Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Sojourner

I shutter my eyes as I slowly rock,
Under a ceiling of mellow haint blue.
Porch prophet, oracle, taking my stock
Of legion stories that claim to be true.
Poling my jon boat through sloughs of voices,
Teeming with phantoms of misadventures,
Haunted by spectres of bungled choices,
Shocked to see ancient blunders...with dentures!
Sunlight refuses to pierce through the gate.
Darkness and mist wail long poltergeist screams;
Shattering peace in robust waves of hate,
Frightening hearts and destroying their dreams.
I lose no sleep over what I can't do;
I am but a sojourner passing through...

Mick McKellar
September 2018


How many, I wonder, are in their rockers -- surrounded by signs, totems, and symbols that make them feel safer -- yet they are so shattered by the fierce hatred and calumny of recent events, that they have checked out, waiting to simply pass on. It is tempting.

Mick

Friday, September 21, 2018

Not About Me

You want to save the Earth,
With all the things you do.
You fight for all you're worth,
But nothing works for you.

No one answers your cries.
Nobody hears your pleas.
Your passion almost dies,
While you beg on your knees.
With ev'rything you do,
Why doesn't it ring true?
Because it's not about you.
It's not all about you.

I'm sure they all hate me.
They talk behind my back.
I listen carefully,
At ev'ry little crack!

No one answers my cries.
Nobody hears my pleas.
My spirit almost dies,
While crawling on my knees.
With ev'rything I see,
Why can't I be carefree?
Because it's not about me.
It's not all about me.

No one listens to you.
No one listens to me.
I can't tell what is true;
I can't trust what I see.

No one answers our cries.
Nobody hears our pleas.
The message in our eyes,
Demands swift aid for these
With ev'rything to lose.
Why are we not the news?
Because it's not about us.
It's not all about us.

Mick McKellar
September 2018


Do the words I type into social media pages change any minds? Do my opinions make any difference at all? Why do others so patently ignore me? Maybe -- it's not about me...

Mick

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Truly Incognito

Though many daily mount the stage to plea,
With evidence and facts held high in hand:
They will look, but I know they will not see.
They will read, but they will not understand.
As stories are distorted round by round,
As false facts fill the bloated media,
The whisper/shout of lies makes epic sound-
Bytes drive us to support acedia...
Yet, sparkles of our banter on the page,
Attract the restless prides of roving eyes,
Whose fearful minds soak in a bath of rage;
And what rage can’t deny, it just defies.
I ponder it all as a simple sleuth;
And wonder, will we recognize the truth?

Mick McKellar
September 2018


So many claim to speak the truth, but they can’t all be right...can they?

Mick

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Joyless

I gazed upon the countenances of
Our faces in our church this Sunday morn.
Our voices floated, raised in songs of love
Above the nave, the call to save, adorned
With wonderful glad words, soared as the flow
Reluctantly crescendoed in the air --
So solemnly -- with care both soft and slow...
That joy got scared and went to hide somewhere.
God, who gave us joy and mirth and laughter,
Must have wanted worship to be gladsome.
Maybe we don’t have what we are after,
Or maybe we said “No thanks, I had some…”
If joy was in the room, even traces,
I think it would have shown on our faces.

Mick McKellar
September 2018


It was a moment frozen in time. It overwhelmed me. I looked about me as I listened to the slow, sonorous music of the Mass and many voices raised in Alleluias. But all the faces were stone sober, solemn, almost somber. It was the kind of disconnect that burns itself into your memory. Words of joy from austere faces -- a curious mystery for certain.

Mick

Saturday, September 08, 2018

Too Tired

I greeted this morning's sun with a smile,
And wanted to dance because I felt great.
Dressing, I hummed an old tune for a while,
And hurried downstairs for my breakfast plate.
Tea was delicious (I made it myself).
My cereal bowl rang out, like a bell,
When my fav'rite cereal on the shelf
Clattered into the small ceramic well.
As I plied the sea of milk with my spoon,
I surveyed my tablet for the day's news.
Saw crises galore, and it's not yet noon;
Each writer berating the others' views.
I turned it off, and the silence was great!
It's morning, but I'm just too tired to hate.

Mick McKellar
September 2018


Some days, I refuse to turn on my tablet while I'm eating my breakfast, because the news is going to be divisive and hateful. Some folks are talking about working together, but most often they're politicians blowing smoke or someone selling something. It's easier to plow through after my tea (or coffee).

Mick

Wednesday, September 05, 2018

Civics 101

I treasure my sepia memories,
Of correspondence both civil and bright,
When citizens exercised liberties,
And friends disagreed, but they didn't fight.
Last night, I lay in the dark and wondered:
What happened to simple civility?
When was our rationality sundered
From us? And I whispered, "How can this be?"
The grey-water dawn brought me nothing new.
My whispers at midnight etched no progress.
Our unspoken questions still echo through
The tragically empty halls of congress.
Whether cross the aisle, or across the seas,
It seems that we only see enemies.

Mick McKellar
September 2018


I learned to debate in high school. We didn't make up facts. We didn't brag about our bank balances or IQ-levels. We didn't start or finish debates by slinging dirt on our competitors. We argued points and facts, often fiercely and with finesse. But we were civil and sometimes even were friends.

Mick

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Resolute Narrative

Would the you I met have meant something less,
Had I met you in a different time?
Would the you I met make my life a mess:
In an abyss, with a mountain to climb?
Would the you I met have meant something more,
Had I met you when I was much older?
Would the you I met have opened your door,
Or left me outside to languish, colder?
Perhaps we met at a moment ordained;
Written in history, destined to be.
Much more would be lost, than anything gained
By tampering with our biography.
If we changed our story...our history,
You wouldn't be you -- I wouldn't be me.

Mick McKellar
August 2018


A friend was wondering what would happen if he met some folks earlier or later or not at all; perhaps wishing to be a different person.

Mick