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.