The Guardian

I believe in angels. A host of them must be hovering over Newtown, CT after the recent tragedy, seeking to aid and comfort the living who lost so much. The cry of anguish and grief must have shaken the Gates of Heaven as the nightmare unfolded. My thoughts immediately went to the side of the guardian angel assigned to watch over any or all of these children and I began to wonder what he would do, what he would feel, and how he would react to an atrocity of this magnitude.

What follows is what my mind's eye saw, as it followed that angel, as it watched The Guardian on that dreadful day.

Mick

The Guardian

The guardian stood, silently weeping,
His glorious wings were shaking and furled ,
For children he'd watched over while sleeping,
Were suddenly ripped away from their world.
He'd seen the young man with guns attacking,
An ice pick of violence in his mind;
Felt the shell of young innocence cracking,
The eyes of childhood gone suddenly blind.
In an instant twenty young souls went home,
Their safety was no longer in his care.
His mission had now instantly become,
To comfort and aid the survivors there.
He gave solace to all who would listen,
His golden whisper down deep in their ears.
His face was intent, his eyes a-glisten,
As he raced to calm their grief and their fears.
He soothed their minds and he touched hearts and souls;
Some too young to understand tragedy,
And older hearts recognizing the holes,
So suddenly torn in their family.
And as they buried their broken treasures,
He prayed they could also bury their grief,
And find the quiet, the peace and pleasures,
Of family love and certain belief:
That their loved ones live, in a better place,
Secure and contented in God's embrace.

The guardian stood, and a silent smile,
Touched his face, so recently streaked by tears,
For those he could help, in a little while,
Would forgive and live on, though it took years.
Yet, many tiny ones would still remain,
Seeking and searching for any relief,
From the darkness and unrelenting pain,
Of innocence lost and brittle-sharp grief.
Fast as any thought, the guardian sped --
To save the living from grief for the dead.

Mick McKellar
December 2012

Candles in the Snow

I loved my Christmas walkabouts, touring our snow-covered roads and dodging drowsy drivers, a tottering shadow on the snow with a flashlight and an instant readiness to dive for the snowbank, where a sidewalk should have been. I was an enormous shade, cloaked in a great grey parka, and I drifted down the snowy lanes of Calumet and Laurium, making little or no sound, as I searched the cold December skies (when the clouds and the snow permitted) to wonder at the majesty of distant suns. When frustrated by winter's glowering curtain, I lowered my eyes to marvel at our colorfully courageous attempt to capture that twinkling glory in myriad displays of Christmas lights.

When snow fell, as it so often does here, the piercing beauty of the lights flickered and dimmed as it shone through the dancing and swirling flakes. Sounds were muted and softened, distant and muffled, replaced by the soft sussurations of the snow, murmuring and whispering as it fell and drifted toward its earthly rest. When I stopped for a moment, a sense of solitude and peace settled upon my shoulders, along with the ever-present snow.

I treasure those memories, especially the night I was captivated by three Christmas candles in a neighbor's window -- flickering brightly and dancing their warm golden light into the silent, snowy night. They seemed a thousand miles away and yet, they filled my heart with warmth.

Mick

Candles in the Snow

I love to walk abroad December nights,
Search Cimmerian skies for Christmas stars;
In liquid dome of distant twinkling lights,
Prevailing over glare from passing cars,
And street light's radiance lambent on the snow --
A softly folded blanket, sheer and white.
I pause and spy them easily, they show
Their yuletide incandescence to my sight:
From far-off fire, the twinkling cosmic flame,
Sends forth a gift of splendor for my eyes.
Snow softly whispers of a Child, whose Name
Recalls the songs of angels from the skies.
My heart fills with a blithe and merry glow,
Of candles shining warmly in the snow.

Mick McKellar
December 2012

It comes as a shock each year, when those first icy tendrils, the frosty fingers of chilly old-man winter, reach down and touch me. My first reaction is to cover up with as much flannel and fleece as I can find, burrow into my favorite chair, grasp a full mug of hot tea, and dare the frosty one to find me. He always does, of course.

