Ears of My Eyes

Poetry is song to be heard by the eyes. It is sculpture to be felt by the mind. It is a canvas to be touched by the human heart. Sometimes that song is raucous and brash. Sometimes the sculpture is coarse and rough. Sometimes the picture is brutal and dark, the canvas abrasive to the point it leaves you heart-sore.

Yet even in the bad times, there is love in the letters that can be felt, touched, and heard by the heart and shared by the spirit. The message may be tough to take, but if it is written with love letters, they may soften the blow and heal the soul. The trick is to listen...with the ears of your eyes.

Mick

Ears of My Eyes

Can anguished writing sound harried and hoarse,
And loud enough to scream pain in the ink?
The letters themselves make no sound of course -
Yet they represent what their writers think.
I know angry words can shout in pure rage,
While kind words touch even the coldest heart;
And criticism writ black on the page,
Rips even the closest friendship apart.
True love letters whisper so soft and low,
I re-read them and listen carefully.
Your silent whispers have nowhere to go,
Save to sing to my heart, so quietly
That my heart can feel what my mind denies:
I hear your love with the ears of my eyes...

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Touch of Winter on My Soul

Winter's taught blend of darkness and light, bounty and blight, shadow and bright sunlight teases the senses and chills the blood. When sadness and fear blend to steal away the light, the luminous soul becomes a grey shadow - a dent in the darkness, a hole in the night - the grey gloom under the faint cloudlight. (Cloudlight is the reflected glow of city street lights shining down from low-hanging winter clouds.)

When a lost soul loses touch with the joys of Christmas, friends, family and the bright hope of the future, when the obscene angst of uncertain fears steals away the warmth of the holidays, when the weight of responsibility bears a hopeless heart to the ice covered surface of a midnight highway, winter can touch your soul and silence the joyful song of your life.

Trust me, many who walk in darkness do not fear the light - winter's touch has riven their connection to Christmas - and like skin over-exposed to the cold, the slightest warmth can burn like a thousand suns and turn a tiny twinkle into a rapier of light. Little wonder the grey shadows seek the velvet comfort of the indigo night...

Mick

Touch of Winter on My Soul

Tree islands stand where the frozen tides flow,
Dried summer grasses dance winter's wind dance.
Field mouse adrift on a sea of white snow,
Sprints to the beat of my heart's secret glance.
Dent in the darkness, a hole in the gloom -
Silent, I side-step and move beyond sight.
Touched by winter and as cold as the tomb,
My soul drifts unseen under faint cloudlight.

The black spectral arms of maples and oaks,
Grasp the grey shadow of the hopeless heart,
Until the harsh voice of the shadow croaks
In rage, as my memories tear apart.
Bare limbs shaking in a Christmas breeze,
Haunting dark empty streets with no goal -
Take what I need, forget what I please -
I fear the touch of winter on my soul!

The night walker stumbles, wounded by light -
Multi-hued shafts launched by those not unkind,
Bright, glowing, colorful darts pierce the night,
Rending the battle shield guarding my mind.
Though cloudlight shines wanly from midnight skies,
My thoughts are stark, sinister, black as coal -
I know the dark truth that my heart denies:
I bear the touch of winter on my soul.

And the Christmas joy I wanted so much,
Flees from the grey shadow, without a touch...

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Glass Tornado

It seems like an age since the first time I photographed an icicle hanging from the eaves or the soffit of my home. Before insulation was as popular as it is today, homes in my neighborhood (while growing up) sported some real whoppers. I remember that, while I was a child in the Detroit area, there were always people injured and even killed by huge icicles falling from buildings - usually downtown. These days, when the occasional build up on the flashing of my roof lets go, ice falls two stories to land on my deck, and even that tiny shift of watery mass causes my house to shake. Imagine several hundred pounds of water ice falling from a five story building to the sidewalks below!

When I received my first camera, a Brownie Hawkeye (remember 620 film?) - I always tried to find an interesting angle on icicles - especially on a sunny day, when the light would refract through the ice and paint rainbows on the siding. The image taken from our office window made me thing of a tornado hovering over the Houghton area -- a tornado made of glass...

Mick

Beware the Glass Tornado

Lurking just beyond your vision's fringes,
The Glass Tornado hides in plainest sight.
So cold it freezes, so bright it singes,
It stalks you silently, refracting light
As quietly, it daily grows longer -
And more massive, as it just hangs around,
Getting thicker, but not growing stronger.
A quick-growing menace that makes no sound,
Flash-frozen child of white storm in its place,
Soffit symbiote and portico leech,
It loves a precipice as its home base -
Loitering and lounging, just out of reach.
I tell you: Beware the Glass Tornado -
When it falls from the roof...don't be below!

