Christmas Light

I have walked abroad on Christmas night, and in the silence of the cold, felt the warmth of brilliant lights gleaming from windows and rooftops, as they twinkled on freshly fallen snow. Shuffling my boots through several inches of winter white made little or no noise and the sighing of a whispering breeze through pines and between houses took over, singing a carol that coldly caressed my face and hands. The touch of snowflakes on my face felt like the feather touch of Christmas lights reaching out to welcome my spirit and warm my soul. I felt I could fly, borne aloft on lights alone.

Alas, Christmas walkabout will remain only a memory this year, as we can't have old Mick tottering about in the snow after dark. Yet, were I to fly home, I would love that it be on a crisp, cold Christmas night and that I be carried home on the red and green and golden beams that break from a thousand gleaming windows on the eve of peace and love.

Mick


Christmas Light

Through all the piercing cold and precious chill,
And all a winter's night of silence beamed,
The wondrous warmth and distant twinkling thrill,
Of lights all red and green and gold, which gleamed
Upon the road ahead's unbroken white.
Snow softly silenced footsteps as he tread,
And gazed at icy darkness, pierced by light
That danced upon his path, as forward lead
He felt the ancient night of love embrace,
His heart and spirit dancing in his chest;
And with the Christmas lights upon his face,
He softly flew home to his blessed rest.

Mick McKellar
December 2010

Psychopomp

When one is directly confronted with the simple fact that our stay among our friends and family is a finite visit, and especially when one is advised that the lease may be up sooner than expected, one must consider the method of eviction. We all live in rented houses, and when the time comes, we must vacate the premises, and journey home.

I always thought the idea of leaving would frighten me. Although the journey doesn't scare me, I do not relish the idea of traveling alone. I guess this must have been on many minds over the centuries, because so many cultures and so many religions have traditions of spirit guides, angels (like Azrael), and others who guide lost souls to the other side.

I suppose that, as time draws near, it is natural to imagine the nature of one's guide and to start looking into shadows or listening to whispers in the night, seeking evidence and reassurance.

Mick

Psychopomp

I search for him in twilight shadows long.
I pray he'll catch the corner of my eye.
I listen for his voice in evensong --
The wintry clouds create as they scud by.
Some day, I'll feel his touch upon my arm.
Some day, he'll whisper gently in my ear.
Some day, he'll lead me far away from harm,
And to a realm devoid of hate and fear.
His arm will give me strength to step beyond.
His voice will grant me solace on the way.
His presence will establish such a bond,
That joyfully, I'll step upon that quay,
And climb aboard the ship upon the foam.
I'll peacefully, at last, set sail for home.

Mick McKellar
October 2010

Pavor Nocturnus

Hello. It has been a long time since I last posted a poem. During the interlude, I’ve been searching for answers to some pretty basic questions, and the resultant shifts in perspective have led me to some rather dark places—journeys about which I am, as yet, unable to write. However, I want to share a recent visit from an old acquaintance.

Although we all have experienced dark dreams and nightmares, some souls (mine included) are introduced to the king of nightmares, the granddaddy of dark dreams: Pavor Nocturnus. Here is a brief glimpse into the world of pavor nocturnus...the night terror.

Mick

Pavor Nocturnus

A sometime acquaintance, harbinger, fright,
So suddenly visited me last night,
That I could no preparations have made,
To welcome such a most-unwelcome shade.
A dark brother, spawned in a shadow world,
His sinister, indigo wings unfurled,
Silently glided, an amorphous cloud --
And wove me a torpid, somnolent shroud.

It settled, as mist on a midnight strand;
Silently stealing ashore, the cold hand
Of fell intelligence, seeking to spread
A cloak of fear, a chill blanket of dread
Where I walked, a wraith on the path of dreams,
Where nothing is ever quite what it seems.
The eerie mantle, formidable, sheer
As the wind, ferried a black, formless fear.

I fled when I felt dismay in that place.
I led the fell cloud on a frantic chase.
I felt trepidation at each quick turn.
I sped through the nightmare, to safety earn.
Though I was quicksilver, the mist, more swift,
Caught me up, and cast me, trembling adrift.
My timorous, tremulous, terror scream,
Silently shattered my direful dream.

As the shards of my reverie dispersed,
I pondered again: Was I blessed or cursed?
Was my chimera a mere spectral snare,
A cursed apparition my soul must bear;
Or a phantom favored to save its nape,
A revenant blessed to always escape?
Favored or not, I dismissed the dark dread,
And sought the soft, warm redoubt of my bed...

