Saturday, November 17, 2018

Being Seasonal

I love the crunching of the frosty snow,
And the nip of the wind upon my nose,
Snowflakes that follow wherever I go,
And even the weight of warm winter clothes.
The old fashioned music that warms my heart,
Is much older than I can remember.
Yet, it seems reborn from the season's start,
Till the blest twenty-fifth of December.
Though "holidays" start earlier each year,
And their main focus is on gift giving;
There's a simple rule to which I adhere:
Christmas season starts after Thanksgiving!
A day to give thanks for our kith and kin.
One for the Child with no room at the inn.

Mick McKellar
November 2018


With media and stores driving our holiday expectations, it seems we are losing the meaning of the words we sing and the words we say.

Mick

Friday, November 09, 2018

A Christmas Casserole

Stave I

As I sat here weak and weary,
Pondering stories dark and dreary,
I realized something about Fred.
My story offers no reprieve,
If it doesn't lead you to believe,
That like a doornail, Fred was dead.

My scary Christmas story starts,
With the master of the stingy arts,
One, Ronald J. Drumpf, Esquire.
Who, once for just the insurance:
Two thousand pounds and seven pence,
Set his mother's house afire.

Full seven years since Fred's demise,
Ron sat with bloodshot, bleary eyes,
Gazed at reports his staff had sent.
He tried to read the tiny words,
'Bout caravans and fighting Kurds,
For he was now the President.

He called upon his chief of staff,
A general -- it made him laugh
To make him just an errand boy.
He told him to go fire a guy,
Who didn't bow when Ron walked by --
Another career to destroy!

He'd finished with his toilet time,
And heard his Rolex softly chime,
He must go to his residence.
For working, even on his ass,
Was far below the upper class,
And duty was a pestilence.

He took the elevator up,
On three Big Macs tonight he'd sup,
While watching a big TV screen.
But on the shiny lift doors bright,
Appeared a very scary sight:
Old Fred's face could clearly be seen.

The apparition gave him pause,
And even startled him, because
"Hi, ya sonny!" the face said.
He choked and mumbled, "That can't be --
My father cannot talk to me!
I buried him cheaply -- he's dead!"

The lift doors opened quick and wide,
Fred's face split, and slid aside.
And Ronald stumbled coming out.
The Secret Service grabbed his arm,
So that he should not come to harm,
He shook them off with just a pout.

The guard stepped back, out of the way,
And stood there, with the Big Mac tray,
Waiting, his eyes shining bright.
Without a smile, a nod, or jokes,
Ron took the tray, some Diet Cokes,
And said, "I don't need you tonight."

He shambled into his bedroom,
As quiet as an empty tomb,
And slurped the first of many a Coke.
Until he heard a sloshing river,
And smelled a stench that made him shiver,
It gagged him, and it made him choke.

His bloodshot eyes both opened wide,
As closet doors just slid aside,
Hip deep in muck, in walked old Fred!
He smelled so bad Drumpf nearly fainted,
An odor he had not acquainted,
Slowly all around him spread.

"Do you know me?" asked the ghost.
"Hi, Dad..." Drumpf said, well, almost --
"Are you in Hell, now that you're dead?
This looks like something I could take!"
Fred laughed at him, "I'm on break.
Else, I am standing on my head."

"Because I know this waits for you,
In fact, you're at your neck in goo,
I came to offer you a chance.
So you don't have to follow me,
My friends will visit, spirits three.
Each one requires a cash advance!"

A gong sound made old Fred just scream,
As he was swept up in vile stream,
And something turned him on his head.
Slowly drained that noisome mess,
And dragged along, under duress,
The last he saw of daddy...Fred.

Stave II

Drumpf sat down hard upon the floor,
His bone spurs ached, he was so sore,
That even food and TV lost their shine.
As he wondered "What's the time?"
He heard a distant, wicked chime,
And then came an annoying whine.

The whine grew louder, even higher,
He knew the sound -- a cheap hair dryer --
Coming through  the bathroom door.
Soon the sound stopped altogether,
Now he waited to see whether
Twas a ghost or something more.

Through the door there came, oh brother!
First one boob and then another...
Out walked Stormy -- a porn star!
"Hi there, Ronny! I've been cast:
As Ronny J. Drumpf's Christmas Past
Get up, ya schmuck, we must go far!"

You know the story of their trip:
From golden spoon to chairmanship,
Every privilege he had.
He ducked responsibility,
and played dirty repeatedly,
At business he was very bad.

They flew around the business world,
Her hair a golden flag unfurled.
As he reviewed his life's delights.
He watched his siblings lose their chances.
He watched his habits kill romances.
They even looked at Christmas lights...

Stormy said, "You're such a louse!"
And dropped him off at the White House,
Sitting on his bedroom floor.
Yawning, he just checked his bling.
He never felt a single thing...
Just a trip and nothing more.

Stave III

Stormy left ... again that chime!
And he heard loud knocking this time,
At his bedroom closet door.
As he opened it up wide,
He found Hillary inside.
"Man, your wardrobe is a snore!"

"For both of us this is not pleasant,
I'm the ghost of Christmas present,
And we have stuff we gotta do.
One big change, I said must be:
I don't want you to touch me,
So I'll just hand you Bill's old shoe."

Off they flew like Peter Pan,
Until they spied a caravan,
Camped for rest and Christmas cheer.
Happy kids and worn-out mothers,
Helping care for one another's
Kids, while momma chugged a beer.

Men were playing cards and drinking,
Some just sat alone and thinking,
How to save their families.
Hillary heard all their longings.
Drumpf rummaged through their belongings,
Seeking weapons he could seize.

They traveled through the poorest places,
Stared into the worried faces,
Of the poor on Christmas eve.
Hillary's old heart was breaking.
Drumpf looked hard for stuff worth taking,
And said, "They're losers, I believe!"