Although it makes great sense to cover exposed skin in cold weather, and insulation helps tremendously, true relief from the cold comes from the fires within.

Mick

Touch of Winter

The dark and cold of night persist,
Til later in each day;
The ice and snow even resist,
The morning sun's bright ray.

The probing frozen-fingered draft,
Finds each nook and cranny;
Its chill touch felt, both fore and aft,
Nose to toes to fanny...

Although accustomed to the chill,
aptly barricaded
By fleece and down, it reaches still;
Swiftly, though unaided.

Short wintry days and long cold nights,
Are spent seeking redoubt,
From frozen sting and icy bite,
And keeping Winter out.

But best defense comes from within,
To reach your cozy quest:
Let clothing insulate your skin,
Your heart will warm the rest.

Mick McKellar
November 2012

The Jag

I was thinking about my breathing limitations while writing this, and wondered if I could describe the intense distress and fear that come with having to fight your body to gulp a mouthful of air and ease the agony and the ache as first the periphery (hands, feet) feel the loss, then the major muscles and the core take note, and finally confusion and darkening of vision arrive. It is like drowning or being smothered. It is perhaps less intense and distressing for me, because I've lived with bronchial asthma since I was five years old, but the fear and the pain are real.

When I showed this to Marian, she was against sharing so much detail about the experience — that people don't want to know what it feels like, even slightly, to be me. However, let me be clear on one point...I am one extremely lucky guy! In my discussion with my doctors, it became clear that all experiences with blood and marrow transplant and the ensuing Graft vs. Host disease (GvHD) are different. The vast majority do not make it this far, and most are not in nearly as good health as me.

The Lord must be powerful to have carried me so far already!


Mick

The Jag

Slumped within his swivel chair, he ponders
Rheumy eyes half-closed and breathing shallow;
Dining on his life, and other wonders:
Pain and fear to chew, and pills to swallow.

Half through his thought, begins a coughing jag,
Enough to make his mighty muscles squeeze,
From murmurs in the dark in his air bag,
To whooping barks sprung from a tiny wheeze.
The hacking links together, to form chains,
Until their massive weight triggers despair;
As every muscle in his body strains,
Til he near passes out from lack of air.
Coughing leaves him shattered, dizzy, gasping,
A quaking pile of clothing in his chair.
His mellow voice is breathy and rasping,
Gulping what little zephyr remains there.

Stairways are not friends, walking is not fun,
Washing dishes leaves him weak as jello.
Ev'ry one knows, it's difficult to run,
When it feels you're breathing through a pillow

Mick McKellar
November 2012

Grey Soliloquy

Sometimes it's just the smallest thing, a coin on a counter, a smile on a friend's face, a tear in a child's eye — that can be the catalyst and the seed for a glorious mind journey to places new or long forgotten. Such a thing happened this afternoon. I opened my front door to check on today's deposit by the blue bird of business and purveyor of solicitations, my friend, the postman. Rounding the door to approach the mail box, a stray beam of intense golden sunlight touched my eyes. After my cataract surgery (October 23, 2012), my eyes have been extremely sensitive to bright light. Hiding in the dark recesses of my home to avoid contact and potential exchanges of germs, viruses, and assorted bacteria, has done little but weaken my eyes further. So the touch was agony. It also got my attention.

When I could see again — it took a few minutes — I received a gift. The cerulean sky was stirred by froth and wisp of high clouds, and frosted by gentle, puffy giants under their sway. The air no longer held the crisp, sharp edge of early morning and offered the cool, soft caress of a bright fall afternoon. The sword of light pricked my lugubrious balloon, full of the coughing and gasping and lack of sleep from the previous night, and alloyed with the cabalistic contents, converting night into grey. This is not the dull, leaden grey of dungeon dirt light, but the bright golden grey of the morning's first light as it warms the dawn mists away.