Mick McKellar
September 2010

Journey to Light

Way back in 1991, the old Midnight Poet joined a group of other Michigan Technological University staff and faculty members to tackle a weight-loss challenge. In 13 weeks the group lost a total of 748 pounds. Many of us were justifiably proud of losing to win.

Of course, I had a meeting with my Muse and a poem was the result. Our local newspaper, the Daily Mining Gazette, was covering the story. I submitted my poem to them and they published it on May 17, 1991, sharing the page with their article on the project. Journey to Light explores the nature of carbohydrate addiction and reflects on the saddest fact of all: When food is your addiction, you cannot go cold turkey -- unless it is on a Kaiser roll with Swiss, lettuce, and mayo...

Mick

Journey to Light

I harken back to days of blubber,
When food was king and flesh was rubber:
When bulges formed on both my sides,
In time with daily lunar tides,
And often was my day complete,
When I caught glimpses of my feet.

I pondered, as I filled each chair,
The tensile strength of underwear,
And tried its textile might to guess,
When placed under extreme duress.
I dreaded times when I bent over,
And thought that I had "broken cover."

I miss the junk food most of all.
The chips and candy, large and small
Servings of such sweet confections,
(My insulin went all directions)
Were central to my very life,
Exceeding job, children, or wife.

Addicted? Yes, and also, sadly,
Dying well while living badly.
Days spent thinking thoughts so dark,
That life retained so little spark,
As to extinguish all desire
to rise, and just let life expire.

I now look back, and laud the day,
I said I could not live that way
Any longer, and I began to shed,
The pounds that tried to make me dead.
I'm proud of what I've done you see,
But still have work to do on me.

Anyone got a Butterfinger?

Mick McKellar
May 1991

Papa Bear Still Dreams

In one of my favorite movies, Three Men and a Baby, Tom Selleck's character is the decision-maker and leader of a trio of bachelors, two of whom are middle-aged adolescents. Near the end of the movie, he despairs of solving his romantic problems because of all the responsibilities he bears, and one of the other characters, in a flash of insight, says: "It's not easy being Papa Bear..."

The long and winding path of life often takes you places you did not intend. Papa Bear has to make his family’s journey a safe one. He is charged with responsibility, and occasionally, in the quiet times, dreams of the day his family takes over­ -- and is he is only responsible to be himself.

In today's world, however, Papa Bear's journey never seems to end. Only on the dream path does he meet his younger self. Only there are all his friends and ancestors still alive. Only there can he watch himself, as he was when the rush of youth was upon him.

This poem walks the dream path -- where the hopes and dreams of youth still play and dance, despite the insidious limitations brought on by an aging shell.

Mick

Papa Bear Still Dreams

The sadness in his eyes betrays,
With subtle shades of trepidation,
The tiny smile his mouth displays,
So fraught with grim determination.

The waltz he danced in younger days,
With feet both swift and daring, eager;
Now tires his frame in unkind ways,
And drains his passion, thinner...meager.

His fire, now burning bitter herbs,
His massive frame once straight, is bending.
His basket full of action verbs,
Once vast, now all relate to ending.

His friends are dying, one-by-one.
He feels his comrades, all deserting
His love, which once burned like the Sun.
Now wounded, it lies abed, hurting.

An ancient soul, long bound in chains,
Striving without hope against his yokes,
He unrepentantly remains
The struggling butt of so many jokes...

His golden years have turned to lead,
Even though his alchemy was sound.
Yet, his sweet dreams are not quite dead,
Cherished reveries are still around.

And in his bed, still as stone -
Near motionless on home-bound gurney,
He watches them, and walks alone,
On dream-lit paths through night's long journey.

Mick McKellar
May 2010

40-Love, and it Went Over the Net

I was digging through my ancient files today, looking for an old program, and I happened across an even older e-mail I printed out in 1992. I had posted a quick poem for some friends about the new concept of electronic mail, and what might happen when love letters entered the Web fray. An on-line friend posted the poem to a discussion list and it was circulated as “A sorrowful ditty by one of our local e-poets.”

It does point out the dangers of communicating using the undependable resources of new Web server technology during its infancy. It also points out the dangers of romance on the cutting edge of technology. It’s a look back through 17-plus years of history to a time before browsers, when ASCII art was king, and I wrote nearly all my e-mail and documents on a dumb terminal linked to a university mainframe.

