Monday, January 09, 2017

Homecoming

Homecoming

We found him aboard a strange looking craft
In orbit, near death, in some kind of sleep.
We woke him up there, in that strange life raft.
He opened his eyes and began to weep.
His eyes had no tears and he had no voice,
He looked like us, with some variation.
He didn't make landfall by his own choice
We'd found an ancestor, an Ancient One!
Though immensely old, yet healthy and well,
He studied our world, how far we could roam.
He wrote why they traveled here to dwell,
And why he wanted to journey back home.
We built a fast ship to travel, to find,
And to visit the home of humankind.

To find our origin, we'd traveled far:
A blue marble circling a yellow sun.
When we found a dead planet near that star,
I heard a small noise from the Ancient One.
He had uttered a nearly silent word,
A word that encouraged old memories,
In a tone of voice I had rarely heard:
A desolate voice, to make hot blood freeze.
His eyes looked for wonders eons away;
Whether distance or time, I could not tell.
He shuddered, and slowly began to sway
Was he seeing Heaven or glimpsing Hell?
As though he had witnessed his very birth,
Just once, with reverence, he whispered: "Earth."

The Earth was shrouded in airless winter,
Its atmosphere had been blasted away.
The surface was black a burned out cinder,
And nothing remained, no reason to stay.
They watched as its sun spit a plasma stream,
That missed the planet and their little ship;
And knew, as though seen in an awful dream,
What killed harbor and haven for their trip.
They returned to Harmony, man's new home,
Without the Ancient One's hope and glory;
And never again did the old man roam,
Instead, telling all his planet's story.
Years later, knowing how well he had tried,
The last son of Earth smiled sadly and died.
Mick McKellar
January 2017


Eventually, every moment of now becomes ancient history and every story, no matter how grand, comes to an end. If humankind is to survive either a natural disaster or our own greed, we must reach for the stars.

Mick

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

A Hero's Heartbeat

A Hero's Heartbeat

He lay his head on a cold, snowy bench,
Under a lamppost in the city park.
His worn, unwashed clothes had a musky stench,
So folks left him alone there, in the dark.

The stone bench was hard, but the snow was soft,
And he hardly felt the cold anymore.
When his eyes closed, dreams carried him aloft,
Where his legs and back were no longer sore.

As over the frozen pond he drifted,
He turned to look back at his silent form,
Under a blanket, as soft snow sifted
So gently, slowly a peaceful snow storm.

He heard his heart beat, out over the lake,
Its uncertain rhythm marking his fight,
As winter attempted his life to take,
And he fought on, alone on Christmas night.

A flash of green light brought his spirit back,
To hover once more near his sleeping clay.
A green man pulled a guitar from his pack,
Sat by a green fire, and started to play.

He drifted close, to hear the Minstrel croon
Sweet songs, to sooth a long forgotten soul,
In silvery light from the winter moon,
And soon they achieved their intended goal.

The Minstrel suddenly stopped his sweet song,
And a deep silence enveloped the night.
He knew in an instant, something was wrong:
His heartbeat had given up its long fight.

The Minstrel stood, and saluting with grace,
Said, "Sergeant, it's time that I took you home.
Your dress uniform is back in its place,
And your spirit no longer has to roam."

He smiled because he would suffer no more.
And a soldier entered the golden door.
Mick McKellar
December 2016


It is a tragedy that any who fought for our freedoms, should suffer in the cold and die in despair.

Mick

Monday, December 19, 2016

Lights and Voices

Lights and Voices

I dream Christmas dreams with eyes open wide,
To savor the shimmering, colorful sights.
Our snow-covered home, glows so warm inside,
With happiness, love, and flickering lights.
Richer yet than twinkling light that abounds,
Than the rainbow-hued diamonds shining there,
Are the brilliant, happy, and joyful sounds.
That permeate crystalline, Christmas air.
Golden voices narrating ageless tales,
Silver voices raised in carols and song,
Telling stories where Christmas love prevails;
Where magic wins and we all get along.
Thankful I don't have to make such choices,
I can savor lights AND love the voices!
Mick McKellar
December 2016


Much of my Christmas dreaming is done with my eyes wide open, soaking in the sights and sounds, the the voices raised in song, the voices warmly offering friendly greetings, and the voices telling ageless tales of Christmas magic and love.

Mick

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