Sunday, May 03, 2020

Clouds Bow Down

Clouds bow down to taste the ground,
The salt and savory, sweet and sour;
The flavor of man’s touch around
The musky grass, the delicate flower.
Their misty touch remembers all,
From morning light to midnight hour.

Rain sweeps down to wash the soil,
To polish, carve, collect, and sweep.
To end its soft, relentless toil,
And fill vast basins, wide and deep.
The power of its restless flow,
Remembers all it’s wont to keep.

Snow falls softly from grey skies,
Clouds and rain are bound in ice,
To hide from Nature’s weary eyes
The unhealed scars, the painful price.
The memories of clouds and rain,
Of Earth’s enduring sacrifice.

Mick McKellar
May 2020


When the snow melts each Spring, the memories of last year’s storms and activity are laid bare for all to see. Otherwise, only the clouds and the rain remember…

Mick

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Hiraeth

My heart cries out from deep within my breast,
A wailing, keening, tearing of the night,
That cries unfelt, unheard by all the rest
Who share this dawn, this soft, cascading light.
Awake at last, my soul -- bereft, forlorn,
Swift rises to the challenge of the day,
And stands, and shakes, the cost of being torn,
Homesick, from dreams of comfort far away;
From darkness-opened doors to warmth and peace,
Enough to eat, and arms to hold you tight,
And make the shooting, shouting, screaming cease.
A world of dreams that lives only at night.
A  home that never was, for which I grieve;
Perhaps some night, I'll dream and never leave...

Mick McKellar
April 2020


We all long for peace and warmth and love -- for a home to which we can return when the world beats us bloody and we need to feel safe. Some only know this in their dreams, and some leave us too soon to seek that solace.

Mick

Friday, April 24, 2020

Cracked Window

Rumbled, jumbled, ruined, and wracked,
My window on the world has cracked.
The fractures cause me to perceive,
Our home -- exhausted, I believe.

Trees are grey and air gone inky,
Our blue lake is green and stinky.
Nothing that grows is safe to eat,
And pavement buckles in the heat.

Food comes only as tasteless cubes,
Water only in plastic tubes,
And treadmills walked till late at night,
Provide the only source of light.

The air is thick with dust, a hot
Soup as likely to kill as not.
Those who work at the masters' tasks,
Are sometimes given safety masks.

The masters live in towers, high
Enough to reach the cold blue sky;
Or else they travel endlessly,
On yachts that ply the dying sea --

Consuming lives of countless poor,
The refuse of the teeming shore,
Until they, eventually,
Consume all of humanity.

Rumble, jumble, ruin, and wrack,
I fixed my window's massive crack;
But our time grows short, I perceive,
To fix the future, I believe.

Mick McKellar
April 2020


I overslept today, and found myself trapped in a dystopian dream reached through a looking glass that was badly cracked. This is my glimpse of a possible destination along our current path of unfettered consumption.

Mick

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

A Field of Flames

A field of flames shivers with tiny quakes.
Sparks suffocate and never grow older,
And the core of the Earth quivers and shakes,
As our brief fire, in passing, grows colder.
The bright human dance on this ancient globe,
Dims briefly, as vanishing points of light
Flash and demur in a cascading strobe,
Piercing the veil of encompassing night.
Though numbers are numbing, taken en mass --
No face, no voice, and therefore dismissed.
With each little spark a miracle passed;
A wonder, no longer touched, loved, or kissed.
The enormity of loss is measured,
Only when every flame is treasured.

Mick McKellar
April 2020


I remembered the sorrow I felt when a small bird flew into our window and broke its neck. A small spark of life extinguished in a moment and gone forever. Then I hear the death count from the pandemic and the enormity of those individual lives gone too soon overwhelmed me.

Mick

Monday, March 02, 2020

Pushing the Season


Late winter’s call has a bone chilling voice,
Ignore at your peril its warnings dire!
Fashion may call for a warm weather choice,
But you’ll get frostbite in summer attire.
Skies look inviting when dressed in bright blue.
Sunshine makes everything look so nice.
Remember a fact that is also true:
Blue is a color of freshwater ice.
Spring will arrive, and will melt hearts and snow.
Summer will come in its appointed time -- 
Time to wear warm weather cape and chapeau.
Why get them covered in road salt and rime?
Keep that inelegant drip from your nose:
Wear your appropriate winter-weight clothes.

Mick McKellar
March 2020

I see it every year. Folks wear shorts and winter parkas, or walk to school in a hoodie
at 25℉, pushing the season to wear more fashionable clothes. 

Mick

Sunday, February 23, 2020

Manipulator

In a well-lived life, we will bark our shins,
Stub our big toes, and jam the little ones.
We’ll collect misunderstandings and sins,
Even grow angry and laugh at bad puns.
Because we have such emotional range,
The world can make us both happy and sad.
Emotions allow us to dance with change,
And learn to adapt to news -- good or bad.
Beware the wily manipulator,
The monster, who feeds on your hate and fear
With paranoid dreams, an agitator
Who'll steal all your freedoms, all you hold dear.
Just living’s a painful enough prologue,
We don’t need the help of a demagogue!

Mick McKellar
February 2020


We cause enough emotional damage just living our lives. As we grow and mature, we manage to heal and get along -- most of the time. Along comes a manipulator, one with a talent for fanning fear and hatred into unthinking frenzy. Fear is the mind killer and the captor of souls. Beware! Stop and take stock of your blessings. Clear your mind, and maybe you can see the manipulation.

Mick

Friday, February 21, 2020

Palette

A man once lived in a world of red,
From crimson shoes to red hair on his head.
He ate tomatoes, sliced very fine,
And drank only semi-dry, dark-red wine.

One day, on the border with the world of blue,
A cerulean maiden was tying her shoe.
Her azure dress caught his roving eye,
For it matched the color of her world's sky.

His bloodshot eyes met hers -- deep blue...
And in that instant, they both knew
They'd struggle to find a secret place,
For their purple passion's fond embrace.

But there wasn't any place to hide;
So they straddled the border, half on each side.
Their romance glowed with rainbow hues,
And soon they shared some gladsome news.

They loudly called to all with grins,
"We're pregnant, with a set of twins!"
Their offspring were a startling sight:
For one was black and one was white...

Each day they searched again, anew,
For harmony in spite of hue,
And lived a lesson for me and you:
They're family - black, red, white, and blue.

Mick McKellar
February 2020


I found this poem, unfinished, from March 2008. I liked its message and finished it this morning.

Mick