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