Strange

My favorite time during the Christmas season is the silent afterglow — the quiet interlude after the Christmas Eve gathering, after the children (and grandchildren) have gone to bed in search of sugarplums and sweet Christmas dreams. Christmas Eve Mass is over, the pork pie and the homemade treats have been consumed, the television is off, and the fire has burned low, casting deep crimson shadows over the room — giving the softly glowing decorations and twinkling lights a new vibrancy and depth.

I gaze out the front window, and see the lights from our window reflected on the snow. Lights from neighbor's homes gleam through the dark and I know others are sharing the strange peace of late Christmas night.

My recliner beckons and I settle back to breathe in the subtle joy and silent peace of this holy night. My thoughts take flight and soar abroad on the winds of the night, under a canopy of stars above and lights below, adrift and borne aloft upon the peaceful silence of Christmas night.

Mick

Strange

Strange how my heart beats,

In time with twinkling Christmas lights.

Soft falling snow meets,

With brilliant beams in darkest nights.

Strange how my soul flies,

Abroad on wings of Christmas love.

Rapt as my heart cries,

Aloud to distant stars above.

Aloft on wings of gossamer and lace,

I fly in search of Christmas love and grace.

Strange how my thoughts fly,

Away on silver gilded wings -

Drift in the night sky,

To find His peace above all things.

As silently I plead with God above,

To shower us with Heaven's joyous love.

Strange how my tears glow,

And shine in joy with inner light,

For those I love now,

Asleep in peace on Christmas night.

Mick McKellar

November 2009

Bleak and Blue

Frozen feet stomp through the drifting waves of winter's bounty. Frigid fingers vainly try to grasp the slippery handle of a familiar old shovel or scuffed and battered snow scoop. Gloves or mittens inside choppers (leather mittens) make deft hands clumsy and uncertain. Parkas or heavy coats restrict movement of arms and shoulders, making simple work more difficult. Hoods and hats keep the snow and wind from freezing your face and ears, but muffle sounds and create a kind of tunnel vision. It is like dancing in a sleeping bag.

And how does only six inches of fluffy white stuff become so heavy? There are days that I swear the snow propagates after falling on the ground. Wind drifts of white appear over night, filling in all the paths I cleared yesterday, or even a few hours ago. The snow plow opens our street by pushing the snow from the road into yards and driveways, creating new drifts of hard-packed and heavy detritus which must be moved or we will be sealed into our wintry redoubt. Thus begins the daily dance of the bleak and blue warriors, greeting the snowy morn with shovel in hand, battling the icy white breath of winter's curse, and dreaming of warm socks and hot coffee.

Mick

Bleak and Blue

Dark wintry silence pierced by screams of rage:
The roar of mountain lions stomped by cows,
Or snarling sounds produced by those my age,
Who find their driveways filled-in by snow plows!
There in the bleakest hour of early morn,
Though muffled by the falling flakes of white,
The sounds of aging tendons being torn,
Rip through the ragged remnants of the night.
Dark shadows armed with shovels flail about,
Though dimly viewed though curtains pale and cold,
Move countless tons of frozen rainfall out
Of paths and driveways, as we watch unfold
The deep midwinter icy action show,
All bleak and blue and buried in the snow.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Flawed, too

When I wrote the poem Flawed, a reader remarked that the story seemed incomplete and wondered how it ended. I thought about it, and pondered on the complex interaction between those we view as "perfect" and the ardent fans that help create that myth of perfection. Is there a price to be paid for profiting from that perfection myth?

Although we have been told that those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it, again and again, we build castles for those we consider perfect, and then we evict them when they prove to be just as human as the rest of us. There is, of course, a price to be paid, an often steep and unpleasant price for riding high on the expectations of fans and those who worship at the image of perfection. The higher one climbs the further one has to fall.

It's more than Marley's chains, for he did not understand until after he was buried by old Scrooge. The meteoric rise and sometimes cataclysmic crash and burn of so many celebrities, should teach us something about perfection: It is a marvelous motivator and a grand goal, but anyone who thinks he has achieved it is a fool; an anyone who trades on his perfection is merely polishing his fool's gold.

Mick


Flawed, too

When a perfect man, on a perfect day,
Discovered his life had a tiny flaw,
He greeted the flaw in his perfect way,
Inviting his friends to see what he saw.
He capered about in a perfect dance,
And sang a glad song in his perfect voice.
He sang: “At last, I have a perfect chance,
To make a perfectly wonderful choice!”
He placed the small flaw on his mantelpiece,
In perfect balance with his grand decor.
“And, at last I shall know the perfect peace —
With joy I have never known before!”
For, although he could talk, cry, sing and shout,
He’d had nothing at all to talk about…

His attitude changed when his friends came by,
And they saw his tiny flaw on display.
Some screamed in outrage, and others did cry:
"Oh, how can you disappoint us this way?"
"You were our idol, our role-model king;
We held you up for our daughters and sons,
And now you display this imperfect thing —
A thing from which any perfect man runs!"
Some media pundits made it a joke,
And others called it a conspiracy.
Some assumed he must be perfectly broke,
And badly needed the publicity.
He looked sad at how his flaw was received,
But secretly, was perfectly relieved.

