Feel the Year Pass

Feel the Year Pass

How do I feel the passing of the year,
When winter locks our world in iced embrace?
How can I trace the warm path of a tear,
When all of my tears are frozen in place?
There'll be no alarm in the crystal air,
Father Time leaves no footprints in the snow.
The stately evergreens really don't care,
And have absolutely no place to go.
The silent clouds sail serenely along,
Graceful galleons across starlit skies.
The birds all have colds, and can't sing a song;
The man in the moon smiles, but he tells lies.
How do I notice, am I really smart?
I feel the year pass, in my beating heart...

Mick McKellar
December 2015

How else would I notice, if not the clock, maybe...or the TV?

Mick

Rolling of the Year

Rolling of the Year

I but watched from afar,
the rolling of the year.
I could not touch those who touched,
those who saw,
those who heard,
the arc of life I intersected.

I drifted through the year,
a wind-wave through brown grass.
I followed softly winding fields.
I read the rainfall from mighty clouds,
that washed soft, silken dust,
from limb and leaf.

I sealed a promise with the soil,
the residue of years,
upon the bones
of decades of death;
of life and death.
Voiceless, I silently sang
the simple song of ages,
to mark time's purpose and flight.

I cried when youth departed,
when passion's fire grew cooler,
when harvest touched my heart,
when winnowing wind laid bare my soul.
And I could but watch from afar,
the rolling of the year.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

As the end of the year rolls by, isolated, I watch from afar and wonder at its passage...

Mick

Solitary Candle

Solitary Candle

Among the bleak and gusty squalls of snow,
A solitary candle glowed, so bright
It shimmered on the shifting drifts below,
And warmed the frozen desert of the night.
Once, flickering against the frosty clime,
Its lively light pierced deep into the gloom;
It softly touched my eye one blessed time,
And saved me from a dark and icy doom.
The dancing, wee flame led me to your door,
Where I stood shaking, stunned, and mystified:
Before I knocked you opened it, and more,
You took my hand and welcomed me inside.
Your welcoming smile made my shaking cease,
Aglow with life and warmth, with love and peace.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

To those who wander in the cold and dark, a solitary candle is a star.

Mick

Silent Shadows

Silent Shadows

When flick’ring candles brighten window panes,
Framed with silver, icy Christmas lace,
And golden, liquid light on candy canes,
Beams forth, reflected on each tiny face.
Small children peer through windows rimed with cold,
And seek the ancient visitor in red;
A jolly elf as young as Spring, yet old
And wise enough to wait till they’re in bed.
Outside, cold winds deposit snow in drifts,
As moonlight cruises, swift across the scene.
Inside the house, small children dream of gifts,
Reflecting lights, red, yellow, blue, and green.
Their hearts call forth, make magic come and go,
Silent shadows upon the fallen snow.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

The legend lives on—in my mind, at least…

Mick

Hear, Say

Hear, Say

I didn't want to stay indoors,
And ventured out to do some chores.
I love this festive time of year,
When friendly words fall on my ear.

The streets, festooned with festive sights,
And multi-colored Christmas lights;
All bravely showed their bright displays,
To color winter's whites and grays.

The other shoppers shuffling by,
Sometimes would look me in the eye;
And should I hold their gaze awhile,
They'd summon such a dazzling smile.

A few, of course, looked cross and grim,
Yet, never caused the lights to dim.
And if their jaundiced eyes caught mine,
I let my brightest smile just shine.

Though often they're a noisy bunch,
The kids were quiet, on a hunch
That if they didn't gripe and whine,
Santa's generous light might shine...

I wandered long, from store to store,
And found I loved it even more,
When folks whose smiles were warm and free,
With "Merry Christmas!" Greeted me.

I also loved to hear the phrase,
A pleasant "Happy Holidays!"
Other folks began our meetings,
With a joyous "Season's Greetings!"

