Sentry

Sentry

A figure grafted to a distant hill:
The lone corner post for a flimsy fence,
Is standing guard, lest the morning light spill,
Cross a sudden and nameless storm-born rill,
To cast liquid shadows traveling hence.

The rickety barrier rips the day,
Scoring gashes across the morning light;
And though it may hold winter snows at bay,
Rebuff icy gales in its wobbly way,
It’s abandoned by the retreating night.

At first, it stood stately and self-possessed,
But lately, no one makes any repairs.
It stands alone, derelict and distressed;
And as snow, sun, and showers can attest,
The sentry stands guard, but nobody cares.

Mick McKellar
September 2014

Few things look as lonely as old snow fencing, weather-beaten and in disrepair.

Mick

Stars, Out of Reach

Stars, Out of Reach

My soul may sing in the darkness,
Cleaving the black of the night;
Opening shadow with starkness,
Filling all with perfect light:

Binding the music of night wings,
Caught fondling the stars with love,
Raptured by music the wind sings,
And counterpoint from above.

But I love the stars too deeply,
To capture their bonfires bright,
In musical aspic, cheaply,
Or expensive words I write.

Mick McKellar
September 2014


Poetry is to music as painting is to sculpture.

Mick

Reflections of Life

Reflections of Life

Hot rivers of anger coursed down my cheeks,
As I climbed from the black pit of despair.
I’d wandered about in the dark for weeks,
Consumed by the hope I’d get lost down there.

The face in my mirrors, everyday,
Grew more indistinct, as though fogged by breath;
Until my reflection just went away,
My echo suffered invisible death!

The man I had faced for all of my days,
Who grinned back from the mirrors on my shelf,
Was lost in a featureless, foggy haze;
And with him, he took my sense of myself.

Panicked, I fled to a place in my mind,
Where the silence reigned and the darkness ruled:
In the darkest hollow hole I could find,
Where panic and fear could be overruled.

I wandered in gloom and despondency,
Too angry to plead for rescue or aid;
Till a voice from shadow whispered at me,
And surprisingly, I was not afraid.

Until then the darkness was absolute.
Then my eyes detected a faint green light,
That limned a figure in a minstrel’s suit;
An emerald sun to my weakened sight,

He sang songs about the absurdity,
Of hiding from life in a deep, dark hole;
Rejecting all those who could have helped me,
And running from life with my heart and soul.

He helped me to stand again on my feet,
Then sang a tune I did not want to hear:
“To self-centered folks, the mirror’s a cheat;
Think only of you and you disappear.”

Angry, I turned and I climbed from the pit,
My face all aglow with chagrin and shame.
For I understood the full truth of it:
My friends were mirrors, my image, acclaim.

I sought my friends, asked for help and advice;
This time I listened, without being rude.
My image was back, though not always nice,
And I only reflected gratitude.

Mick McKellar
September 2014

It seems an easy thing, to find a deep, dark hole, when one wants to hide from one’s reflection in the eyes of the world.

Mick

Waking Dream

Waking Dream

In my dream, I walked among the tombstones,
Upon a hill in silvery moonlight.
My bare feet, abraded by brittle bones,
Felt pinpricks of pain in the soft, dark night.

The scent of attar assailed the night air,
Advancing in waves across the bleak lawn;
To settle in open graves here and there,
And hide in shadow, afraid of the dawn.

To honor the graveyard, the chill wind died,
Replaced by a silence that screamed of death.
Until the black voice of a nightbird cried,
The haunting wail of a victim’s last breath.

I felt the sharp chill of the tortured earth,
Opened to welcome the final remains,
Of travelers, whose long journey from birth,
Suddenly ended in terrors and pains.

Then in the deep shadows, off to my left,
A kneeling man glowed with a soft green light;
His ageless face saddened, like one bereft,
His vert countenance ghostly as a wight.

He started to sing, as his eyes met mine,
His voice as tender as leaves in the spring.
He sang a temple in which to enshrine,
The wonders of a short life, done living.