It lifted my soul and set my spirit to flight. I share my thoughts in this grey soliloquy.

Mick

Grey Soliloquy

The sun, a dagger in my eye,
Does pierce my study, grey.
That golden orb, a gilded scythe,
Cuts through my mental drey.

By searing touch of golden fire,
My tangled thoughts are kissed,
And foggy, dark, and dense as mire,
They dissipate as mist.

I cannot dwell upon my fate,
Or where my dangers lie;
When high clouds use the wind to bait,
A bright November sky.

They tease me with the power to think,
And though my reason raves,
I’ll leap from intuition's brink,
And wallow in its waves.

I lose my worry — black and white;
The glorious day dissolves,
The stain of dark and endless night,
Through which my world revolves.

The tangle loosed, the edges keen,
Grow soft in glowing day;
The darkling world I've always seen,
Is fuzzy, and it's grey.

And though grey seems cold victory,
Against the throes of night,
It glows with friendly warmth for me,
And glorious is the sight!

Mick McKellar
November 2012

Give a child a box of blocks, and after a short period of examination — looking, touching, tasting — he or she begins to build. As a child, I built houses, castles, fortresses — strongholds to contain and protect life and treasure. I continue to build: an identity, an intellect, a love of life, a life...

In the past, I described my mind as an attic: dusty, cluttered, and vast. I peered into my own eyes in a mirror, and it still looks dark and cold in there. However, it seems the attic is above an elegant, constantly growing manor house, where I have built rooms to house memories of my most precious experiences. Since my transplant, the number of rooms has grown exponentially — as each day becomes a gift and each moment a treasure.

Mick

Mansion

Whenever great music touches my heart;
Whenever great joy urges me to dance;
Whenever great peace sets a day apart;
I add a new room to my living manse.
Its stairways are complex and often move,
Its galleries vaulted, its halls are vast.
Each unique door opens with a mere shove;
Each one a portal to part of my past.
I roam those halls carefully, at great cost
To remember, perfectly, paths I take.
For without due care, I might become lost
In my past, a most serious mistake
For one, whose natural passions are rife,
To build rooms in the mansion of his life.

Mick McKellar
September 2012

One thought drives out another, they say. I guess that's what happened yesterday. For the first time ever, in any way, I forgot it was my Mom's birthday. I owe my penchant for poems to her, and her love of the older forms — with rhyme and meter and compact craftsmanship. She wrote hundreds of poems, often giving them as gifts for birthdays and anniversaries. Her poetry was personal, accessible, and straightforward — beauty and grace in simplicity and reserve. My favorite was a poem she wrote for my birthday, titled Reflections. She wrote about the wonder of observing facets of their being (my Mom and Dad) in their children. I wish I could remember it, for like all her poetry, it is gone. It disappeared upon her death. Although she yearned to be published, she did not live long enough to have access to social media and the Internet, and the ability to share instantly with friends and family.

Like her, I searched for publishers, and like her, I discovered high walls, narrow tunnels, and the only well-lit, broad pathway — to the vanity press. Like her, I write personal poems: I write for me, for my friends, my family, and those like me. Like her, the poems I wrote to her are gone...and I cannot remember them...not even the very first one I wrote, at age 12, about Lincoln's brown study. Like her, the words come from within, and I am driven to write them down as they pour forth, and only then to craft them to match the music and images they bring.

I still miss her, everyday — and twice a much when my Muse is in residence. Happy 82nd birthday, Mom!

Mick

22

It's been twenty-two years, and I forgot!
Silly me, the date slipped out of my head...
Replaced by a maxim I've heard a lot:
That birthdays don't matter, when someone's dead.
She's been gone for more than twenty-two years.
Yet, I remember that day, as if new;
And standing her bedside deathwatch, in tears.
Yesterday, she would have been eighty-two.
Because she lived, and forged a family;
Because there never will be another
Just like her, I posit this homily,
On the just past birthday of my mother.
I'd rather celebrate, while here on Earth,
Not her death, but the treasure of her birth.