Later, as at home I pondered,
Greetings proffered while I wandered,
Smiling as my journey ended,
For never once was I offended.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

I grew up during a time when saying, "Happy holidays" was an all-inclusive alternative to "Merry Christmas!" Folks used the phrase to break the repetitiousness of having only one way to offer good wishes. It was not the pontifical, legalistic, inoffensive, lawyer-recommended, and safe holiday phrase it has become. Christmas means different things to different people. So, however they wish to say it, their wishes for my happiness and blessings of the season are welcome. It has never altered the joy I feel at Christmas.

Mick

Asleep in My Head

Asleep in My Head

My tea grew cold, as I dozed in my chair;
The windows were dark and the hour wee.
Thoughts that I’d juggled were no longer there,
Yet I struggled to call them back to me.
The bulk of my fingers had gone to sleep,
And my eyelids had gained a lot of weight.
My hair looked like it had been buried, deep
Underground, in an ancient packing crate.
Tired eyes tried to focus upon the screen,
Of my desktop computer, patiently
Awaiting input, machine to machine:
For fatigued emotions inside of me,
Had silently crept to their little bed;
And left me alone, asleep in my head.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

There was I, head cradled on my left hand, valiantly endeavoring to remain conscious long enough to finish a poem about trying to stay awake to finish writing a poem. Yet, I was left alone, asleep in my head.

Mick

Glimpse of an Angel

Glimpse of an Angel

I stood, back to a window, when my eye
Glimpsed movement, and I stood there, shivering.
My muscles shuddered violently—did I
See the shadow of a bright angel’s wing?
In an instant, I turned, and tried to see
What caused that flashing shadow to pass by.
Pewter sky and milky snow greeted me,
And evergreens that whispered with a sigh.
Here and there touches of color so bright,
Glimmered through hazy clouds of blowing snow,
And promised to cheer up the coming night,
With their twinkles, their sparkles, and their glow.
And though I cannot prove it, I’m happy
To have a Christmas angel visit me!

Mick McKellar
December 2015

We all see apparent furtive movement and shadows from the corners of our eyes. Who is to say it might not be an angel or two, just watching over us?

Mick

Child of the Earth

Child of the Earth

Lost in a misty, dark forest,
And far from the shores of the lake,
I sought a way home without rest,
Uncertain which path I should take.

Trees welcomed me to the deep glen,
Their green silence offered me peace;
But I wandered far beyond ken,
As though led forward by caprice.

Until there opened before me,
A woodland cathedral’s grand nave,
And I found myself, completely
Alone in a living enclave.

I felt all my troubles lifted,
By trees' ancient wisdom caressed;
And sensed that I had been gifted,
With the grace of nature expressed.

My careworn spirit was lifted;
My heart given global rebirth.
A soul once so greatly gifted,
Is always a child of the Earth.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

I’ve found that a simple walk in the woods can lead to revelations of wonder. Treat your Christmas tree with care and respect.

Mick

When I Rested

When I Rested

With the unquenchable zeal
Of a passionate lover,
I searched both width and breadth
Of my universe.
For a flood of wonder,
A river of love...
Exploring even the dark and bitter shore
Where lies curiosity;
And found not a single drop of peace.

I struggled on, though faint heart
Bid me lie down,
And cast the battle upon the lawn;
In the sun,
On the soft green grass,
To rest and share the light.

Here, I did not find the answer,
The answer was there to see:
I need not struggle to find inner peace;
When I rested,
It found me.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

Just some thoughts on the proverbial search for inner peace.

Mick

Shiver Together

Shiver Together

When a winter morning dons a grey cloak,
And heavy clouds melt into slushy rain,
The air smells of languid and soggy smoke,
And frigid fingers spark shivers again.
When gelid almost-snow touches my face,
The cold liquid quickly drips down my skin,
Soaks into my collar, leaving no trace
Of the chilling effect it has within.
Stiff fingers grow numb from the flowing cold,
Despite the thick, heavy glove on each hand.
My coat is not warm, or I’m growing old,
And my frozen toes make it hard to stand.
Yet, I’ll endure this bleak, chilly weather,
If you and I can shiver together.