Mick

40-Love, and it Went Over the Net

I lost my one and only love,
When writing went on-line.
I simply mailed my love to her,
And she replied to mine.

Passion flamed on terminals,
And hearts were linked by wire.
Emotions, raw, were keyed, white-hot,
And set the Net on fire.

Alas, our correspondence died,
A victim of travail.
Although she thinks I cut her off,
Her server nuked my mail!

Mick McKellar
November 1992

Crimson Rage

Rage is defined as violent, explosive anger, with furious intensity, as of a storm or disease. Despite the fury inherent in the meaning of rage, we often use the word to describe acts of simple anger and unthinking cruelty. I dreamt about rage last night, about the terrible tempest inside us, when the crimson tide rises and our darkest urges are unleashed. What happens inside, and how do we ever regain control?

The images racing through my dreamscape startled me awake in the cool darkness of our bedroom and I lay awake, pondering the rampaging storm that filled my mind. Although I have never acted upon such an impulse, I have witnessed the aftermath of unfettered rage, and seen the dark storm in the eyes of another. And I wonder, what might it take to unleash the crimson tide within me? God grant I never discover it.

Mick



Crimson Rage

The torn sky weeps its blood upon the lands.
Blinded, fury pleads with wild raised hands.
Tears stream hot on flushed and bloody cheeks,
To gasp and groan, upon a tide that reeks
Of death and darkness — heaped upon a world
On which a wily serpent lies uncurled.

Wind dancers caper searching for redoubt,
Adrift on loathsome drafts the tide spills out,
Keen a sharp and bright demand for aid.
One by one their brief lives are unmade,
As swiftly comes a deadly, angry shark,
That breaks itself upon a looming ark.

Glowering, the serpent spies the craft,
Strikes to rend and break it fore to aft;
Yet eyes, unsleeping spy the darting worm,
And turn the ark to slide into the storm.
The serpent misses, falls into the tide,
And flounders as its target turns to hide.

Though crimson darkness seeks to hold its prey,
The wily serpent swiftly breaks away,
And satisfies its hunger for the ark,
By feasting on the still and broken shark.
It, slow and sated, crawls back on the world —
To sleep and wait, dark, silent, and uncurled.

The ark, careening through the crimson gale,
Screams as bones and tendons nearly fail.
Straining mightily, the craft at last breaks free,
Onto a calm and sunlit, silent sea.
There to rest and whisper once, "Amen."
Until the crimson rage erupts again.

Mick McKellar
April 2010

No Home in Success

Odd isn't it, that so many who contend with life's vicissitudes and challenges, somehow manage to be both depressed and arrogant? I was very recently reminded that defensive pride can lead to chagrin and that proverbial egg on the face feeling.

Perhaps it is merely a natural reaction to rejection and loss, that the inner eye loses perspective and one builds an overblown image of self. Perhaps the redoubt of arrogance is a natural defense, and like the body's histamine reaction defense against irritants and allergies, it is not only effective, but also nasty, painful, and messy.

Small successes should build confidence and self-image, yet unwarranted pride and arrogance simply have no place in that picture. Their home remains on the pages of one's journal, to cast their glimmer between the lines of one's memoirs.

Mick

No Home in Success

The wheel of life takes you for a spin,
Testing you in word and deed.
Challenges offer a chance to win,
Yet nothing is guaranteed.
Sometimes the brass ring is reachable,
Most times it's out of your reach:
Life's lessons become most teachable,
When life has something to teach.
Winning and learning are not the same,
Though many never see why
They can't always win at ev'ry game:
Viewed with a self-centered eye.
Arrogance born of adversity,
Is arrogance, nonetheless;
Despite travail and catastrophe,
Pride has no home in success.

Mick McKellar
April 2010

Silent Curtain

It is March, and in the Keweenaw that usually means cold mornings, snow storms, and generally miserable weather. Here, March traditionally comes in like a lion, and then roars for the rest of the month. Yet, when I walked out on my deck tonight, I felt the gentle, and very wet touch of softly falling rain. No wind was howling and banging the shutters. No blasts of cold Canadian air arrived, laden with moisture from the ample supply of Lake Superior. No snowflakes were seeking every opening in my clothing, prying with icy fingers for a chance to send shivers throughout my frame.

It is not really warm out there. We still have far too much accumulated snow to chill whatever air moves over its icy surface. Yet, the rain feels like a promise of changes to come, a momentary awakening from the long winter sleep: Its cold and shadowy dream disturbed by unrefrigerated air and unfrozen tears from low brooding clouds.