Mick McKellar
September 2012

Child's Play

As I shuffled along in early morning shadow, touched by a few renegade rain drops this morning, I pondered the origins of popular social and political frames of reference. Where did we learn to work together or reject the concept of working together? Are we naturally inquisitive, acquisitive, and combative? Are we programmed to destroy what we cannot control? Memories surfaced of a statement made by Paul Muad'Dib, Mahdi of the Fremen and the central character in Frank Herbert's novel, Dune. Addressing the Fremen before launching his jihad, Paul says: "He who can destroy a thing, controls a thing." He was referencing Spice, a substance that makes space travel, commerce, communication, telepathy, and much more possible in that universe. It originates only on their planet and they are in a position to not only stop its export, but destroy it altogether — giving them great power and ultimate control.

Hoarding limited resources and leveraging them for power — sound familiar? As I thought back over my 60+ years on this third rock from the sun, I remembered watching children play. Even as a child, I was nearly always the observer, watching from the sidelines, and storing those observations for future reference. Happily, I discovered some of those dusty old files this morning, or more likely tripped over them while searching about in my mind. I remembered, I was in third grade, and I approached one of the class bullies to demand some time with a toy dump truck he wasn't using, but kept protectively behind his rather ample posterior. He was alone at the time, so he wasn't feeling particularly brave and handed over the truck...but not before he grabbed the dump release lever and bent it outward — to make it unusable. I remembered his smile and how it disappeared when I grabbed a broken brick and hammered the lever back. It did not work well, but it worked. His name escapes me, but I wonder if he became a politician.

This story introduces the Great Teacher, my ambiguous observer and chronicler of humankind.

Mick

Child's Play

The Great Teacher sat on his porch one day,
Pondering matters beyond mortal kin;
Quietly watching young children at play,
Loving the laughing, the shouting, the din.
They played on silver-grey grass in the sun,
With beautiful, colorful, brand new toys.
Though so many toys, they each could have one,
Soon, most were stockpiled, behind a few boys.
They'd taken the toys, and kept them by force,
Rebuffing any who tried to win through.
They now were too busy to play, of course,
And watched those who still had toys, just a few...
When the disenfranchised became a mob,
And confronted the vanguard of the boys,
The rest of the boys did their final job:
Methodically breaking the hoarded toys.

Silent, the silver-grey lawn in the sun,
Abandoned to scattered toy parts and sere,
Testified to a struggle no one won.
The Great Teacher, whispered, shedding a tear:
"Their world is a toy they've learned how to break
Who'll fix it, for their children's children's sake?"

Mick McKellar
September 2012

Sword of Sunlight

Anyone taking certain medications, and those with the Celtic Curse (fair skin that burns easily), understands how difficult it can be to avoid exposure to direct sunlight, especially when members of your own family actively seek its bright embrace. I take at least three medications that warn of dire consequences from prolonged exposure to sunlight -- so much so that I joked with my doctor about having to wear a burqa the next time we drive to Mayo Clinic. She laughed, but there was this odd undertone to her laughter, indicating she was, perhaps, considering it...

In high school, my lab partner and I built a ruby laser as a science project. Even the fitful pulses of coherent light from our device taught me about the power of light when focused and concentrated. Little wonder the immense power of Old Sol, our daystar, can deal death as well as support life. All I ask is simple shade -- cool, blue shadow under the wing of an Angel of light -- when menaced by the sword of sunlight.

Mick

Sword of Sunlight

I seek the cool, blue shade under your wing,
Because I just can't bide the brittle glare,
Of sunbeams sharp, so sharp they cut and sting,
When e're they touch my ravaged skin so fair.
The light of life, that burns so far away,
That feeds our world with golden power bright,
Can quickly steal that precious life away,
And sear delicate waking dreams of night.
Though many seek the warm solar embrace,
Those who respect the mighty daystar know;
When softly touched by brilliant blade from space,
The sword of sunlight cleaves both to and fro.
Angel of light, please grant me just one thing,
Soft sanctuary underneath your wing.