The Minstrel stood up, and he smiled at me.
He said, “You dream walk upon distant shoals;
You’ve journeyed beyond the waking life sea.
You have come to the Garden of Lost Souls.”

He told me that some who suddenly die,
Leave behind for their families no trace.
He finds these lost souls, and he helps them fly,
To a peaceful rest in this quiet place.

Then he smiled once more, and he sang a song.
He stretched forth one green hand, and touched my head.
I fell in the light and knew nothing more,
Until morning light woke me, in my bed.

Mick McKellar
September 2014

In our dreams, we often journey where we would not dare to tread in the light of day.

Mick

The Visitor

The Visitor

The visitor looked shabby and care worn,
But came to see the old, unconscious man,
Who had no visitors before this morn;
Not even one call, since his stay began.

The staff adopted this silent, old swain,
In a coma, and never once awake;
And though they could not tell if he felt pain,
They tried never to cause his bed to shake.

The nurses read him newspapers and books,
And softly whispered lullabies at night.
So, concerned about the visitor’s looks,
They kept the fellow always in their sight.

At first he simply sat and softly sang,
Songs that told a story of days long past;
Sometimes his voice so sonorous it rang,
And seemed to span both time and distance vast.

As they watched, the visitor’s aspect changed.
He played an instrument so shiny bright,
They did not see his clothing, rearranged,
Begin to glow with soft internal light.

The Minstrel’s voice began to rise and soar;
Reverberating up and down the halls.
They felt his power vibrate through the floor,
And shake the artwork hanging on the walls.

Then in their minds they saw the old man’s life;
His childhood, and the time he served in war,
The tragedy that took his son and wife,
And stranded him on depression’s dark shore.

They saw him beat his demons and rebound.
They saw him work to help the homeless poor.
They saw the day that injured, he was found;
Mugged, beaten, left for dead, near his front door.

Awakened by the Minstrel’s serenade,
The old man gazed about him unafraid.
Silently limned in greenish light displayed,
His family around his bed arrayed.

The power of the Minstrel’s voice increased;
A younger man sprang lightly from the bed.
The green light flashed, the sound and fury ceased,
The old man left his body empty, dead.

Although they grieved a little and they cried,
They ne'er forgot the way the old man died.

Mick McKellar
September 2014

Although the cover of a book may be tattered and torn, the pages withered and worn, the story written on those weary pages may change your life -- and others’ -- through the ages.

Mick

Bequest

Bequest

Tenderly, as she’d often done before,
She sat by his bed and she touched his brow.
She couldn’t help it, she did it once more,
Though he was not there to feel her touch now.

He’d died softly, peacefully, in his sleep;
She’d sensed his soft passage, and felt him leave
A gift of love and memories, to keep
As his legacy to cherish, to grieve.

His departure was abrupt, nonetheless,
Though he’d fought and he’d rallied, once or twice,
He’d simply surrendered to death’s caress,
And left his shell empty and cold as ice.

At first, she was angry and cursed his name;
Whispering harshly with barely heard breath.
She’d cried out for help, but nobody came,
No friends or family knew of his death.

They’d lived alone and cared for each other,
Relying on pensions and Medicare.
Though they were grandmother and grandfather,
Their children no longer lived around there.

Their friends were as old and just as fragile,
Unable to race to each others’ aid;
And those neighbors who were young and agile,
Seldom helped at all, unless they were paid.

Alone in the world, she broke down and wept,
Till she felt a hand softly stroke her hair.
She sat up abruptly and her heart leapt,
Seeing the strangely dressed man standing there.

As the Minstrel sang a song of great love,
She saw that her body glowed with green light.
When her husband called to her from above,
She willingly let her spirit take flight.

Silently they walked to a golden door,
Where her husband beamed her a loving smile.
He said: “Though I never could love you more,
You’re needed back there, for a little while.”

She woke slowly, in a hospital bed,
For her children found her -- an awful sight,
Sprawled across her husband and nearly dead --
Because someone had called them in the night.

