Servant's Web

I believe that the dream of uncounted riches and the luxury of having others serve your every whim intrudes upon the dreamscape of nearly every sleeping mind. After a long day of answering customers' calls, taking orders from a busy boss, or running errands for family members, who wouldn't dream? Yet those who have servants, and especially those who attempt to rigidly control their employees know a terrible secret. The caged servant and the controlled employee are not alone in the prison. Those who would control must never let go of the reigns of their power and soon learn that that kind of power is both expensive and limited. And then, there is the fear. We fear that others may take our things. We fear that we will lose control. We often fear loss of something (like control over others, resources, or information) that we never really had in the first place.

The free soul knows that personal power is simply the ability to get what we want from our environment. Manipulating others, as puppet master, ties master to puppet as securely as puppet to master. We also tie ourselves to things which, if those objects sink into the morass of a suffering economy or other disaster, will drag us down with them. Perhaps that is why, when a credit card or other debt is paid off, I feel light enough to fly away...and I never have to worry if the butler did it...

Mick

Servant's Web

Once, long ago, I dreamt of being rich:

Servants galore, to scratch every itch,

Bring all I could want, whether day or night,

At my merest whim, to my great delight!

I reveled in excess, hedonistic,

Becoming a material mystic.

I thought only of pleasures and of things,

Not once did I notice the web of strings -

Growing about me exponentially,

Stealthily, silently, invisibly;

Till trapped by servants, I began to choke,

And vainly gasping for air, I awoke...

May I never live in captivity -

For with no one to serve me, I am free.

Mick McKellar
October 2008

Willow

Fifteen feet from the shore of Handy Lake, down the hill from my grandfather's cottage, stood a massive old willow. When I was all of seven years old, I remember my first encounter with the huge tree, whose long reach spanned even the distance to the lake shore. Its long sinuous limbs reached to the ground and dipped into the lake, as though the thirsty tree was drinking through enormous straws. I also remember running around under its canopy, reaching out to let the long limbs slide over my face and my outstretched arms.

I remember feeling watched over by the kind old willow and finding myself almost adrift in the soft green shade under the sun-dappled, swaying umbrella. I daydreamed that the ancient tree would wrap me in it limber arms and hold me, suspended, to share in the long verdant dreams of willow-kind. I still dream about that old tree...

Mick


Willow

Willow weep, both long and deep,

Touch my face with silent grace,

Softly bless with sweet caress,

And ease my weary mind.

Though it seems your dark green dreams,

Grow in part from aching heart -

Beating, blessed, within my breast -

Where none but you may find

The rocky path, unspent wrath,

And pleasures, tiny treasures,

Hid unknown and over-grown,

In places most unkind.

Yet, you're here, and persevere

To gain much, with quiet touch -

Secrets learned and wisdom earned,

As my stories unwind.

Work your will; I will stand still -

Locked in place, an empty case,

Naught to give, even to live

A life so undefined.

Point my way to golden day,

Hidden now, by leafy bough,

That will play and shift and sway,

Till brilliant day I find.

Mick McKellar
July 2008

Tunnel to Summer

Those who live in the southern climes may have difficulty imagining the long wait for the first signs of summer experienced by those who live in the great northern woods. Here at the top of Michigan, our years are dominated by the long death of winter and the sudden and violent emergence of summer. Spring is a state of mind here, for often it includes snow storms and very cold weather. Easter bonnets have ear-flaps in the Keweenaw...

Still, one watches and listens for the first sounds of summer. The warm breeze that sneaks around the corner of the house in the morning or the sounds of summer birds drowning out the faint knocking of that crazy woodpecker who winters in the woods out back -- these are signs that summer is tunneling its way through the remnants of winter's blessings.

Mick

Tunnel to Summer

I can't account for the hours spent,
Listening for the summer voice
Of the northern forest -
Bright morning hopes, dashed
By the chill whisper
Of winter's ghost.
Tree-limbs tap timorously,
Rhythmically in the frigid draft,
The bone-chilling breeze -
Carry the sepulchral sound,
Of dry bones clacking
In the twilight of cold morn.

The tunnel vision of my ears,
Denies the near-silent solemnity
Of spring denied,
And seeks the faint aural flame,
The aeriel harmonies and tones,
Only the beautiful beacon
Of summer's advent can sing.

At last, the torch of halcyon song,
The aery aria of summer sings,
And the warm melodies of golden light,
Touch the grey limbs -
Locked in the long death,
And sear them to violent life.
A tunnel to summer opens,
And the green glory springs aloft,
To paint the chromatic canopy,
In verdant tones of vibrant virescence.

I hear the golden corona,
I feel the fiery touch of light,
I see the song of the forest alive,
And I know the journey is complete.

Mick McKellar
June 2008

Alive

Spring and summer in the north woods brings a riot of life, long held dormant through the cold death of winter, to resurrect and recreate itself. Even the wind, the harbinger of rain, the stirrer of fog, and a tailor of all that is Earth, feels alive, but without the harsh edges and biting teeth of winter's touch.

