Caregivers

Caregivers

I've fallen in love with the life I live,
Though my words often sing shadows of pain;
Ignoring those who have chosen to give
All they can, my precious life to retain.
Though my verbal barrages, thundering,
Echo of deep-hidden pain and despair;
A voice acerbic, often sundering
Love from compassion and duty from care;
My heart feels deeply what my eyes can't see,
And my ego's reluctant to admit:
That others have given a lot to me,
So much, I can barely comprehend it.
Though I act a curmudgeon, please forgive:
I've fallen in love with the life I live.

Mick McKellar
February 2013


I admit it: I am, sometimes, a curmudgeon. What is a curmudgeon? To be accurate, I looked it up and found this definition: a crusty, irascible, cantankerous, old person, full of stubborn ideas. Just imagine this guy...footsore, short of breath, and angry. That's me on a dark day, when I grumble, grouse, and grouch about, acting the churlish crosspatch for no apparent reason.

When my CML hayride began, I had many dark days and I think I fought on out of sheer stubbornness. However, I didn't fight alone. So many prayed, sent supportive messages and cards, and helped physically and fiscally, I was overwhelmed. My prose and poetry sometimes became somber and dark. Although I remain a semi-curmudgeon out of habit; I ask for patience. I may still take a walk in the shadows, but I have, indeed, fallen in love with the life I live -- and I live in the light friends and family give.

Mick

Saving Time

Saving Time

The Footsore Fox was again at my door.
As fatigued as I have ever seen him:
His eyes, puffy, irritated, and sore,
The bright flame that burned in those orbs seemed dim.

As he entered, he tripped on the threshold,
And stumbled wearily into my house.
He leaned on a chair, as though very old;
"So tired..." he squeaked, in a voice like a mouse.

"Here, sit in my chair," I said, "and just come
Sit down, while I brew a nice pot of tea.
Make yourself comfortable in my home."
But he stood there, as though he'd not heard me.

"We will sit and talk, I have lots of time!"
I said, and lifted his weary old bones.
It was then I heard his vest pocket chime,
And he whipped out one of those new smartphones.

I nearly dropped him, he moved so quickly,
With a growling grunt he shook himself free.
The Fox is often abrupt and prickly,
But he seldom behaves that way with me.

He stared intently at the little screen,
Then he tapped tiny buttons in reply.
But when no quick response was heard or seen,
He lowered his head and heaved a great sigh.

"I bought this new phone to help me save time!"
He cried, as he shook the shiny device.
"The salesman said wasting time is a crime,
And wouldn't a way to save it be nice?"

"He even gave me an app to record,
All the time I would save, using this tool.
He said I would never be late or bored,
And texting my friends is really cool!"

But Fox said he had friends he didn't know,
Who were texting messages, so inane
It seemed silly, but he answered them, so
The open prompt didn't drive him insane.

"I can read news and check on the weather!"
He cried, fixing me with his eyes bleary.
"My Facebook and e-mail...all together,
On one device that I carry with me!"

"And when was the last time you slept?" Asked I.
"I don't remember..." He mumbled, and sighed
Something about getting organized, by
Using the calendar app that he tried.

When he fell asleep in my easy chair,
I shut off his smartphone to let him rest.
I covered him up, and just left him there:
My softly snoring and bone-weary guest.

He woke hours later, and took his leave,
But before he left, he grinned sheepishly.
He'd opened the app and could not believe,
The time saved file was completely empty!

That it was empty did not surprise me;
You can't save time, only spend it wisely.

Mick McKellar
February 2013


My old friend Footsore Fox is back for a visit, and he brought a new toy. His smartphone was supposed to save time, but cost him more wasted time than he ever could have imagined. I missed old Fox and his sometimes companion (sometimes combatant) the Ribald Rabbit.

Mick

Dark Days

Dark Days

On dark days I wonder why I survive,
Why, though I may drift so near the abyss,
I return from each journey quite alive --
Why I come back from every near miss.
The darkness of dark days originates,
Under massive grey clouds, blocking the sun:
The shattered shadow my mind generates,
Making each movement toward the light hard won.
I can't make it back from there all alone.
I can't swim against that robust riptide.
Suddenly, although sinking like a stone,
Mighty hands lift me: a warm gentle ride.
And though I am powerless in my plight,
I once again dance in bright golden light.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

It is day 733 since my transplant, and although two years have passed since I received that most precious gift from my brother, not every day has been sweet. Not every day has been bright. I have traveled in shadow, through darkness deep and dangerous, to the very edge of life and fought against the pull toward the long sunless sleep. I came back, but not alone. Mighty hands lifted me up and powerful prayers helped carry me home.