Mick McKellar
September 2012

Paradise in My Eyes

In the dark vault of my room, even in the full light of day, the shadows of loss gather at the horizon and threaten to drive my days to the depths of gloom. When walking to the kitchen for a cup of coffee or tea leaves me breathless and gasping, when a coughing fit leaves me sweating and shaking, and when standing up feels like climbing a ladder to the roof, the shadows gather around. Given free reign, they will overrun and overwhelm.

Tonight, a television show reminded me of the millions who must daily cope with a new normal, because their lives have been redefined by illness and loss. It surely put a crimp in my pity party. Fatigue, frustration, and fear can befuddle the mind and bedevil the will to survive. Freedom, family, and faith can belay the dark clouds and belie the permeating sense of loss.

I suddenly realized that I have been blessed -- shaken awake to discover I live in a fragile house...and it's a rental! I have danced on the verge of eternity's moor and peeked through a crack in death's dark door. God is no longer someone I go to meet at church on Sunday, but a close personal friend and confidant. I no longer fear death. Only suffering gives me pause, and perhaps regret, should I leave without seeking and giving forgiveness where due, and without trying to heal the hurts I caused as I blundered through my life. Look deep into the windows to my soul and see the visions dancing there. Look deep, and maybe you will see paradise in my eyes.

Mick

Paradise in My Eyes

I dreamt of freedom, running,
Now I hesitate to walk.
I reveled once in singing,
Now I strain even to talk.

I climbed a western mountain,
Now a stairway makes me ill.
I swam in lake and fountain,
Now to touch water can kill.

I practiced a firm handshake,
Now there's no one I can touch.
I hiked wooded fen and brake,
Now I don't go out so much...

I never courted sunshine,
Now it dare not touch my skin.
I savored beer and fine wine,
Now avoid their kith and kin.

I broke each fast with great food,
Now I start each day with pills.
I enjoyed what tasted good,
Now I miss those tasty thrills.

That was then, and this is now.
Though my memories contrive
To see but loss, I still know
That I'm very much alive!

I sense the darkling coolness,
Bright memory shadows cast.
I center on the stillness,
Of knowing the past is past.

I walked near the end of life.
I tread eternity's moor.
I pried death's gate with a knife.
I peeked beyond death's dark door.

I live days, as though dying
Without fear is right and wise.
Look deep, and without trying,
See paradise in my eyes.

Mick McKellar
September 2012

Lost in Thought

Sometimes, my mind refuses to rest with the rest of me. As you probably guessed, I am writing this after 3:00 a.m.. I stole down from my bedroom, on little cat feet, to tap away the wee hours of the morning awash in the pale illumination of my computer monitor. My body, fatigued from days of fighting with a recalcitrant rash, seeks the soft abandon of dreamless sleep. My mind, though over-tired and over-stimulated, is racing in neutral -- its engine roaring -- going nowhere, fast.

After I retired, looking for rest, my mind would not find peace. Epic stories, illustrated with fantastic images; grand poems, magnificently performed; and glorious music, played by the stars themselves flooded my mind. Cacophony, tsunami, and whirlwind...my inner world was in chaos. Adrift on the deluge, I could not sleep.

So, here I sit, desperately trying to remember anything but the panache and grandeur, lamenting the lost visions, lost in thought, and in need of rest.

Mick

Lost in Thought

Why can't he sleep at three in the morning?
What is the summons that touches his mind,
Super-charging his thoughts without warning,
Leaving all traces of slumber behind?
What stirs an old man's innermost vision,
Scattering images behind his eyes --
Vivid, brilliant, and drawn with precision,
Leaving him helpless, awake, where he lies?
Vaguely disturbing, they won't let him sleep,
These dark dioramas of inner sight,
So, he slips from his room without a peep,
Turns on his computer, and tries to write.
But his magnum opus will not get done:
He cannot remember a single one...