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Premonition

People want and need to be recognized and thanked for their efforts. To the busy executive and the harassed manager, taking time to say "Thanks" when an employee does something for which they are already being paid seems a waste of time. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Years ago, I worked for a Federal employer (who shall remain nameless) in a location that shall remain nameless. During my fifteen years with the agency, regular evaluations took the form of long critical reviews of submitted claims work. It was always negative, and even when you did really well, they always found something about which to complain. I remarked that good management technique follows the rule that you get better results with a little honey than with gallons of vinegar. At this point, our district manager said something that has stayed with me ever since: "Your reward is your paycheck - it's all you need and all you will get." Many staff left the agency during his tenure, myself included. Eventually, he was removed from his position when it was discovered that his barbaric management techniques and dark ages attitude had demoralized his staff and reduced performance to abysmal levels.

The morality tale which follows is loosely based on this true story - no names have been changed for no one was innocent...

Mick

Premonition

Long ago, I shared a premonition
With a boss who just didn't understand,
Employees need special recognition -
Just a word, or shake of the boss's hand.

He told me he thought my idea daft,
And scoffed at my simple naivete.
He just looked at my suggestion and laughed,
Then he balled it up and threw it away.

He said, "People don't work for thank-you's friend.
Their paycheck is all the reward they need."
He stalked away, as if that was the end -
And all he needed to know to succeed.

Business continued, but hadn't flourished,
When recession hit the economy.
His staff, their emotions undernourished,
Just did not respond to his anguished plea:

"We need to work harder and longer, friends,
To protect and continue your paychecks!
You understand what recession portends?"
But their fear had made them all nervous wrecks.

They might have worked harder and faster too,
Extra hours and work they might have dared.
They might have done so much more than their due,
If they thought their employer might have cared.

But their only rewards were their paychecks;
Their only payment for service and years.
And they saw no reason to risk their necks,
Or contribute their own blood, sweat, and tears.

They had worked so long without the honey,
Sweet little thank you's that make you feel good;
Some even left to work for less money,
Most, simply because they knew that they could.

Left behind were those who worked for the pay,
And didn't care about anything more -
Arriving on time and working the day,
Heading as soon as they could for the door.

I left with the rest, in the rush and press,
In the mass departure of rank and file.
I took a new job, where I made much less,
But went home each day with great big smile.

For my new employer just understood,
A simple rule that can smooth relations:
When valued employees do something good,
Be sure to give them congratulations.

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Chagrin

We all grow up with myths and legends. Some teach us important lessons about life and some truly ill equip us to function well as we grow older. Perhaps one of the most damaging lessons I was taught by watching all those old Hollywood movies, was that men do not openly show affection or emotion - with the possible exception of rage when under enemy fire.

I remember my first day in first grade at Cady School - five blocks from home and I was proud to be old enough to walk it by myself. However, on that first day of school, I ran smack into a pack of local toughs (I think they were a third or fourth grade gang...) who sent me home in tears, my new sweater torn and the picture I drew for my mom ruined. My mom gave me a hug, my dad gave me my first lesson in how to fight - how to defend myself. He told me never to seek out a battle or start one, but that turning the other cheek only gave bullies another place to hit me. He was so fierce about it, that a week later, when the bullies cornered me again, I attacked like a scalded wolverine. I still got beat up, but my dad was proud of me and the bullies left me alone after that. I learned my lesson only too well. It took many years to learn a more important lesson:

Those who carry an emotional load,
Eventually, will be forced to explode!

Mick

Chagrin

Life changes things, again and again,
So what I most often feel is chagrin.
And although I may feel tremendous pain,
I was taught I must always keep it in.
I may love and laugh, feel anger and grieve;
I learned that it's proper for men to care.
But I can't wear my heart upon my sleeve -
I should wear emotions like underwear.
I grew up knowing that real men don't cry:
A truth that stories and movies made clear -
There should never be a tear in my eye,
And one thing I must never show is fear!
Yet, I must be alone after a scare,
To change my emotional underwear...

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Christmas Silence

We sing of peace on Earth and goodwill to all people at Christmastime. We think of a silent night, when all is peaceful and bright with love and caring and joy. Yet, if we could but see and hear everything on that wondrous night, would it be a boon or a bane? Perhaps the peace and joy of Christmas is not around us, but within us. Maybe the happiness of that blessed night is our gift to ourselves, a wonder and a peace we bring with us, and if we are lucky, we can share it with another.

