Saturday, May 20, 2017

Pie Crust Castles

Your campaign voice wove pageants in my mind,
Bright images flowed swiftly into place.
Your promise of the riches I would find,
Did quickly pull me into greed's embrace.
I saw the fantasies you did describe;
I heard the phantom wind in distant trees;
I felt desire's touch -- its subtle bribe,
And yearning brought my reason to its knees.
The walls, the parapets, the towers seem
So real, I scarce believed that they could fall.
And yet they shattered, fracturing the dream,
Until the castles crumbled, one and all.
Your promises were more fragile than fair,
Your lies, your pie crust castles in the air.

Mick McKellar
May 2017


I wonder if politicians ever think about the sense of loss that must overwhelm many of their volunteers and dedicated supporters when, after they are elected, they fail to pursue the wonderful dreams they spoke about, the pie crust promises of their campaign.

Mick


Monday, May 15, 2017

Invisible Hero

The smartest man that may ever have been,
Though he espoused advice both wise and sage;
Could walk and talk, both unheard and unseen,
If he appeared to be a certain age.
His comments could a famine bring to heel.
His wisdom broker long-envisioned peace.
His passion teach a country how to feel
Compassionate, to make the hatred cease.
And yet, it's likely he would be ignored;
Remain invisible and stay unheard.
Our brash cacophony will just reward,
The risqué, the vulgar, and the absurd.
He'll simply fade to black, an anecdote:
An old fart in a polyester coat.

Mick McKellar
May 2017


I have discovered the secret to becoming invisible and silent as the grave — become old.

Mick

Thursday, March 16, 2017

A Night Terror

I crouch, a curmudgeon, before my screen,
With tears in my eyes, for I am in pain.
My eyes burn savagely for what I’ve seen,
As the words that I read have seared my brain.
Each day our country tears itself apart;
We kill each other for color of skin.
Religious fanatics want new wars to start;
The rich sit back and watch profits roll in.
The media flood with half-truths and lies;
Our fountain of truth spouts poison and hate.
Then as the soul of democracy dies,
We helplessly watch, for it is too late...
I awake, my eyes filled with burning tears,
And I vow to try to confront my fears.

Mick McKellar
March 2017


How are you sleeping these days?

Mick

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

Touched by Light

I lay asleep upon my bed.
I woke and wondered -- was I dead?
I looked about, and wondrously
A golden light enveloped me.
It felt so warm upon my skin,
It penetrated deep within.
Its touch so gentle, filled with power,
I lay enthralled for near an hour.
No voices boomed, no vast release,
I simply felt, at last, at peace.
Within that golden, glowing touch,
I'd never felt so loved, so much.
As I recall it, lovingly,
I feel it glowing still -- in me.

Mick McKellar
March 2017

Sunday, February 19, 2017

A Right to Be


I ponder as each day grows dark,
Why dreams must dim and smiles grow stark;
Why fear looms larger in the night,
And people cry for morning’s light.

I wonder, for it makes no sense,
To catalog each difference
Between my neighbor and myself,
And store it high on hatred’s shelf.

I ponder and I wonder long,
Why welcoming new folks is wrong;
When they might have so much to give,
And all they want is just to live.

They live, they love, they laugh, and cry;
Aspire, perspire, grow old, and die.
Though some don't look like you and me,
All humans have a right to be!

They  tell me we’ll be great again,
But can’t say how and can’t say when;
That we are only on “our” side,
And soon, we’ll build a wall...and hide.

Mick McKellar

February 2017
 
Question: Can’t they just swim around the ends of the wall, or fly over it?

Mick

Wednesday, February 01, 2017

Silent Ballets

Silent Ballets

Stillness envelops,
As snowfall develops,
Rolling beneath a white curtain.
Shivers anticipate,
Watchful bright eyes await;
A silent ballet is certain.
And shifting and sifting,
Of sparkling dunes drifting,
That plunge and erupt their burden.

Shining snow-devils dance,
Across sunlit expanse,
Dazzling carpets of diamonds, bright.
Until sunlight has gone,
When the cloud break moves on,
And greyness descends as a blight —
Upon brilliance displayed,
Where the snow creatures played,
Cavorting for joy in my sight.

The shifting snow races,
To cover all traces,
Of winter’s delirious dance.
While I watch at window,
Enjoying the grand show,
And awaiting another chance.
Mick McKellar
February 2017


I complain often about so much snow, but I truly enjoy the wild, windblown ballet.

Mick

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