Mick McKellar
December 2015

It seems such a short time ago that winter’s cold fingers could never touch me…

Mick

Dreams of Coming Home

Dreams of Coming Home

I wasn’t born and trained to fight a war,
And never sought redemption with a gun.
I tried to live in peace and nothing more,
But now my efforts have become undone.
My family and I must flee our home;
We live as ghosts and I’ve become a wraith.
We’re forced to quickly leave and blindly roam,
All lost, because we differ in our faith.
The pirates and the profiteers we meet,
Take all we have and leave us on our knees.
We plead for shelter, water, food to eat,
From people who see us as refugees.
To save our lives, we flee, we run away,
But dream of coming home some future day.

Mick McKellar
November 2015

We see them as refugees, and yet fear what we might see in their eyes.

Mick

Candles of the Darkest Nights

Candles of the Darkest Nights

Dear candles of the darkest nights,
Look down from shores so far away,
And glow with cold and distant lights,
That cast your fairy shadows, fey.

Your tiny lamps in velvet vault,
Caress my world, as diamonds flashed
Your mighty shimmer to exalt,
And glimmer grandly, unabashed.

Sweet raven arc of sable sky,
My window on the universe,
Draw forth my thoughts, cause them to fly,
My poesy afar disperse.

Mick McKellar
November 2015

Sometimes, I talk to the stars…

Mick

The Road Behind

The Road Behind

I traveled far to arrive at your camp,
Many a weary footfall behind me.
My burdens are light, but my feet are damp,
And for a visit, I'd thank you, kindly!

Fellow travelers rarely stop to share,
And so many carry such needless weight;
Their backs badly bent, near beyond repair,
As they hurry on, bearing all that freight.

The mud on my feet is from our shared road:
Dust of ages, soaked with blood, sweat, and tears;
Churned by their struggle , under heavy load,
Driven by passions, regrets, loves, and fears.

My right bag carries memories sublime,
One of only two bags carried by me.
The left bag has lessons learned over time,
Some unpleasant, but all necessary.

I'll share what little wisdom I can find:
Life travels toward its end, not to a place;
So I leave the long road behind, behind,
For life is a journey and not a race.

Mick McKellar
November 2015

We all journey along, but why carry such heavy baggage? And, why are you in such a hurry?

Mick

Why Don't We Fix It?

Why Don't We Fix It?

Humanity has created wonders,
Conquered diseases and learned how to fly.
We've also made some stupendous blunders,
Poisoning waters and staining the sky.
We live on a world that used to be vast,
With enough to share, if we were willing.
But instead of working to make it last,
We hoard it, protecting it by killing
Each other, in endlessly wasteful wars;
Spend our lives in hubris and invoke it
As cause, to choose what is mine, what is yours.
While fighting over our home, we broke it.
Before our actions take Earth and nix it,
Why on that Earth can't we work to fix it?

Mick McKellar
November 2015

Our stories, movies, and media are filled with images of a dystopic future. Instead of fulfilling that prophecy, we need to work to prevent it.

Mick

Bleak Thoughts

Bleak Thoughts

I gaze upon your sharply ragged word,
Inspired by little more than open fear;
And find its logic flawed, its claims absurd.
Its sound assaults the fortress of my ear.
Withal, you have the right to state your case,
To share the varied opinions you hold,
Proclaim your own beliefs in public place,
In language raw as skin bared to the cold.
Although awhile your followers will vie,
To be the first to grant your word acclaim;
The impact of your tantrums swiftly die,
When history and proven facts take aim.
And though your bleak thoughts surely will survive,
I hope that truth ensures they will not thrive.

Mick McKellar
November 2015

Sometimes, after reading my newsfeed, I need a shower.

Mick

Dark Freedom

Dark Freedom

As peaceful sleep encompasses my mind,
And daily problems vanish with the light,
My restless spirit dances on the wind,
And soars on darkling wings through endless night.
I slip the bonds that tie me to the Earth,
And cry with joy, for freedom of my flight
From chains of illness freed, a swift rebirth;
To spring aloft with newborn blissful might!
My phantom heart beats wildly in my chest;
My wings shine silver in icy starlight.
Upward I surge, with fearsome power blessed,
To climb, exultant, to an awesome height.
And spent, I drift in soft, silent delight,
By dreams borne until daybreak brings daylight.

Mick McKellar
November 2015

For some, only the power of dreams gives freedom from the chains of pain.

