Monday, May 14, 2018

The Proclamation

“I want to be a writer dad!”
I once said, with a cautious grin.
“I want my words to all sink in,
Prompt the hesitant to begin,
Win the silent Olympiad!”

“My mind is full of untold tales.
I’ve poems full of rhyming verse.
I’ve pithy comments, wry and terse...
My stories fill a universe,
Where good guys win and love prevails”

“Although a brush won’t fit my hand,
A pen and paper will suffice:
To paint with light, with fire, with ice --
To sculpt the wind in Paradise,
And find true love in shifting sand.”

“My words will dance to please the eye;
My phrases wake a shut-up heart,
And take a wall of hate apart.
I’ll shoot aloft a verbal dart,
And write a life upon the sky!”

His eyes opened and looked my way.
I waited on his comment wise.
I waited as he blinked his eyes,
Cleared his throat to speak and advise.
He coughed and said, “What did you say?”

Mick McKellar
May 2018

Sometimes, you first have to get their attention…


Monday, May 07, 2018

Of Monsters and Miracles

As nature's convulsions stir our dark tea,
Brewing concoctions we best leave apart;
Lest that which destroys us be set free,
To warp our blithe spirit and break the heart.
Welcoming ghosts with the specter of hate,
Standing in shadows amidst the bleak fog,
Tempts the forlorn with vast hungers to sate,
Banishing sunlight to walk the black dog.
Revenant bright of our spirit long freed,
Miracle mirage of libertied past,
Kindle a fire in our moment of need;
Illuminate monsters before us massed.
Grant to our sovereign freedoms new birth,
As monsters and miracles walk the Earth.

Mick McKellar
May 2018

I still believe that America is a miracle. A renaissance of age-old human monsters necessitates a watch-fire to illuminate the threat.


Monday, April 30, 2018

Dream Bridge

I stood erect on an alien plain,
Gazing spellbound at a lavender sky,
As webs of stars knit from fiery skein,
Traced golden contrails of a firefly.
An azure forest was marching abreast,
In time with a thunderstorm's hue and cry;
Whilst a purple raven paced long, hard pressed
To shrewdly determine a reason why.
I shielded my eyes from the bluish sun,
Left the talking raven to chat alone...
I returned to where my dream had begun,
To walk once again into the unknown:
Climb a crystal bridge o'er a starry stream,
And follow that span to another dream.

Mick McKellar
April 2018

We can travel anywhere in the our dreams.


Monday, April 23, 2018

Starshine River

The silver of frost on the morning grass,
Brightly shines in the first light of the dawn;
Until golden sun burns silver to brass,
And to liquid diamonds on verdant lawn.
A radiant river of morning light,
Flows over rooftops and falls to the soil,
Chasing dark shadows with rapids so bright,
The glittering eddies dance with turmoil.
I long to swim in the River Starshine,
To bathe in effulgent, radiant peace;
To drink of the flashing torrent divine,
Liquid aurora of gold and cerise.
But I must remain in the dusky shade,
To watch from the banks, alone and afraid.

Mick McKellar
April 2018

I applaud the wonderful sunshine glowing outside, around our house and across the Keweenaw. Yet, once again, I am reminded by a skin cancer scar, that it’s not for me.


Monday, April 09, 2018

Nightbird's Call

In the regal silence of waking mind,
A lilting call of a nightbird unseen,
Echoes down hallways of cold Travertine,
Shocking out dust from ancient shelves behind.
Then stirring motes in air chill, still, and stale,
From alien statues tall and cold and pale,
And teasing flames of candles a'dancing.

The twilight veil is pierced afresh -- as Thought --
Afoot on slippers cracked from long disuse,
Wobbly, wizened, and wickedly obtuse,
Shuffles, stumbling from dark stacks all dusty,
Jouncing old tomes both mildewed and musty,
To blink rheumy eyes in the light gone fusty,
The source of the nightbird's call a’chancing

Thought is a codger abroad in my house.
He wanders the library halls alone,
And mutters -- his voice like cracking stone --
Talking to himself, just to gripe and grouse.
He once was quick, but crawls instead,
As though his battery was too dead,
To power this late nightbird romancing.

A nightbird’s strange call was heard once again,
Its echo alive in the dormant stacks,
Pulling old Thought from his ancient tracks,
Wincing and whining as though in great pain.
Suddenly, past him the nightbird did fly,
He followed its flight into the night sky,
Sending a new Thought skipping and prancing.

Mick McKellar
April 2018

It has been said that to know your own mind, you must spend time there. In my dreams I visit the grand library in my own mind. Since the chemo, it seems I've been more visitor than patron...


Sunday, April 08, 2018

Echo from the Past

Does an echo love its beginning sound,
Brightest noise in the silence of the night?
What power can make it travel around,
Pushing air in waves over noiseless ground;
Reflecting, refracting, audible light:
Mirrored for ears with auricular sight,
Blinded by stillness dark, voiceless, profound...

Or speak a word, to a raucous abyss
So loud, it creates a silence intense
Enough to cover anything remiss;
Swallowing howls of self-important bliss,
And the constant drumming of common sense.
Does an echo have any real defense,
Or dissipate fast as an angel’s kiss?

Mick McKellar
April 2018

When I speak these days, I feel like an echo from the past, lost in the silence of weary ears.


Saturday, March 17, 2018

When the Shadows Recede

Shadow's rule is ended at break of day:
A murky, misty curtain swept aside.
The death of sleep reversed, dark chased away;
What aurous fire reclaims, it cannot hide.
Morning: I live in a borrowed future.
I sense a goal, intense and yet unclear:
To spring from shadows, a caricature,
A piece of the sun, fiery starlight near.
Light flickers, spills across a grassy sea --
Its path, intent, not even I can guess.
Its golden fire, its music calls to me,
Bright beneath the waters of consciousness.
The light is life, encompassing desire:
I can't fear it; I must become the fire.

Mick McKellar
March 2018

Waking can be an incredible experience.