Faithful Forensics

Faithful Forensics

Fingerprints

Examine our world with a microscope,
To search out answers too tiny to see,
And our eyes see wonders that bring us hope,
Or terrors viewed microscopically.
It's human nature to seek out and find,
Hidden concepts, circumstances, and clues:
Knowledge to help us unravel, unwind,
Gordian Knots -- why we do what we do.
Though our lens reveals that wonders abide
In our world, and acts of kindness, sublime;
Of late, we focus on the darker side,
Set on solving riddles involving crime.
And the evidence that we choose to share:
Evil leaves fingerprints everywhere...

Trace

Tools grow more powerful every day,
High-tech extensions of the human mind,
Seeking to grasp in a cutting-edge way,
Footprints and fragments and facts we can find.
Perhaps we need to look up, for a change,
Consider the beauty outside our door,
In the grand vistas of a mountain range,
And the sun-kissed warmth of the ocean shore.
As we follow the trails of evidence,
In our unending quest to understand
Our world, with the mighty tools of science,
Might we find trace of a loving hand?
When our macro-mind meets our micro-stare,
We'll find God's DNA everywhere.

Mick McKellar
April 2013

Perhaps I've watched too many forensics shows on television. The Midnight Poet woke me up early this morning with an image in my mind: Thousands of forensic scientists seeking trace evidence of an elephant's passage, while the elephant stands, undiscovered, in the center of the room.

Mick

Bedtime

Bedtime

Sometimes, I dream of when I was a kid,
And of my world, about discovery
Of who I am, and all the things I did,
Exploring each and ev'ry boundary.
My energy seemed boundless, and to spare.
My attention was claimed by countless things.
I tried so hard to focus everywhere
At once, I swear my little feet had springs.
Then bedtime came, the toughest time on Earth;
I seldom ever went there willingly:
A dreadnought chained by blankets to my berth.
I remember what my folks said to me,
The words each parent throughout time has said:
"I'm tired, it's time for you to go to bed."

Mick McKellar
April 2013


It's funny, the things you ponder as you grow older. I marvel at the energy levels maintained by young children, and sometimes, I wish I had a little of that boundless store of vitality...just for a little while.

Mick

Grandpa

Neil McKellar, my great,great, great grandpa
 (I think I counted enough "greats")

Grandpa

Slowly deliberate, confident, fair,
Imported, as from a long distant past;
Cherished his snowy or iron-grey hair,
At least, the little that managed to last;
Telling incredible stories at length,
Of days much simpler and slower and free,
When young kids ran outside showing their strength,
By climbing to castles, high in a tree;
Glorious stories of days together,
Playing and living and learning to be
Part of an enduring, snug, all-weather,
Shielded and safeguarded community;
Proper patriarch of our family,
We called him Grandpa, and now, he is me!

Mick McKellar
April 2013


I spent a little time with two of my grandsons tonight. As we sat down to eat, the younger one grabbed my hand and said: "Grandpa, I want to sit next to you!" That simple statement warmed my ancient, crusty, relic of a heart; put a stupid grin on my hoary, worn face; and nearly coaxed a tear from an antiquated eye. I thought of my own grandfathers and their wonderful stories. I remembered how much my dad loved being "Grumpy," and how much Marian's dad loved being "Grandpa."

It's my turn, and it's absolutely wonderful!

Mick

Chalcedony

For Marian,

When passion first flares, the cold fire of diamond captures golden promise and reflects its luminescence for all to see. Though others may observe an absence of the dazzle and flare, they only need to look deeper to see lustrous fires, banked to burn bright through darkest, coldest night.

Love is not diamonds and dazzle, it is life bringing light.

Thank you for lighting my way in the night.

Mick


Chalcedony

See the diamond's fire of so long ago,
Whose brilliant passion challenged all starlight.
Our hearts were consumed by its argent glow,
And we blazed forth, twin comets in the night.
Though years may have dimmed our dazzle and flare,
And resplendent flashes are seldom perceived,
Our cabochon ruby effulgent, fair,
Pulses with each touch of warm light received.
I'm drawn to peer deeply where blazing bright,
Time-polished, deep fires still twinkle and shine,
Undimmed incandescence, life bringing light;
Candlelight glimpsed through the deepest red wine.
Our love is deep carnelian to me;
The warm, rich lustre of Chalcedony.

Mick McKellar
April 2013

Fixing It

Fixing It

I read newspapers and watch TV shows;
I scan through the news on the Internet.
Despite all the facts that humankind knows,
We don't get along with each other yet.
We shoot and we bomb and we politic,
Then we over-analyze what's gone wrong,
Till the mirrors and acrid smoke are thick,
Till the pressure to look away is strong.
Though we tout how well we communicate,
We use our technology to smother
Ourselves with stories of anger and hate.
Small wonder we can't live with each other.
Our response is nearly always the same:
We don't fix the problem, we fix the blame.

Mick McKellar
April 2013

Lucky Man

Lucky Man

The last few days were a blast from the past,
Re-reading some of my old poetry.
I don't remember when I read it last,
And some of it even sounds new to me.
Deep down in the words, I read hopes and fears,
I felt once again the losses and gains.
Though hearkening back nigh a dozen years,
I felt once again the joys and the pains.
A different man was writing back then,
Unaware of the challenges to come.
Twas a joy to re-dream my dreams back when,
Our future seemed infinite and winsome.
When I looked back over that distant span,
I realized: I am a lucky man.

Mick McKellar
April 2013

I've been reviewing and archiving more than 20 years of poetry, most written in the last 12 years. I'm not yet half done, and the journey has been wonderful. What a joy to revisit the Mick that was me in 2003!

Mick

Waiting for the Robins to Sing

Waiting for the Robins to Sing

Although the calendar says it is spring,
I am waiting for this winter to end.
I am waiting for the robins to sing,
And I'm weary of the winter white trend.
When the stingy winter sun shares its light,
I must squint when I look through a window,
For the crystalline ice sparkles so bright --
Near as blinding as our ocean of snow.
Under blankets frosty, silvery-pearled,
Oh, so softly tucked beneath winter eaves,
Sleeps a deep viridian summer world:
Dreaming infant dressed with burgeoning leaves,
Waiting for the ancient sun to shine down,
And tell old Jack Frost, it's time to leave town.

Mick McKellar
April 2013

So many have said it's the year of the Neverending Winter. I must believe our summer world slumbers beneath the ocean of snow whose nearest shore, is my front door. Think Spring!

Mick