Mick

Alive

The air itself is alive...
It thinks I need the company
Of tiny, flickering life candles,
Burning to get a piece of me.
It is nice to be needed,
But I had not planned to feed so many.

The air is alive, for it moves...
Its tender touch, a cool caress,
Strokes my brow,
And messes with my hair,
Puckish, it plucks my hat from my head,
And spins it into the dust.

The air is alive, for it sings...
A song that whispers of secrets -
Carried on the wings of thought.
Ethereal music, transparent, ghostly -
Dances on the edges of my ears,
Delicate, it teases my mind.

The air is alive, for it roars...
On the heights, it cascades,
A rapids churning through
A cataract of pines and firs;
A bellicose banshee, crying
As it scrapes the land.

The air is alive, for it pushes me...
It tugs at my jacket,
And presses me back on my journey.
I walk faster with its hand on my back,
And it has slapped my face
With a cold, wet hand,
And brought me to wakefulness.

The air itself is alive...
I know this for certain;
It visits within me,
Granting life to lifeblood,
Linking me to all it touches,
Tasting of all about me,
Bringing the scents of my world,
And taking me
To the ends of the Earth.

Mick McKellar
June 2008

Solstice

I have been writing poems about winter and cold and ice and snow for so long, I began wondering if I can still write about summer, sun, and warmth.

It has been difficult to shift my frame of reference from the long cold nights of winter to the long-lived light of our summer twilight hours. Perhaps it is because, somewhere along the way, I missed spring. I hardly noticed the passing of the Summer Solstice, I was so busy outdoors enjoying the warmth of the summer sun - finally arrived on the shores of our northern isle.

Mick


Solstice

I don't remember a summer this cold,
When afternoon sunshine still left a chill -
That penetrates bones, gone a little old
To deal with the cold by shear force of will.
Even the Keweenaw shivers at night,
Although the summer's short reign has begun.
For it remembers the blanket of white,
Which hid it from winter's unhelpful sun.
Yet, Heaven's heat-lamp will warm the green coast,
Touching the waters and baking the land;
Pleasing sun worshipers, who want to roast
Their flesh on beds of Superior sand -
Serenely spending, in langorous way,
The promise of this summer's longest day.

Mick McKellar
June 2008

Pewter Dawn

Although cold and gray dawns are common enough in this area, occasionally the sun brightens the snowy haze and makes it gleam like polished pewter. Often the early morning air is crystalline and sharp, seeming almost to ring with the vibrations created by the sun's first rays breaching the distant southeastern horizon. It's at this moment the burnished pewter morning becomes the fiery fanfare of sunrise, banishing the gray shadows and burnished brilliance of the Pewter Dawn.

Mick

Pewter Dawn

I wondered if I'd lose my way,
Abroad at dawn on pewter day -
Entombed in shades of brown and gray,
And once my long walk had begun,
If winter's shy prodigal sun
Would be observed by anyone.

My footfalls crunched the brittle snow,

And slid on ice hidden below.

Yet, onward I had vowed to go,

Despite the pale bone-chilling haze,

Which haunted by the sun's weak rays,

Whispered light in little ways.

Then faint cascades, refracted light,

Gleamed and glowed, in wavelets bright

That shined and shimmered in my sight.

Despite its aspect, frightening,

I pierced that curtain shimmering,

And heard light's liquid crystals sing.

The sun's sweet song caressed my eyes;

It's shining chorus filled the skies,

With fiery fanfare for sunrise -

At which I gasped a startled yawn,

And noticed how completely gone

Was wintry, early, pewter dawn.

Mick McKellar

February 2008

Chilly Seat

I see many strange sights while walking each evening. Tonight, I saw an old kitchen chair (chrome legs and red plastic seats - you know the type) standing out in a parking lot. There seemed no reason for its presence in the parking lot, but there it was, lonesome and chilly. What could be more natural than to compose an ode to the chair in the parking lot?

I often compose verses in my head as a mental exercise and to get my mind away from the daily problems that leave their dirty footprints on the plush carpeting of my mind. Lately, the footprints are so numerous and messy they overlap, so I decided to try a clean sweep. I composed the whole poem while walking in the dusk, while sweeping those grimy footprints away.

Mick

Chilly Seat

In the parking lot there stands an old chair,
A kitchen chair, sort of weathered and beat.
I've no idea who put it out there,
Or why its owner provided a seat.

Perhaps he wanted to sit in the sun,
And watch snow melt while the weather was nice,
But couldn't remove it when day was done -
For the legs are frozen in solid ice!

Why put an old chair, all naked and bare,
Where careless drivers could smash it apart?
Perhaps its owner just thought it a fair
New representation of modern art.

Whatever the reason the chair's out there,
I'm not tempted to use it, not one bit...
I've nothing against an old kitchen chair,
It's just too cold to go out there and sit.

Mick McKellar
January 2008