Lost in Thought

Sometimes, my mind refuses to rest with the rest of me. As you probably guessed, I am writing this after 3:00 a.m.. I stole down from my bedroom, on little cat feet, to tap away the wee hours of the morning awash in the pale illumination of my computer monitor. My body, fatigued from days of fighting with a recalcitrant rash, seeks the soft abandon of dreamless sleep. My mind, though over-tired and over-stimulated, is racing in neutral -- its engine roaring -- going nowhere, fast.

After I retired, looking for rest, my mind would not find peace. Epic stories, illustrated with fantastic images; grand poems, magnificently performed; and glorious music, played by the stars themselves flooded my mind. Cacophony, tsunami, and whirlwind...my inner world was in chaos. Adrift on the deluge, I could not sleep.

So, here I sit, desperately trying to remember anything but the panache and grandeur, lamenting the lost visions, lost in thought, and in need of rest.

Mick

Lost in Thought

Why can't he sleep at three in the morning?
What is the summons that touches his mind,
Super-charging his thoughts without warning,
Leaving all traces of slumber behind?
What stirs an old man's innermost vision,
Scattering images behind his eyes --
Vivid, brilliant, and drawn with precision,
Leaving him helpless, awake, where he lies?
Vaguely disturbing, they won't let him sleep,
These dark dioramas of inner sight,
So, he slips from his room without a peep,
Turns on his computer, and tries to write.
But his magnum opus will not get done:
He cannot remember a single one...

Mick McKellar
February 2012

Through Darker Days

I've been asked why so much of my poetry embraces subjects dark and dreary, while eschewing the lambent and luminous. Perhaps I feel that vivid, bright, flashing images need the solemnity of shadow to truly leap from the page onto the canvas of the mind. Maybe the grim realities of life stand in bas relief against the soft pastels of warm and fuzzy days, and the sharp and brilliant flashes of moments of joy.

Without shadows, one cannot navigate in a snow storm. Without dark glasses, a sunny day can give you a headache. I love to sit in the shade of a tree on a hot summer day and to watch the fingers of twilight touch the roof tops at dusk. I do not fear the night, for the morning will follow.

Mick

Through Darker Days

I've been known to travel a shadowed path,
When I journey into my unique past,
In search of my mental redoubt, my rath,
The castle keep of an elegiast.
Though often chimerical and hazy,
My shady songs pierce the ebony veil,
And travel routes labyrinthine, mazy,
For tales my heart wants to share and regale.
Though I journey in darkness obscurely;
Though my words may grow grim with frustration;
I have faith that my sojourn must surely,
Reach its haven of illumination.
For the sun will rise and deal death to night,
And the shadow owes its birth to the light.

Mick McKellar
February 2012

Walking in the Rain

I grew up in an era when boys did not cry...at least not when other boys could see...and began learning about pain at eighteen months of age. My feet and hands were severely burned by boiling water from a vaporizer, and there was doubt whether I would learn to walk because of the pain. I learned to walk and to control and suppress the pain, but in the process lost my childhood.

My Mom, my Dad, and me...
before my injury

My mother told me that, where other children might be serious, I was grim. I seldom smiled and almost never played with other kids. I grew to be the protector for my siblings, because I did not fear pain. Aloof and silent, I read and watched and waited, wading in when needed and remaining alone...except for a very few friends, most of whom were adults.

My mom often joked that I was born an old man, but we both knew why I liked to walk in the rain...

Mick

Walking in the Rain

At a young age I learned: don't sob and wail
When I hurt, and I would feel heroic.
That to let on that I hurt was to fail,
Seek sympathy where I should be stoic.
I sought to prove to myself I was tough,
And met distress with a grin and a song,
For no torment would ever be enough,
To make me admit anything was wrong.
I wanted always to smile through the pain,
Even though it felt I might be dying;
So l often went walking in the rain,
Because no one could see I was crying.
I'd lost myself in a forest of fears,
And sailed on an ocean of unshed tears.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

River of Time

Reading through some of my old messages, I stumbled over a memory of how I was moved by Jim Croce's song, Time in a Bottle. Jim and Ingrid Croce performed on the college concert circuit, where I sat one evening, coffee cup in hand, transfixed by his story songs. His 1972 song about trying to save time has resonated across the years and gained special meaning for me when I was diagnosed with leukemia.  I love the line: "I'd save every day like a treasure..." His lyrical fantasy still haunts my dreams.

Anyone who has come face-to-face with his own mortality will tell you how precious becomes each second, of each minute, of each hour, of each day. For me, time is a river system, cataracts that propel me always forward in a current too swift to swim against. I have always been part of the river and cannot set foot upon its banks. The best I can hope for is to tread water or float along with companions in the stream until, at last, I drift into my own estuary, and alone...meet the sundering sea of eternity.