Mick

Jack's Advice

Jack's Advice

Love and water will not flow up a hill,
Without breaking nature's most basic laws.
Though many may find this a bitter pill,
The axiom is bound to give us pause.
A gentle slope, the best plumbers will say,
Will keep things moving along as they should,
But force it to flow any other way,
You could plug the whole system up for good.
So, building relationships is the same:
Gently moving forward's the way to go;
The steep slopes of both withering self blame,
And suffocating study stop the flow.
Follow this, and your relationships will
Be as easy as tumbling down the hill...

Mick McKellar
February 2013


I am not entirely certain how Jack and Jill and basic plumbing became entangled in the back of my mind, but this bit of fun was the end result. In the unending search for profundity, one often trips over one's own clown shoes. I was just searching about in the dark, dusty attic of my mind -- and stumbled across this mathom.

Mick

Cry Magic

Cry Magic

A poet's soul has a great empty hole,
He spends most of his life trying to fill.
Yet, he has no hope of reaching his goal,
For each poem he writes empties the till.
His mind reaches out for inspiration,
And gathers whatever magic it finds,
Until it erupts, a conflagration
So bright, it must be shared with other minds.
That magic exists in the world at all,
Is a secret known and mostly ignored,
By minds so distracted and held in thrall
To noise, embraced to avoid being bored.
A poet cries, "Listen," sings with his soul,
And searches for magic to fill the hole.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

I was born with an artist's eye and the hands of a farmer. I hear and see music: grand arias I cannot sing, and wondrous, towering symphonies I cannot play. Light touches my eyes at angles oblique -- liquid velvet in myriad hues. I love to see snow dancing on the wind and to fall asleep to the rhythm of rain on the roof. There is magic in the lullaby a summer breeze sings and a siren's call in wind waves coursing through golden wheat. Eyes tell me tales and sing songs of love lost and found. Smiles light a room or hide fear and aggression. The world is a magical, musical place, if you look beyond the noise and the barricades. Light or dark, I look for that magic and share it as best my words suffice.

Poet's Prayer

Poet's Prayer

Lord, grant me eyes to see music in life,
And ears to hear colors in voices roused.
Let me taste my words before they are rife,
And touch hearts and souls where they will be housed.
Let me feel the flow of time in my soul,
And my spirit dance in the sky above.
Let me race the wind over gentle knoll,
And move a great cloud with an airy shove.
Let me bask in the joy of mornings bright,
And taste the wonder of life each new day.
Let me hear the whispers of stars at night,
And gain wisps of wisdom from what they say.
Let me climb to the top of Heaven's tree,
And catch just a glimpse of eternity.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Do poets pray? From personal experience, I would say they must. That my view of the world differs from others is a fact of my life. A poet paints with words and finds the music in life all around. If this were not so, all poetry would be lyrics with no melody, no harmony  no rhythm. Dead words cannot bring images to life. Finding life in whispered words, soft sounds, and the touch of wind on my face and sharing that experience is the heart of what I do.

Mick

Wraith

Wraith

It silently drifts just beyond my sight,
Its frigid fog fingers upon my heart;
A mist that inhumes all visible light,
A curtain that veils an infernal night,
And rends my life's stoic ramparts apart.

Upon rising from chthonic realms to drift,
In humble non-presence near my dark shore,
It seeks to deliver its somber gift,
Chameleon cold and quicksilver swift,
And seal it in shadow forevermore.

An offering dark, a red golden ring,
A burnished bright prize with a simple tole --
Mere bending of knee will secure the thing,
But human homage to the shadow king,
Is homicide of my eternal soul.

Heartbeat a-drumming in both of my ears,
I utter a prayer, my voice hoarse and low,
For freedom from perilous haunting fears,
And suddenly wake, to wonder at tears,
That gratefully saturate my pillow.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Dark visions haunt us from time to time, and for some those shadows dance in the darkness of our deepest dreams. Perhaps it is simply the process of the human mind, sorting through days full of bad news, awful news, and the evening news. Lord knows, there are vast opportunities to dwell on mankind's inhumanity, on those ever present pockets of darkness pooling alongside human footprints upon our global home. Realms where, unsated by our bloody banquet, we find new and creative ways to snatch away the gifts of life and liberty from our fellow travelers. Little wonder such mischief would darken the dream dance of the slumbering mind.

Still, in my most haunting dreams, when sinister radiance in umbrage gleams, and nothing could be as bad as it seems; I'm swept from the comfort of peaceful sleep, and swept into waters cold, murky, and deep. Aware that danger hovers near, threatening something or someone dear, I recognize the face of my fear. I silently pray for grace with my tears, and hug my damp pillow, free from fears.

The wraiths that dance in the darkness of dreams, die in the brilliant light of love.

Mick

Tunneling

Marian tells me that my introductions are too long and that "people tune you out," when I ramble on. Henceforth, my introductions will follow my poems. Read on at your own risk...

