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

Thursday, February 20, 2020

What I Learned from Harry Potter

I learned that master storytellers still
Exist, and share the magic of their tales;
That simple stories, told with passion, will
Prove that imagination still prevails
Against the darkness of our modern age --
A separation by technology,
From wonders shared upon the printed page,
From truths captured in words for all to see;
That riches based on privilege and gold,
Are mirrored shadows shining brilliantly,
But truest riches can't be bought or sold --
A precious gift from friends and family;
That no one can survive alone, apart,
And magic's true source is the human heart.

Mick McKellar
April 2008


I discovered this poem buried on an old thumb drive, probably written in the wee hours of the morning and forgotten the next day. It seems somehow appropriate now. We need some magic.

Mick

Saturday, February 15, 2020

Me That Used to Be

Though I still grieve for me that used to be,
The me I am is prone to give me pause,
To stand apart, to see what I can see:
Am I "cause célèbre" or Santa Claus?
My memories have mirrors full of smoke;
My mental movies flicker and demur.
A dagger of the mind I can't uncloak:
The life I used to live has grown obscure.
Don't get me wrong, I love that I still live,
That I still have a story to be told,
That I still have a gift or two to give.
The me I am is something to behold!
I love that I'm still here and I am me,
Yet, still I grieve for me that used to be.

Mick McKellar
February 2020


Although I still struggle and fight to remain alive and adapt to my new life, I suppose it's just human nature to still grieve a little for the way I used to be.

Mick

Monday, February 03, 2020

Subtle Wind

I sometimes wonder what I’d hear,
If the hissing wind stopped blowing.
If voices whispering in my ear,
Went silent -- silently going.

What would the sound of no sound be?
Like darkness in the blackest night?
Or is it soft, dark, real to me,
Like blackest earth in deep twilight?

Just once in church’s nave to pray,
And sense the angels listening,
While multicolored light of day,
Reveals my eyes are glistening.

To offer love and silent prayer,
In plaintive voice of mind and soul,
And hear their passage through the air,
As upward they soar toward their goal.

And then, to quiet heart and mind,
Let stillness bring peace and accord;
To listen for the subtle wind,
The silent whisper of the Lord.
Mick McKellar
February 2020

I’ve never known the sound of silence because of the windless wind in my ears.

Mick

Saturday, January 04, 2020

Protest

Between the super-massive cacophonies
And Earth-shattering upheavals ,
Lies the momentary peace
When the world takes a breath,
To begin the next cycle.

I want to be the tiny whisper
On the silent wind
During that pregnant pause.
I want to ask:
Why?
How?
At what cost?
Is it truth? Is is right?
"What about me...is there room for me in your new world?"

I want to laugh at the ridiculous.
I want to cry with the victims.
I want to sing the songs of change,
And recite the poetry of remembrance.
I want to write words that encourage those
Blinded by hate, goaded by fear, and misled by liars and charlatans--
To open their eyes and really look at what is happening around them
And to them.
I want to question power and scoff at riches,
Searching for what humanity remains beneath.

Physically, I am not imposing.
Mentally, I am not a giant.
My heart has seen darkness and did not die.
I have traveled to death's door and returned.
I have something to say.

Mick McKellar
January 2020

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

2020

I hear you coming, 2020!
Your rumble rolls over frozen hills,
And tops the icy breakers of the big lake.
Your bleak and burgeoning song rends the snowy morn;
It shouts chaos and whispers promise.

I see you coming, 2020!
Your shadow creeps upon the shore,
An Eastern billow breaking the dawn asunder,
Shattering the wall of the night and the twilight's mist.
You herald sunrise, golden and gaunt and new.

I feel you coming, 2020!
Your building gale presses on my soul;
The rock of my home ripples, waves upon a pond.
I taste the liquor of your wind:
Orange blossoms and brimstone.
I savor the loamy breath of turned earth,
And the precious aroma of Spring’s promise,
Beneath the cold essence of Winter’s cleansing.

I stand upon my hill, arms wide and welcoming;
I await the sweep of your midwinter Mistral.

Mick McKellar
December 2019


Change is coming. I sense it in the fiber of my being.

Mick

Monday, December 30, 2019

Dream Walk in a Dark Forest

Brown bracken, dried, broken carpets my path
Underfoot, touching the night with soft sighs.
Falling behind lie frustration and wrath,
Left to evaporate, drift to the skies.
Slow and deliberate, gentle footfalls
Traverse the halcyon tranquility.
Stillness disturbed, sends forth clarion calls,
Telling the forest of trespassing...me.
My solo passage is free, unresisted,
Traveling, lost in my sequestered thought;
Sorting my blessings and problems, listed
In lights on the mental note that I brought.
If the quiet walk helps, I have no doubt:
The lights on my mental note will go out.

Mick McKellar
December 2019


I miss going for walks late at night, especially on a snowy, silent night.

Mick