The Minstrel just watched them from far away,
Happy that family love still survives.
He knew she’d be well cared for from that day,
Her children would take her into their lives.

Mick McKellar
September 2014


In the world of The Minstrel, no one dies alone.

Mick

Calling Back a Stone

Calling Back a Stone

As wind cannot be unblown,
And wheat cannot be unsown;
Once the missile has been thrown,
You cannot call back a stone.

Noting only latest trends,
Hearing only his close friends,
Never questioning their ends;
Acts before he comprehends.

Although not the first to stoop,
He cast lot within the group,
And lost himself in the soup;
A loss he could not recoup.

Never wise, and not a sleuth,
Thoughtless, brazen, and uncouth:
The actions of extreme youth,
Without learning the whole truth.

He caused harm with what he threw;
Action he will always rue.
Though he knows the story true,
What he’s done, he can’t undo...

As wind cannot be unblown,
And wheat cannot be unsown;
Once the missile has been thrown,
You cannot call back a stone.

Mick McKellar
September 2014


The Internet and worldwide networked media make it easy to cast stones, and it seems everyone’s house is made of glass. “He” could be a “she” or a “they.” It could easily be you or me, jumping to conclusions with a pocket full of rocks.

Mick

Heavenly Longevity

Heavenly Longevity

When I touch another, or when they touch me,
Our touch transfers love, incandescently;
It’s energy.

When I share my love most generously,
I’m not depleted by my subsidy;
It’s synergy.

When I receive love given tenderly,
I’m changed, a little bit no longer me;
It’s destiny.

When the sharing of love is sensory,
And my family is serenity;
It’s reverie.

When I finally become elderly,
I’ll take all the love when I’m history;
For eternity.

It’s a mystery.

Mick McKellar
September 2014

My day began amidst the backwash of a dream deluge. My dreams seemed to say: "When we give love, our supply is not reduced, and when we receive love, we grow -- with even greater capacity to share our love."

Mick

Warrior’s Dream

Warrior’s Dream
 
Though fully asleep in his makeshift bed,
Dreaming about sleeping without dreaming;
With gray twilit thoughts running through his head,
He awoke, and could hear the clouds screaming.

The tortured day moaned bright red as it broke,
Pierced by the soft molten gold of the sun,
As the cold veil of night, rent in one stroke,
Scattered in tatters -- a new day begun.

Gathering remnants of life on the street,
His mobile home in an old shopping cart,
He began his quest for something to eat,
To feed his spirit, and to fuel his heart.

The busy city was always awake,
For city dreams are cheerless nightmares.
With no one to give, and nothing to take,
He futilely searched for someone who cares.

He drifted with the tattered detritus,
The remnants of worn-out humanity;
Unable to effectively fight us,
When we discard what we don’t want to see.

He fell to the street, against a stone wall,
His eyes were mere slits, as he tried to see
An old photograph, very worn, very small;
And cried as he gazed at his family.

Sharp memories flooded his clouded mind,
Piercing the fog that surrounded his core.
His agony leaving him nearly blind,
He staggered erect, and fell down once more.

A flash of green light touched his injured eyes,
And strong arms lifted him onto his feet.
He stood without pain, and to his surprise,
He heard wondrous singing, poignant and sweet.

The Minstrel just smiled and then stepped aside,
So that he could look across the wide drive.
His eyes filled with tears, and again he cried,
His dead family was there...and alive!

He ran to join them, his arms open wide;
He gathered them close and they disappeared.
The Minstrel knelt by the shell, cast aside,
And said: "An old soldier should be revered."

As the evening air steamed with his breath,
He held old dog tags and medals to pray:
"Though every warrior must meet death,
It should not be alone, and not this way."

He stood guard until the police got there,
Watched as the fragile remains were retrieved,
Then he vanished into the twilight air;
Angry that nobody knew, no one grieved.

Mick McKellar
September 2014


When I read that so many homeless veterans die alone on the streets, I felt ashamed.

Mick