Finally, with her heart broken,
All her arguments were spoken.
She gave up her Christmas quest.
Fast as she could use her zoom,
She dropped him back in his bedroom,
And stood to deliver the rest:

Even though it really hurt,
Hillary raised up her skirt,
And revealed two creatures there.
McConnell and Giuliani,
Sat there grasping ankle and knee,
Each with glowing, baleful stare.

"I tell you: Beware these creatures,
With their white and pasty features,
For your future they will haunt!
They will draw on our resources,
Stop good plans in all their courses:
They are ignorance and want!"

Stave IV

He watched her just vaporize,
Creatures fade before his eyes,
So he slumped upon his chair.
His scream hit a high climax --
For he'd sat on all his Big Macs!
He'd fire the guard who put them there!

Christmas future came, of course:
Putin rode in on a horse,
Offering a bareback ride.
Drumpf climbed up upon his chair,
Big Mac's flying everywhere,
Sighing as he jumped astride.

Off they rode, and faced the bright,
Lovely,  golden, shining light,
Of a brilliant Christmas Day.
People rushed about and hustled,
Carried packages and rustled,
Voices happy, loud, and (ugh!) gay!

Everyone was smiling, happy.
No one's grouching, feeling crappy,
No one life was full of drama.
Happiness is what they're crying!
Love their leader: no denying,
President Michelle Obama!

Drumpf woke up tucked in his bed,
Big Macs lined up, round his head;
Wiped the sleepers from his eyes.
Ron donned his same dark wool suit,
And long red tie -- the full reboot,
And went downstairs to tell some lies.

Merry Christmas...some things just won't change...

Mick McKellar
November 2018


If Edgar Allan Poe and Michel de Nostredame had helped Charles Dickens write A Christmas Carol. Quatrains become sestets. Predictions abound which seem to be coming true...

Mick

Sunday, November 04, 2018

Together, Dreamwalking

Are you in my dream when we walk elsewhere;
We travel together the starlight sea?
Such an ethereal journey we share,
As we wander the cosmos, you and me!
We walk out of time on a distant world,
Into a novel that strays out of place;
To sail on a ship with its sails unfurled,
Crossing the infinite darkness of space.
Each faraway and exotic sunrise,
Warms my smiling face with light polychrome,
Yet alien landscapes that greet my eyes,
Still feel comforting as a journey home.
I revel to travel this vast unknown,
With gratitude that I'm never alone.

Mick McKellar
November 2018


I journey in my dreams, often to places and times that have no counterpart in our reality. In all those travels, I sense that I am not alone. Does my guardian angel travel with me, or an unknown soul mate? Maybe God is keeping tabs on me. Wow.

Mick

Saturday, October 27, 2018

Hand of Friendship

He stood upon a hill and waved to me.
The first thing that I noticed was his smile,
And friendship that it offered seemed to be
What made my immigration strife worthwhile.
I climbed the hill and took his proffered hand,
I shook it, and I flashed my brightest grin.
My family was in the promised land,
And thus began our journey to fit in.
Though most of our new neighbors welcomed us,
And we worked to become Americans;
The politics became so poisonous,
That all our invitations turned to bans.
He stands upon the hill, out in the sun,
But now his hand of friendship holds a gun.

Mick McKellar
October 2018


Maybe that change is not the result of immigration, but the politics of hate and fear turning our welcome sour.

Mick

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

The Dyson Sphere

I dreamt that I lived in a Dyson sphere,
In a time so far away,
We no longer used words like month or year;
We only knew night and day.

It didn't seem crazy, to see the land
Climb upwards into the sky;
To see mountains that had no summit, and
Never pause to question why.

Our power came down from the mountains, which
Reached to panels near the sun;
Whose traveling shadows, like a huge switch,
Made night when the day was done.

We traveled in tunnels far underground,
To go any place for free:
Sitting in vacuum tubes that made no sound,
At extreme velocity!

The oceans and islands and great, huge lakes,
Had water enough for all.
And farmers replaced what crop growing takes,
From the land inside our ball.

Small particles drawn from a neutron star,
Helped provide our gravity.
This happened outside, and it was so far
That I never got to see.

I dreamt I was there for about a day --
And a life, that felt so right,
When something suddenly pulled me away,
And I woke...at home...at night...

I'll never forget my other life, when
I felt only joy, not fear.
I humbly pray that I can try again,
My life in a Dyson sphere.

Mick McKellar
October 2018


I dreamt this last night, and it was so vivid, so real -- that I had to tell the story. The sight of a lake bigger than Superior rising into the sky, arching into a vast distant haze is something I can never forget -- even if only a dream...

Mick

Friday, October 12, 2018

A Near Binge

My attitude of gratitude has dimmed.
Its gentle glow and glimmer can't impinge
Upon the gloomy path of ennui, trimmed
With comfort foods on which I like to binge.
The cookies whisper from our cupboard shelves,
That calories leak from the broken ones,
Also, because these treats are made by elves,
There is no fat in sweet cinnamon buns.
Though spicy salsa makes chips taste divine,
And crunching sounds are pleasing to my ears,
I only eat a few, so it's benign:
Containers promptly sealed with bitter tears.
So I can truly claim, I don't collude
With sweet and salty, crunchy, tasty food.

Mick McKellar
October 2018


News is nearly always upsetting these days. Fears, hopes dashed, the inmates are running the institution -- so I seek solace in unhealthy, and therefore tasty food. But, I have it under control...I really do.

Mick

This is Just to Reply

I have read all
the words
that you shared
on my screen

and which
you undoubtedly
left there
on purpose

Forget them?
they were too painful
so tart
and so cold

Mick McKellar
October 2018


P.S. WCW -- I stole your plums...

Mick