Mick McKellar
February 2012

Through Darker Days

I've been asked why so much of my poetry embraces subjects dark and dreary, while eschewing the lambent and luminous. Perhaps I feel that vivid, bright, flashing images need the solemnity of shadow to truly leap from the page onto the canvas of the mind. Maybe the grim realities of life stand in bas relief against the soft pastels of warm and fuzzy days, and the sharp and brilliant flashes of moments of joy.

Without shadows, one cannot navigate in a snow storm. Without dark glasses, a sunny day can give you a headache. I love to sit in the shade of a tree on a hot summer day and to watch the fingers of twilight touch the roof tops at dusk. I do not fear the night, for the morning will follow.

Mick

Through Darker Days

I've been known to travel a shadowed path,
When I journey into my unique past,
In search of my mental redoubt, my rath,
The castle keep of an elegiast.
Though often chimerical and hazy,
My shady songs pierce the ebony veil,
And travel routes labyrinthine, mazy,
For tales my heart wants to share and regale.
Though I journey in darkness obscurely;
Though my words may grow grim with frustration;
I have faith that my sojourn must surely,
Reach its haven of illumination.
For the sun will rise and deal death to night,
And the shadow owes its birth to the light.

Mick McKellar
February 2012

Walking in the Rain

I grew up in an era when boys did not cry...at least not when other boys could see...and began learning about pain at eighteen months of age. My feet and hands were severely burned by boiling water from a vaporizer, and there was doubt whether I would learn to walk because of the pain. I learned to walk and to control and suppress the pain, but in the process lost my childhood.

My Mom, my Dad, and me...
before my injury

My mother told me that, where other children might be serious, I was grim. I seldom smiled and almost never played with other kids. I grew to be the protector for my siblings, because I did not fear pain. Aloof and silent, I read and watched and waited, wading in when needed and remaining alone...except for a very few friends, most of whom were adults.

My mom often joked that I was born an old man, but we both knew why I liked to walk in the rain...

Mick

Walking in the Rain

At a young age I learned: don't sob and wail
When I hurt, and I would feel heroic.
That to let on that I hurt was to fail,
Seek sympathy where I should be stoic.
I sought to prove to myself I was tough,
And met distress with a grin and a song,
For no torment would ever be enough,
To make me admit anything was wrong.
I wanted always to smile through the pain,
Even though it felt I might be dying;
So l often went walking in the rain,
Because no one could see I was crying.
I'd lost myself in a forest of fears,
And sailed on an ocean of unshed tears.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

River of Time

Reading through some of my old messages, I stumbled over a memory of how I was moved by Jim Croce's song, Time in a Bottle. Jim and Ingrid Croce performed on the college concert circuit, where I sat one evening, coffee cup in hand, transfixed by his story songs. His 1972 song about trying to save time has resonated across the years and gained special meaning for me when I was diagnosed with leukemia.  I love the line: "I'd save every day like a treasure..." His lyrical fantasy still haunts my dreams.

Anyone who has come face-to-face with his own mortality will tell you how precious becomes each second, of each minute, of each hour, of each day. For me, time is a river system, cataracts that propel me always forward in a current too swift to swim against. I have always been part of the river and cannot set foot upon its banks. The best I can hope for is to tread water or float along with companions in the stream until, at last, I drift into my own estuary, and alone...meet the sundering sea of eternity.

Mick

River of Time

On countless cataracts it carries me.
Full rudderless, I float on currents swift,
A helpless spirit compelled to the sea,
My passage, an ancient, enduring gift.
A lifetime I must tread its mighty flow;
I cannot climb ashore...it moves too fast.
What lies ahead I simply do not know,
And all behind quickly becomes my past.
There's little I can do, but daily strive
To rise, and to ride the wild churning foam;
To boldly endure until I arrive,
At my destination, my timeless home.
The river takes us all, without our thanks,
And God alone may stride upon its banks

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hole in the Bucket

I sing silent songs and saturate the subtle silences haunting the untrod halls of my cerebral redoubt with music unplayed and lyrics unvoiced. My eyeballs vibrate to the flash and thunder of silent symphonies...music that echoes across the vast expanse of my imagination to the delight and wonder of my soul, but can never be heard by another except in the ebb and flow of my poetry. I lack the spark, the talent, the bridge to bring that music outside and share it as melody, harmony, tone, and chord...as music.