Mick

River of Time

On countless cataracts it carries me.
Full rudderless, I float on currents swift,
A helpless spirit compelled to the sea,
My passage, an ancient, enduring gift.
A lifetime I must tread its mighty flow;
I cannot climb ashore...it moves too fast.
What lies ahead I simply do not know,
And all behind quickly becomes my past.
There's little I can do, but daily strive
To rise, and to ride the wild churning foam;
To boldly endure until I arrive,
At my destination, my timeless home.
The river takes us all, without our thanks,
And God alone may stride upon its banks

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hole in the Bucket

I sing silent songs and saturate the subtle silences haunting the untrod halls of my cerebral redoubt with music unplayed and lyrics unvoiced. My eyeballs vibrate to the flash and thunder of silent symphonies...music that echoes across the vast expanse of my imagination to the delight and wonder of my soul, but can never be heard by another except in the ebb and flow of my poetry. I lack the spark, the talent, the bridge to bring that music outside and share it as melody, harmony, tone, and chord...as music.

In my own mind, I sing the poems I write. I feel their innate harmonies and the rhythms that drive them forward. My inner voice weeps and laughs and cries for joy. It soars to incredible heights and plunges into the darkest abyss. But, it all remains inside, for my true physical voice seems disconnected from the wonders within. My poems must sing for themselves, because I cannot carry the tune from within to without...there's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Poems are music for the mind.

Mick

Hole in the Bucket

I sing within the shadows of my mind,
Where no one else can hear the airs I sing,
And thunder forth whatever I can find...
In total silence...let the rafters ring!
My voice: Basso Profundo in my head,
Could shatter the foundations of a house.
Unlike my true voice, which many have said,
Reminds them, oh so much, of Mickey Mouse.
My sense of rhythm follows no known clock,
My sharps slide high, my flats, beneath the sea.
The glory of my voice, I would unlock,
Unfortunately, I can't find a key.
I can't carry a tune by chance or choice...
There's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hidden Empires

Folks ask from where I get all the stories and strange ideas in my poems and essays. Is there some Big Book of Aberrant Anecdotes, Flaky Fables, and Mystifying Myths I reference regularly? Do I have a secret source secreted away on the infamous Internet? Are there piles of copious notes and curious narratives hoarded about my home? Sorry, but search all you will, my sources will not appear...because they reside solely in my mind.

I travel about the empires of experience and imagination of my inner world. I ramble about in the ramshackle attic of my mind. Here I find my ideas, and here I store my records. The human mind and imagination are too vast, too multi-dimensional to be cataloged on paper or deposited in a data base. When I write, I welcome you to my world, telling its tales and relating its beautiful memoirs. These are my hidden empires...

Mick

Hidden Empires

You will not find them under my pillow,
Nor in my briefcase or under my bed.
You can follow me anywhere I go;
Any search will lead to ends that are dead.
The trappings of my life seem so normal,
One can stumble on the everyday.
My lifestyle is so simply informal,
Even boredom tries to leave in dismay.
So, where do I closet all the stories,
The adventures and tall tales that I write;
The depths of despair and all the glories,
The long journeys from darkness into light?
I retrieve all the memoirs I can find,
From empires hidden deep within my mind.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Shine a Light

January is named for the Roman god Janus, a two-faced god who looks to both future and past. New Years Eve, I dreamt I sat up, shivering in the silent darkness of my bed, in the wee hours of January 1, 2012, and saw a vision of myself perched on the ancient marble head of Janus...unsure which way to look...fearful of the regrets of the past and the uncertainties of the future. I was terrified that by trying to look both ways, I would overbalance, slip, and plunge into the misty shadows at the foot of the timeworn stone deity.

I woke shaken from the dream and said a prayer for peace of mind to focus on living in the present -- for one cannot live in the unchangeable past, nor in the uncertain future. As I prayed, the moon peeked past the clouds and momentarily touched my window. I felt my petition had been answered.

Happy New Year!

Mick

Shine a Light

I was lurking in the shadows, alone
And frightened, at the rolling of the year.
My heart felt heavy, brittle, hard as stone,
My muscles locked with overwhelming fear.
In silent darkness, perched upon my bed,
The new year drenched my mind with cold dismay.
As voiceless trepidation filled my head,
Trembling and soundless...I began to pray.
I asked for peace, for mercy, and for light,
And through my window, slashed a silver ray
Of brilliantly-shining argent moonlight,
That flared just once and chased my fears away.
And so, without a whisper or a word,
I knew my passionate prayer had been heard.

Mick McKellar
January 2012