Tunneling

I have spent most of my life tunneling,
Upwards, through layers and miles of debris.
Gathering knowledge and then funneling,
That raw data deep down inside of me.
Wanting to know why folks did what they did,
I strove to understand humanity;
While knowing danger that my pathway hid:
Such a quest could lead to insanity.
Despite awareness, I tunneled ahead,
Faster and faster, eager to learn more,
About people, whether living or dead,
And understand love, and hatred, and war.
Then I broke into, through layers of sand,
An ocean of stuff I don't understand!

Mick McKellar
February 2013


I have been spending a great deal of time just thinking. Actually, it is more like hunting and gathering, because so many of my memories are scattered, misfiled, or damaged -- probably due to the ravages of chemotherapy and long-term exposure to medications strong enough to twist my arm around and poke me in the eye. Some medications protect me from other medications and others just tend to slow down my mental gymnastics. Despite sporadic performance and the concomitant call for extra effort to overcome sluggish response, I continue with my avocation: trying to understand people.

Even as the evening news inundates me with images of violent actions, displays of rabid hatred, and evidence of our lust for power and control; my personal experience comforts me with images of acts of kindness, displays of undeserved affection, and evidence of our love for peace and freedom. Perhaps it is because these are extremes of behavior, that they break through the wall of noise that surrounds us and permeates our being. I think they used to call it the Madonna Effect: Only by being more outrageous will you be noticed. For 63 years, I have watched, listened, and taken notes. For 51 of those years, I have written about my observations in my poetry. One would hope that by mining such rich ore, the output would be golden. I suppose there are nuggets here and there, but to begin to understand humanity would require more than nine lives, and I am NOT a cat...

After tunneling through so much, I thought my recent brushes with the hereafter would lead me to deeper insights -- and I did have a breakthrough -- only to discover myself at the bottom of an ocean of stuff I don't understand...

Mick

Dreams Can Be

As I was writing the introduction to another poem, upon examination of the first paragraph, I discerned this tiny tutorial peeking out at me. Capitals and carriage returns (look it up) did the rest.

Mick

Dreams Can Be

Dreams can be wonderful things,
Full of fanciful flights,
Bright racing lights,
And the warmth enduring love brings.

Dreams can be foreboding things,
Filled with shadows and fears,
Hot burning tears,
And the chill song the black raven sings.

Dreams can be instructive things,
Filled with wild twists and bends,
When shared with friends,
May be truth, from which insight springs.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Enduring Legacy

I did not sleep well last night. Changes in medications and schedules, adjusting to home instead of hospital, and dealing with the consequences of falling down hard on the kitchen floor combined to have me up and out of bed nearly every hour, on the hour, for the entire night. It seems impossible that I had time to have a dream, but I did...and it was a doozy!

I suppose we all eventually must come to grips with our own legacy...that which we leave behind, and from which our descendants will remember us and determine the value of our lives. Although the idea of a legacy seldom intruded upon my daily thoughts, it must have been knocking about for some time in my subconscious, for it surfaced last night. It brought an angel in tow, to sit at the foot of my bed and chat about what I planned to leave behind upon my journey to the distant shore. What would be my enduring legacy?

Mick

Enduring Legacy

I dreamt that an angel visited me,
And sat, smiling, at the foot of my bed.
"Good news and bad news..." He said, quietly.
"The good news is you're going Home!" He said.
"And the bad news?" I asked, tenuously,
Unsure what direction this talk would take.
His ageless face smiled, quicksilver, at me:
"My friend, you have a decision to make!"

He told me my time on Earth was complete,
My tally of years: three more than three score:
Though not ancient, surely not a defeat,
But t'was time to open another door.
I started to rise, no more time to bide,
When he waved me back, and smiled at me.
For before I left, I had to decide,
What would be my enduring legacy.

Head on my pillow, face filled with surprise,
Heart full of questions despite my belief;
I searched deeply his ancient angel eyes,
They showed concern, but offered no relief.
A legacy...and one that must endure!
Something that would carry on after me.
It would not be money, that was for sure,
Nor fame, nor position of family...

Just a mortgaged house, a ten-year old car,
Knick-knacks and doo-dads picked up on the way;
Nothing of value to go very far,
As inheritance I could give away.
What wonders could my legacy comprise?
The answer that popped in my head -- absurd!
Were faith, fancy, and memories the prize,
In images, written and spoken word?

While watching my eyes, his head nodded once.
I asked: "Should I call, or write a letter?"
He sprang to his feet and said on the nonce,
"It seems something longer would be better.
Your journey has been postponed, my old friend;
It seems that you still have some work to do!
And though seldom gifted to see the end
Result, know your legacy will come true."