In my own mind, I sing the poems I write. I feel their innate harmonies and the rhythms that drive them forward. My inner voice weeps and laughs and cries for joy. It soars to incredible heights and plunges into the darkest abyss. But, it all remains inside, for my true physical voice seems disconnected from the wonders within. My poems must sing for themselves, because I cannot carry the tune from within to without...there's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Poems are music for the mind.

Mick

Hole in the Bucket

I sing within the shadows of my mind,
Where no one else can hear the airs I sing,
And thunder forth whatever I can find...
In total silence...let the rafters ring!
My voice: Basso Profundo in my head,
Could shatter the foundations of a house.
Unlike my true voice, which many have said,
Reminds them, oh so much, of Mickey Mouse.
My sense of rhythm follows no known clock,
My sharps slide high, my flats, beneath the sea.
The glory of my voice, I would unlock,
Unfortunately, I can't find a key.
I can't carry a tune by chance or choice...
There's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hidden Empires

Folks ask from where I get all the stories and strange ideas in my poems and essays. Is there some Big Book of Aberrant Anecdotes, Flaky Fables, and Mystifying Myths I reference regularly? Do I have a secret source secreted away on the infamous Internet? Are there piles of copious notes and curious narratives hoarded about my home? Sorry, but search all you will, my sources will not appear...because they reside solely in my mind.

I travel about the empires of experience and imagination of my inner world. I ramble about in the ramshackle attic of my mind. Here I find my ideas, and here I store my records. The human mind and imagination are too vast, too multi-dimensional to be cataloged on paper or deposited in a data base. When I write, I welcome you to my world, telling its tales and relating its beautiful memoirs. These are my hidden empires...

Mick

Hidden Empires

You will not find them under my pillow,
Nor in my briefcase or under my bed.
You can follow me anywhere I go;
Any search will lead to ends that are dead.
The trappings of my life seem so normal,
One can stumble on the everyday.
My lifestyle is so simply informal,
Even boredom tries to leave in dismay.
So, where do I closet all the stories,
The adventures and tall tales that I write;
The depths of despair and all the glories,
The long journeys from darkness into light?
I retrieve all the memoirs I can find,
From empires hidden deep within my mind.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Shine a Light

January is named for the Roman god Janus, a two-faced god who looks to both future and past. New Years Eve, I dreamt I sat up, shivering in the silent darkness of my bed, in the wee hours of January 1, 2012, and saw a vision of myself perched on the ancient marble head of Janus...unsure which way to look...fearful of the regrets of the past and the uncertainties of the future. I was terrified that by trying to look both ways, I would overbalance, slip, and plunge into the misty shadows at the foot of the timeworn stone deity.

I woke shaken from the dream and said a prayer for peace of mind to focus on living in the present -- for one cannot live in the unchangeable past, nor in the uncertain future. As I prayed, the moon peeked past the clouds and momentarily touched my window. I felt my petition had been answered.

Happy New Year!

Mick

Shine a Light

I was lurking in the shadows, alone
And frightened, at the rolling of the year.
My heart felt heavy, brittle, hard as stone,
My muscles locked with overwhelming fear.
In silent darkness, perched upon my bed,
The new year drenched my mind with cold dismay.
As voiceless trepidation filled my head,
Trembling and soundless...I began to pray.
I asked for peace, for mercy, and for light,
And through my window, slashed a silver ray
Of brilliantly-shining argent moonlight,
That flared just once and chased my fears away.
And so, without a whisper or a word,
I knew my passionate prayer had been heard.

Mick McKellar
January 2012