Mick

Christmas Silence

Long, long ago, in a land far away,
An angel rested upon a high hill.
He'd chosen a comfortable place to stay
On Christmas Eve, and he grew very still.
He listened with all his angel power,
Straining to hear happiness in the air.
A statue on an impromptu tower,
The angel stood still for hours up there.
He heard a few jet planes, as they flew by,
And the clouds, as they drifted through the night.
He heard the stars dancing above the sky,
And the moon banish shadows with its light.
He heard babies crying in homes below,
And mothers crooning to silence their tears.
He heard those leaving, with no place to go
But back to a lonely night, full of fears.
He heard the soft silence of children's dreams,
An old man who snored like a backed up drain,
And couldn't help hearing those anguished screams -
A victim, abused and battered again.
There were voices raised in anger and grief,
And howls of laughter from a local bar.
He heard the footsteps of a teenage thief,
In his first attempt at stealing a car.
Disgusted, distressed, and ready to cry,
The angel stood up and prepared to leave.
He spread his wings and was ready to fly,
When a tiny hand tugged on his right sleeve.
Startled, he looked down into a small face,
With the largest, darkest, most tearful eyes
He had ever seen in all time and space -
Blue-gray, like the stormiest winter skies.
Clad in pajamas, bare feet in the snow,
The tiny waif whispered in pleading voice,
"Please, Mr. Angel, oh, please do not go!"
And pausing a moment, he made his choice.
The angel knelt down in front of the child,
And opened his arms in welcome embrace.
He stroked the child's hair, with hands soft and mild,
And he prayed for peace and for Christmas Grace.
He stayed long hours through the now silent night,
Till parents, searching in early dawn's glow,
Were met with a wondrous and blessed sight -
Their small child, asleep on a bed of snow.
As the child leapt awake at their loud cry,
A joyous sweet sound set their ears ringing -
Far overhead, in the early morn sky,
A joyous Christmas Angel was singing.

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Wonderland

Walking the roads of the Keweenaw in the winter is a unique and singularly challenging experience. During summer months, I can navigate the shoulder of the few roads that have no sidewalks and make good use of what pavement is provided for the pedestrian. In the winter, however, most of the residential sidewalks simply disappear or only the small segments in front of a home are shoveled and the intervening areas become large drifts. Where sidewalks are shoveled, they are rarely salted or sanded, and the footing remains problematic at best. For these reasons, winter walkers, snow-joggers, and a wide variety of disgruntled pedestrians are required to share the road with cars, trucks, buses, and snow plows. Even the shoulders are buried and only occasionally are plowed back all the way to the snow banks. I spend most of my winter playing chicken with on-coming cars and trying to decide where best to dive if a shared-space emergency should arise.

Perhaps the scariest sight is the surprised look on the faces of drivers when they first see me standing there. The fact that I can see the whites of their eyes means they notice me when we are a bit too close for comfort. Walking is an adventure in this winter wonderland, without sidewalks...

Mick

Wonderland

I've been out walking at night, for my health,
Counting the miles in the slow falling snow -
A dark shape moving with absolute stealth,
Haunting the highways, where winds gust and blow
Thick clouds of snow dust, a silent white veil
That swirls, cold and stinging, inside my hood -
Creating a world both shadowed and pale,
And leaving small trace of where I just stood.
I'm in the road, for sidewalks are buried
Underneath several feet of deep snow -
Roads plowed enough for cars to be carried,
And leaving me almost no place to go.
A grumbling, snow-covered curmudgeon stalks
A winter wonderland - without sidewalks...

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Sea of White

How bitter the harvest, when once we danced to the beat of summer's young winds, subtle and supple with the warm green of life in our veins? How cold and empty the cornucopia, when once we grew resplendent in the golden glow of autumn's late days and long sun shadows? How chill the celebration of winter's long dance in the deepening snow, when once we grew tall and the strong winds could bend, but not break us?

The grasses of summer may be knee deep in drifts of soft white snow, but they speak loudly of the end-game of all life, when the chill winter of time itself swallows us all in a sea of white...

Dread thoughts while walking on a windy winter's night.