I felt its touch and heard its promise. What a joy it would be, if there were only a little thunder...

Mick

Silent Curtain

A silent curtain of gentle spring rain
Descends, ghostly piercing the darkling night.
Its touch awakens my longing again,
For crisp early mornings, touched with spring light.
I dream of the ending of winter's grip
On life, hibernating in soundless hope;
To hear snow and ice banks that melt and slip,
Sliding toward summer's slippery slope --
And the shining caress of warm sunshine,
When bright tendrils softly caress the earth,
Bringing forth new green and the insects' whine,
That signals the up-coming summer's birth.
Though caught in winter's dream, I am certain
I feel the touch of that silent curtain.

Mick McKellar
March 2010

Legacy of Kindness

William Wordsworth once penned:
"That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love."

I feel that, although the facts of the acts may remain unremembered by those who received the kindness or by the benefactor, any act of unrequited kindness lives on, dancing endlessly in the night, adding to the warmth, the flickering illumination of the soul of the human race. When I see a small token, or note, or image that reminds me of any act of kindness done for me, even though I cannot remember who or what or where or when, a warm happiness steals over my soul. Perhaps a small smile will light my face, just for an instant, and the tiny life of that kindness flares forth to lift my spirit and light my path.

As humans, we are blessed with the capacity to recall past moments, viscerally reliving the feelings, joys, fears, and pains of the past. When put into words and shared, the flame splits, is rekindled, divided and yet grows brighter with the sharing. In this way, even the smallest act of kindness lives on, grows, and becomes a silent, living legacy.

Those "random acts of kindness" truly have a life of their own.

Mick


Legacy of Kindness

As night's dark blanket shelters one and all,
And little, nameless, unrequited acts
Are done for others, whether big or small,
These kindnesses survive beyond the facts.
Cold facts, that flicker quickly and disperse,
Swift disappearing softly in the night,
Dance incidental, fleeting, and diverse,
Then vanish, tracelessly from mortal sight.
And yet somehow, I sense that there remain,
Small kindled flames of life I cannot see,
That warmly, endlessly endure, and fain
Grant me this one consoling memory:
The kindly acts I do live after me,
A silent, unremembered legacy.

Mick McKellar
March 2010

Island of Tears

Island of Tears

My heart cries out for the island of tears,
Writhing in agony before my eyes:
Portrait in pain of my own deepest fears,
Opera noir dark with desperate cries.
My Earth left her children nowhere to hide,
As her once teaming ocean of life shoals,
When the angel of death spread dark wings wide,
And swiftly gathered a river of souls.
The vision of bodies draped in the streets,
The buildings collapsed and fallen apart,
Made the rhythm of my life skip a beat,
As the eyes of the children pierced my heart.
My dreams remain haunted, as nights flow by,
For I know, but for God's grace there go I.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Shadow Hunters

Developing an idea or creating a concept is often a game of gathering shadows in the light. True feelings and emotions are often too painful to view directly, so we must rely upon the shadows they cast. For these thoughts, these shadows are simple projections, outlines that we can grasp and meld with other shadows, creating vast, cool pools of shade in which we can reside...or hide.

Far too often, I will be playing with thoughts and concepts on the brilliantly illuminated field of a grand idea, only to have one or more of those shadows vaporize in the light, escaping into the long night of lost memories. I cannot relate how rigorous and stressful have been some of my journeys down dimly lit and dusty pathways in my mind — all in search of a stray shadow, a fleeting memory, a truant thought. The wretchedly frustrating search for a lost thought truly is a bane of young and old, and is, perhaps, the driving force behind my need to keep a journal.

Think back and consider how many such journeys you have made — in search of an errant idea or wandering word — a devious shadow which suddenly, unexpectedly, and inexplicably melted into the recesses of your mind. It is at times like these we all become shadow hunters...

Mick


Shadow Hunters

Our thoughts are shadows that our feelings cast,
Upon the silky surface of our days.
So, is it any wonder they don't last,
And they can fade away so many ways?
When swiftly they depart a conscious mind,
In "shifting smoke and empty mirrors" style,
They never leave a remnant we can find —
Except for deep frustration and denial.
Knowledge is the sum of captured shadows:
We catch them dancing on our mental walls,
Then store them where our tree of knowledge grows,
And where the ripe fruit of remembrance falls.
Our thoughts, once lost, are wretched to recall,
And make us shadow hunters, one and all!