He turned back, just as he started to leave,
And favored me with a great beaming smile.
"May I come back?" He asked, "For I believe
I would like to visit once in a while."
I nodded, but words just would not begin.
In an instant, he was no longer there.
I sat up, my face registered chagrin,
"Anytime," I said to the empty air...

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Mud, Mirror, Mud

Too tired to read, too tired to watch television, almost too tired to think as I lay in my hospital bed since Friday night, I drifted away from the people, the pokes, and the pain that surrounded me as the shining fog surrounds dark pines on a bright, misty morning in the north woods. Light upon that fuzzy sea, adrift without a rudder or mast, the gentle current carried me, to dreamland's soft reality.

I journeyed far upon my pillow. I saw and felt and thought. I heard and smelled and touched. I laughed and screamed and cried. How I moved about I cannot say, nor do I know who was my guide. Did a gentle hand steer my course? Did a teacher or mentor or father or mother silently, invisibly, lead the way? Perhaps, or maybe it was just me -- searching and leading with my heart.

Upon my return home, last night, I once again dreamed. What I recall of the dream is below. Take from it what you will. I have not yet determined all that it means for me. Dreams are like that...yeah, they are!

Mick

Mud, Mirror, Mud

I dreamt I walked into a cave,
To see an eerie sight.
Although it was far underground,
It glowed with eldritch light.

The cavern floor was oddly warm,
And soft as river mud.
I felt surprise, but no alarm,
Until I heard a thud.

I turned to face the way I'd come,
The opening was shut!
As if a door was closed by some
Enormous force, but what?

The light grew brighter further in,
A frigid, greenish glow.
An invitation to come in?
I knew I had to go...

The room was only steps ahead,
I entered without pause.
I felt no fear or doubt or dread,
My heart did not give cause.

The room was covered, like the floor,
With mud, a dark green-brown.
As was the ceiling and the door,
The same, both up and down.

I noticed something on the wall,
I stared in disbelief:
It was my portrait, very small --
In muddy bas relief!

My image turned and looked at me!
It spoke, in whispered voice:
"I've things to show you, you must see.
You do not have a choice..."

One-by-one portraits appeared,
On ev'ry muddy plane.
Their whispered voices subtly seared
Their meanings in my brain.

I saw every hurt I'd done,
I witnessed deed and slight.
The times I should have helped, but run,
Portrayed there, in my sight.

At first, in anger, loud I screamed,
But ended with a sigh.
From my red eyes, hot liquid streamed,
As I began to cry.

Where teardrops touched upon the floor,
A tiny spot was free,
And shining brightly, more and more,
A mirror gleamed at me.

Something had changed, was not the same...
Through puffy eyes I'd see:
My image in that muddy frame,
Was smiling happily!

I knew I would be there for years,
I knew I had to stay,
Until I cried enough hot tears,
To wash the mud away.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Whispers in the Storm

I wrote the last verse of this poem as a response on Facebook, trying to make a point -- and I think I missed the target. The quatrain arrived with no back story, all point and no fletch. Divining the meaning involved a stretch exceeding my grasp as a writer.

It is meant as solace for those battered by innuendo, false witness, and lies -- no longer whispers in the darkness, but trumpet blares in sound bytes, poison postings on social media, and unexplained, sensationalized smoke and mirror photos and video bytes. It is meant for those who fear to speak with conviction on any topic for fear that their words will be excised with skill, edited with malice, and exhibited with sensational intent. Perhaps Launcelot in The Merchant of Venice was right, and "...truth will out." Yet screaming at a wall of noise is futile and tiring. Eventually, silence returns, at least momentarily, and it is then that a well placed and articulate whisper, the softest intonation of the truth, may be heard with the power of conviction and the ring of truth.

Kudos to the screenwriters for the movie, The Interpreter, in which a character, Zuwanie, reads the following dedication from his book: "The gunfire around us makes it hard to hear. But the human voice is different from other sounds. It can be heard over noises that bury everything else. Even when it's not shouting. Even when it's just a whisper. Even the lowest whisper can be heard -- over armies... when it's telling the truth."

If there is any wisdom in waiting, it resides in the silence when a bombast takes a breath.

Mick

Whispers in the Storm

Though booming firebrands hold sway,
On stages all across the land;
Though strident wordsmiths have their say,
In searing tirades, cast in sand;
Though dark invective shadows cast,
On smoke where nothing ever burned;
The purity of truth will last
Beyond the storm, where trust is earned.

The loudest voice will soon grow hoarse.
The pedant hoist his own petard.
The winds reveal the smoke's dark source;
And patience seems its own reward.
Yet, steps beyond such raucous strife,
The stalwart enter maelstrom's eye,
With naught but truth, a battered life,
And whispered words to slay a lie.

Do not despair you won't be heard,
Despite their shouts, that cause ear pains.
For clear as dawning's first songbird,
In silence, ah! Your whisper reigns.

Mick McKellar
February 2013