Mick

Sea of White

We're Autumn's last remnant in sea of white,
Companions exposed to the frigid gale,
Rank upon rank, we courageously fight
Against winter's armies frosty and pale.
Once we were green, fresh, and supple...alive;
Later we dressed in our best harvest gold.
And though we could survive, and even thrive -
We bend and break when at last we grow old.
Dried flowers born in pages of storm,
We whisper and dance in clipper-sneezes,
With only the shreds of memories warm,
To feed the spark in the icy breezes.
With forest and glen, we've nowhere to go,
We share bitter harvests of ice and snow.

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Waking Dreams

I know it used to drive my parents nearly to distraction...even as a child I almost never slept. I would finally put my head on the pillow at about 2:00 AM and be wide awake at 5:30 or 6:00 AM. I've kept to that schedule for most of my life, sleeping longer only when extremely fatigued or ill.

My doctors long felt I am amassing what may be the monster sleep-debt of all time, but nothing short of medications can extend those little slices of death, those insensate slumbers others cherish so much and I fear - for oversleeping leaves me fatigued, stiff, and sore. Recently, however, studies have indicated it may be normal for some people to sleep shorter periods at night, compensating with the occasional nap during the day. Who knows, I may be "normal" after all. Perhaps, like the hummingbird, my mind is meant to rest only on the nonce or during the long final dream...

Mick

Waking Dreams

I stay up late, and I wake up surly,
Listening hard for the sound of my heart.
Why does morning have to start so early?
And what if I'm not quite ready to start?
Odd questions from one who sleeps so little,
Who finds it so hard just close his eyes.
Whose sleep schedule is so very brittle,
The smallest problem, a full night denies.
Unresolved issues will keep me awake,
Pondering long until a wee hour;
No knowing how long an answer will take -
Short cuts are simply not in my power.
If you want me tired, looking half-dead,
Just ask a hard question, right before bed...

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Winter Walk

The bunny understands about long walks in the winter night. The solitude can be amazing and devastating. Darkness offers an anonymity not achievable in daylight and a perspective nearly free from fear of discovery. On the black velvet canvas of the night, colors become more vibrant and rich because they must glow to be seen at all. However, it takes a strong will and determined mind not to be swallowed by the pitch black and the indigo blue of the seemingly endless night.

As I walked tonight, I stood apart, observing the warm lights of Christmas decorations and suddenly more golden glow of the street lights, winking off and slowly returning to full power in their nocturnal cycle. Yet, I was connected to it all somehow, as though my footfalls were heard by the night and my footprints remembered, though they would be invisible soon under the falling snow...

Mick

Winter Walk

Bright glimpses of lamplight break window panes,
Dancing past snowflakes that scatter and blow,
Winter dust fractured by silver/gold stains,
And frosty blown crystal gems gleam and glow -
Surrounding a gray man, a dark ship a-sail,
A ghostly galleon on seas of white.
Streetlights define a form, shadowed and pale,
Drifting through eddies of swift swirling light.
Though I walk through winter night's silent tomb;
Rimy cold, unalloyed in its starkness,
I'm not a shadow in deepening gloom,
I am not just a hole in the darkness!
My footsteps, though muffled in drifting snow,
Touch winter's long memory as I go.

Mick McKellar
December 2007

Lake Effect

At times like this, it just doesn’t seem fair. One day, westerly winds roar across Lake Superior, dumping the inevitable lake-effect snows on the hapless Keweenaw. Next day, a huge low-pressure center slides up from the country’s midsection, bringing a ten-degree rise in temperatures and moisture from the Gulf of Mexico – which descends upon us from the southeast as 24 inches of heavy wet snow. Next day, as the low pressure center passes, the winds swing west again and then from the north, bringing more than a foot of additional lake-effect snow. It just doesn’t seem fair, you know?

While shoveling, scooping, and blowing the snow last night, this poem formed in my half-frozen mind. The flakes flying up inside the hood of my parka, to form an ice-dam on my mustache, teased my face with their tiny, rimy, raw, and polar touch. I was becoming part of the lake effect…

Mick

Lake Effect

From Canada, the dry cold winds sweep down
And tenderly kiss the Lake with parched breath -
Lacing their breezes with soft sleeted down,
Dancing a winter's ice ballet of death.
Hopelessly thick with the white blowing chaff,
Squall lines descend upon sheltering homes -
Shaking their walls with a mad howling laugh,
Chanting ice litanies from glacial tomes.
Ceaselessly swirling, the bright dancing ice
Touches a face with crystalline fingers,
Memories - soft, swift, and silent entice
A skin-tightening tingle that lingers…
Coolly reminding us: what the winds take
Touches us, and then returns to the Lake.

Mick McKellar
December 2007