When that perfect man, on that perfect day,
Put his flaw on display for all to see,
He knew there were legends he would betray,
And myths he'd destroy almost perfectly.
Though the myths were not his, he'd let them grow,
And profited from perfection for sale;
But now he had let his ardent fans know,
Of the tiny flaw in his perfect tale.
Rich, lonely, and tired, he had given in
To impulse, and shared the truth of his lie;
For he had discovered to his chagrin,
That perfection's price, was simply too high
To run away from, though he traveled far...
For the gravy train has a baggage car.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Flawed

No one on this planet is perfect. However some of us think we are or want to give the impression we are, and do not want to hear that we've made a mistake. Just imagine if one were perfect, flawless, peerless...what on Earth could one have a conversation about?

Ask any author about his best or most popular characters. Are they perfect in every way? Nah. They would be so boring, the readers would leave in droves. The best heroes are the flawed heroes. What challenge is there when the protagonist has all the best tools, the best breaks, and never makes a mistake? What does he or she have to overcome? How can I possibly relate to a character too perfect to be human? Even the most alien characters in science fiction or fantasy literature have human characteristics, mostly human flaws. It is what allows us to relate, to understand, and to feel for them. The same is true for parents, bosses, and leaders of all sorts.

Mick

Flawed

When a perfect man, on a perfect day,
Discovered his life had a tiny flaw,
He greeted the flaw in his perfect way,
Inviting his friends to see what he saw.
He capered about in a perfect dance,
And sang a glad song in his perfect voice.
He sang: "At last, I have a perfect chance,
To make a perfectly wonderful choice!"
He placed the small flaw on his mantelpiece,
In perfect balance with his grand decor.
"And, at last I shall know the perfect peace —
With joy I have never known before!"
For, although he could talk, cry, sing and shout,
He'd had nothing at all to talk about...

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Tools

Two native Americans were talking as they passed through a forest glade. The older fellow stopped his young companion and told him a story about two white men who met on a street in town. One white man asked. "Are you hungry?" The other white man looked at his watch.

The two native Americans laughed until they were too weak to walk.

Henry David Thoreau said: "Men have become the tools of their tools." In many ways, those were prophetic words. It seems nearly every aspect of our daily lives is regulated, timed, assisted, or controlled by one or more of a myriad collection of technological tools. I remember starting my work day by turning on an office copier and placing my document in the feeder. I pressed the "Go" button. The machine beeped an incredibly irritating beep, and on the small LCD screen the words, "Not Ready" appeared. An image sprang to mind of tiny workers, inside the photocopier, on coffee break and saying, "Not Ready!"

How often, when my alarm goes off in the dark winter morning, I have wanted to just roll over and say, "Not Ready!" I've lost count. Now, excuse me, for I have to post to Twitter and Facebook, that I've written another poem...

Mick

Tools

How many times do I eat by the clock,
Or stand by the door to wait for my mail;
Or sit with patience of weathered old rock,
And wait for release from my e-mail jail?
Obediently, I watch TV news,
Ensconced in my chair at the proper hour.
When did I give up my personal views,
And grant to the media such power?
My car tells me it needs water and oil,
And the microwave, that dinner is through.
My alarm clock wakes me, in time to toil,
And my calendar tells me what to do.
Perhaps, our technology makes us fools,
For we have become the tools of our tools.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Dark Side

Mark Twain said: "Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." Like the dust we sweep beneath our carpets, the junk food snacks we hold behind our backs, and the tales we tell ourselves when we're alone—we keep our guilty pleasures and self-indulgent treasures locked away in shadow, alongside the unfounded myths and unfriendly monsters we all must master or hide from view.

Throughout our lives, we move among others, orbiting some and capturing others in our own gravity wells. Attracted and repelled, spinning in the midst of myriad points of light, we match rotation with each orbit and show only the one face—the friendly and familiar, or fierce and stormy face we carefully cultivate and swiftly sculpt for each encounter. The shades that lurk among the penumbral confines of our hidden hemispheres dance alone in perpetual midnight, a cursed cotillion rarely shared and shamefully concealed. And yet, within that dark dance are diamonds—crystalline thoughts and clear, starlit gems which, once shared, might save a soul or enlighten a life. Light, even reflected and refracted, can dispel shadows and illuminate the darkest path.

Mick

Dark Side

Within our spheres of influence we spin,
In orbits tracing subtle paths since birth,
And hiding secret memories, within
The shadows that we cast upon the Earth.
As with our queen, afloat in starlit sky,
Rotation-matched, we show but one bright face;
And never think to ask or seek to spy,
What monsters dwell in that dark, hidden place.
Or are there treasures lurking far from sight,
Beyond the bright horizon of your orb?
Perhaps a truth too large to grasp aright,
Or far too many secrets to absorb.
I ask you grant me one unearthly boon:
To let me glimpse the dark side of your moon.

Mick McKellar
December 2009