Daylight Savings Time

Daylight Savings Time

It's an anachronistic shift of time,
To save energy during days of war.
I must ask, in our frigid northern clime,
Does it track with common sense anymore?
Though we turn on the lights later each night,
And that saves some energy, I suppose,
The tardy arrival of morning light,
Means the lights are on later, heaven knows.
Standard time's great for those early to rise,
And savings time's great for those who sleep late.
Still losing an hour of sleep is no prize,
And resetting all our clocks is not great.
My alarm clock beckons me to my bed,
For at 2 AM, it must spring ahead!

Mick McKellar
March 2013

Ben Franklin may have mentioned the idea of saving time in the 18th century, but I am certain he was referring to getting out of bed before noon, not time shifting. Adopted in the U.S. for the first time in 1918, it was a way to save energy for the war effort. Resurrected during WWII for the same reason, it has continued, in uneven spurts and fits across the country ever since. Passionate people on both sides voice their opinions, and it seems we cannot leave the beginning and ending dates alone. What I don't understand is why I feel tired the night before the time shifts!

Mick

Hostage

Hostage

So desperate to wander out my door,
I peek through window shades to watch the sun:
A warm friend I can't visit anymore,
And not the only playmate I must shun.
For other friends can carry tiny threats,
Wee microscopic menaces, unreal,
Until my wimpy immune system lets
Them teach me just how bad someone can feel.
Instead of reaching out to those I know,
I hide within the confines of my home,
Dreaming of days of freedom, long ago,
And silently I wish that I could roam.
I'm hostage to a hidden enemy,
And fear the most the things I cannot see.

Mick McKellar
March 2013

Joseph Heller wrote in Catch-22, “Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you.” For me, paranoia used to be a hobby, now it has become a way of life. I swear, one of these days, I will wash the skin right off my hands. There are days I want to throw caution to the wind and just mix and mingle, but common sense prevails before panic sets in. It is then I remember what William S. Burroughs wrote in his adventure novella Ghost of Chance: “Panic is the sudden realization that everything around you is alive.” Captain Mission was talking about the jungle of Madagascar, but for me it's just home...

Mick

Rash Behavior

Rash Behavior

Consider the constant and private hell,
State of constant irritation you're in,
Compulsion to scratch in every cell,
When a rash appears somewhere on your skin.
We're taught, as children, not to scratch the site,
(Though we ache to chafe it with all we are),
Of a fever rash or an insect bite,
For fear of infection, or worse a scar.
Yet we just can't help but abrade the skin,
With a fingernail or some other tool.
To relieve the urge, we will dig right in,
But try to scratch in a way that looks cool...
Better -- if bothered by some itchy patch,
Remember, when out in public, don't scratch.

Mick McKellar
March 2013


I had to write this one -- it was just an itch I had to scratch...

Mick

Footprints in the Snow

Footprints in the Snow

The bitterness of winter troubles me,
Although there's beauty in its starkness, white;
Summer's vibrant life, gone so completely,
Smothered by blankets of milky samite.
As desert sand drifts and buries the past,
Blizzard blown snow strolls its bright, blinding path,
Tripping and filling each crevice so fast,
It wipes out all traces of winter's wrath.
I venture out into this world gone pale,
Hearkening back to robust, younger days,
But my age fails against the roaring gale,
And I stop, transfixed in a pallid haze.
The wind whispers, "You have further to go,"
Then fills up my footprints with drifting snow.

Mick McKellar
March 2013


I suppose I have always lived inside my own head, and perhaps that explains why I loved walking about in the midst of winter's fury. My health no longer permits such adventure, but memories of donning parka, boots, gloves or choppers, and a scarf to cover my face if necessary, still surface from time to time. Revelling in the frigid ferocity of an Alberta Clipper, dancing through drifts of silvery white, singing along with the winter wind's wail, all were perfected best after twilight -- when the solitude was most profound. I was life, warm and protected, standing in the midst of frozen oblivion, surveying the Stygian shore and patiently waiting for a chance to once again conquer death. These days, I find it best to remain indoors, cozy and warm, and remember the adventures, and the always transient footprints in the snow.

Mick

Stonebridge

Stonebridge

As step-by-step a massive bridge I cross,
Dark stone spanning a river, swift and cold;
The earth-bone arch, clothed in ivy and moss,
Stands adamant as bedrock, hard and old.
I wonder, was it built, or did it grow,
To cross the water's path from bank to bank?
Or did it heal a land cut by the flow,
As runnel ribbons sliced the valley's flank?
As I stride past the mid-point of the span,
Where keystones should have held the arch in place;
I realize I tread a giant hand,
Its owner granting leave, in silent grace.
I smile, and whisper softly, for His ear:
"Without Your gracious help, my path ends here..."

Mick McKellar
March 2013


I've crossed thousands of bridges in my life, and only some of them were the work of human minds and hands: The familiar Houghton/Hancock Bridge, the mighty Mackinac Bridge, and the spans crossing the Mississippi River near Red Wing, Minnesota spring to mind. Although these grand monuments to our engineering prowess and singular vision speak volumes regarding our need to connect to, and interact with each other, they are far from the only bridges we cross in our lives.

I have crossed mighty cataracts and yawning chasms in my life, and most were the terrible consequences of life events or decisions made (or avoided). Each time, as my path ends upon the nearest bank, I find an ancient stone bridge -- an arch that is so much more than a bridge, so much greater than any span built by man.

Mick