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Choices

What would life be like without choices? Although I've heard so many friends and acquaintances lament the multitude of choices they must make each day, praying for some time to just drift, accepting what comes along without decisions, I have to wonder how long they could live with no choices, no decisions, and no responsibilities . It seems the hard part about making choices is not the act of choosing, but the knowledge that one accepts responsibility for the consequences of that choice. I remember the adolescent right of passage involving solving that most terrible inner dialog:

If I take A, then I cannot have B.
And yet, I am responsible to me,
So therefore, should I choose A over B?
But if I choose B, A is lost to me.
I don't want that responsibility;
And yet, I don't want you to choose for me!

Viktor Frankl once said: "I recommend that the Statue of Liberty be supplemented by a Statue of Responsibility on the west coast." He understood that freedom and responsibility are opposite sides of the same coin -- for one to exist without the other puts the universe out of balance, and drives parents absolutely crazy!

Mick

Choices

It seems the distant crossroads heckle me,
As soon as I but step outside my door;
Though decisions await, I cannot see,
Their siren summons beckons all the more.
As wave on wave, the silent calls invite
The wanderer who lurks within my shell,
The crossroads lie in wait with still delight,
Anticipating one they know so well.
They wait because they know I hear their voice:
The silent, whispered summons that they sent.
They wait for me, to come and make a choice,
To choose among the options they present.
For without choices, life is but a trail,
Which leads us through a long and narrow jail.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Losing Face

How sad it is that we so seldom, if ever celebrate noble failures. It seems the winner's circle is the only location where laurels are placed on the fair heads of leaders and heroes. Yet, the truth is that none of us is born speaking our mother tongue; none of us is born feeding ourselves; none of us is born ready to stride upon our own Earth. We learn even the most basic skills for communication and survival by trial and error. We mimic sounds until we connect them with meanings and talk. We get more food on our outsides than our insides until we discover how to eat. We wriggle, wobble, and fall until we perambulate on our own. We learn by failing and correcting our mistakes.

Somewhere along the journey from childhood, we lose the facility to lose and take it in stride as a learning experience. Winning becomes the only acceptable outcome, and making a mistake becomes a crime punishable by the self-destruction of our self-image and self-worth. Humility is lost in the arrogance of the winner and our total focus on the downside. Fear of losing face overrides any accomplishments, and the silver medal becomes a millstone about the neck, instead of recognition of one's achievement. No failure is truly a total loss if we learn from it, and practice the noble art of losing face.

Mick

Losing Face

For anyone as arrogant as me,
A failure was a cataclysmic fall —
An object lesson in humility,
A sad, heartbreaking, final curtain call.
That is, until the day I really failed,
And silently prepared to weep hot tears;
To grieve about my shining pride, impaled
Upon the lance of failure and of fears.
Twas then I learned a truth I can't deny:
Despite embarrassment, I still was me;
Despite chagrin and pain, I did not die.
I stumbled on a strange reality:
My greatest fear of all was losing face,
Until I learned to fail with humble grace.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Guardian

As readers of my poems over the years are well aware, I believe in angels. I believe they whisper in our dreams and our musings, gently nudging us toward the path less traveled, for down the easy road lie shadows and troubles. Attuned to the sudden and awful needs of the human heart, our guardian angels watch and whisper and weep, as their gentle ministrations often have little or no effect against the power of our darkest emotions.

It comforts me to believe that guidance and might, though blocked from my sight, hover a mere heartbeat away, to hold me up on my darkest day. Some have brushed it off as wishful thinking, or simple stories told when I was a child. Rational minds and mysteries are not good neighbors, for upon each meeting battle must ensue. And yet, the mysteries persist, and it is within this grand persistence that my belief makes its home.

It is here that wonder and whispers relate the grim and joyless tales of guardians torn by the rending of human lives in the name of religion, ideology, or greed. I have pondered what depths of grief are possible for beings whose joy can soar beyond the stars...

Mick

Guardian

He soared freely over a snowy field,
His hair a living torch of golden thread;
Powerful, so even the sun must yield,
Yet, dimmed because upon his heart was dread --
An apprehension felt quick as a wink,
And from afar he'd sensed much was amiss,
For human souls were balanced on the brink,
The razor edge of the deepest abyss.
A man with sacrifice upon his mind,
Would end his life to steal more precious souls.
The guardian whispered words peaceful and kind,
But could not sway the martyr from his goals.
As bomber and his victims swiftly died,
The angel bowed his golden head and cried.

Mick McKellar
January 2010