow stem cell transplant, or opt for home hospice care till the end.

Mick

Tuesday, August 09, 2016

Tending My Tea Garden

Tending My Tea Garden

Soft spring rain refreshes evergreens,
That shadow cast my stream of consciousness.
I hear silence, and wonder what it means,
As southwest winds repeat their whispered guess.
I pause to ponder why the welcome charms,
Of dappled sunlight on the em'rald stream,
Should make me feel at peace, with open arms
To gather in the pieces of my dream.
A dream of wisdom and clairvoyant sight,
Of gifts along the paths I walk, to find
Such truths as help me penetrate the night,
And light my way through darkness in my mind:
To see with clarity, but not harden
The soft sunlight, in my dream tea garden.

Mick McKellar
August 2016



Like most everyone else, I am assailed constantly by media broadcasts, by questions from those selling goods and those conducting surveys to help politicians sell me yet another bill of goods. It can be difficult to chart a path through it all and my sleeping mind seems drawn to peaceful and quiet places surrounded by life. To a peaceful tea garden in my dreams...

Mick

Saturday, July 30, 2016

The Myth of Earth

The Myth of Earth
By dark green bough and shrouded glen,
By lives of trees beyond our ken;
Within that vast botanic history,
There lies a dim forgotten story —

Of once-existing fields of green,
With dark-brown soil and water seen
And touched by man, yet not defiled.
And clean fresh air with fragrance mild —

Of pines and flowers all around,
And sunlight streaming to the ground.
Where joy and laughter, glee and mirth,
Were universal laws on Earth.

But times like these are myths to men,
And peace and love beyond their ken.
Look out your window — if you can,
At Earth, defiled and scathed by man.

Mick McKellar
1968 or 1969


I found a copy of a poem I wrote longhand, and remembered sharing it with Cathy Cole, Publications Editor at Michigan Tech in 1968 or 1969 while I was a student assistant. It was buried in an old book.

Mick