Mick

Song of Solitude

Song of Solitude

I wander paths labyrinthine;

I pass unheard, unfelt, unseen.

My presence, veiled, will not intrude;

I cloak myself in solitude.

To watch the world, not intervene,

Not provoke problems unforeseen,

By acts misguided, I pursued;

Are benefits of solitude.

My solitary quarantine,

Seems loneliness to contravene.

My solo brown studies allude,

To voluntary solitude.

Alone, I drift in dreams serene,

Through fields and forests evergreen,

Until my soul, a wraith renewed,

Can thrive obscured in solitude…

Mick McKellar

November 2015

I used to comment on every post and email with which I disagreed. I used to participate in long and fruitless arguments online and in person. These days, I occasionally fluster and bluster, but mostly I watch, I listen, and I learn. It is difficult for the spirit, but I find solace in my dreams and prayers.

Mick

Banishing Silence

Banishing Silence

The depths of total silence are unknown,
And the paths to quietude have vanished.
As waves of man’s cacophony have grown,
Our islands of stillness have been banished.
The Earth, of course, is restive in its way;
To roar and whisper calls of life and death.
Yet on occasion there would be a day:
When mighty earthly lungs would hold their breath;
When glassy sea a hushed reserve would keep;
When restless winds would cease their reverie;
When ceaseless life would pause as though asleep;
And all creation mute and noiseless be!
Yet, instantly the moment falls apart;
As man will hiccup, sneeze, or grunt and fart.

Mick McKellar
September 2015

Noise levels seem incessantly on the rise, and the source of that clanging, tinkling, slamming, banging, rumbling, and roaring is our technology. I do not ever remember silence, as tinnitus has haunted me all my life. Many still seek peace and quiet -- relying on our technology to synthesize silence.

Mick

Theory of Negativity

Theory of Negativity

My family thinks that I’m negative,
That I frown, and I grimace, and I grouch;
That I am always argumentative,
And that my feral mustache seems to crouch.
My eyebrows cast a shadow o’er my face;
A gargoyle overshadowed by a tree.
Expressions happen in that hidden space,
And so, my smile is sometimes hard to see.
I seem, by nature, distant and alone,
For covert reasons, silent, and arcane.
Perhaps I’m simply surly to the bone,
Or maybe I’m distracted and in pain.
If I choose to answer with a bludgeon:
Don’t assume I’m just an old curmudgeon.

Mick McKellar
September 2015

Chronic pain and discomfort can color your life with darker hues and purple shadows. It can be difficult to convince others that your brightest flash of shimmering grace is that you continue to function, and that: “Yes, I really am smiling!”

Mick

Slumber’s Ardent Grace

Slumber’s Ardent Grace

The hours fly by and sleep eludes my mind,
Because tenacious images hold sway.
An unheard voice whispers words not unkind,
My words -- to drive the images away.
Bright images, fantastic and mundane,
And shadow constructs built of doubt and fear;
I see them all, the pleasure and the pain,
And grand adventures make sleep disappear.
Soft arms of slumber quietly enfold
My shoulders, sagging, weary with the strain.
Yet, on they flow -- the words -- timid and bold;
To tell the tale, to let me sleep again.
At last, the words release their fierce embrace,
And I succumb to slumber’s ardent grace.

Mick McKellar
August 2015
I was up again last night, in the wee hours, pecking at my tablet to translate images to words and release my mind -- for it was time to dream.

Mick

Aging Summer

Aging Summer

Soft, warm breezes betray with shallow breaths,
Long golden hours spent waiting on the night;
When glints of sunlight flare their tiny deaths,
And crimson clouds salute the passing light.
The morning dance sleeps longer with each day;
The molten orb is later to embark
On daily journeys, swiftly on its way
To rendezvous with shadows of the dark.
The torrid air now carries scent of cool
And misty daybreak, rain-soaked window panes,
That signal change, a limpid, liquid pool --
A mirage of refreshing Autumn rains.
We sense the changes, soon upon us all;
As aging Summer births the infant Fall.

Mick McKellar
August 2015

Far too often I hear the remark, "There is a touch of fall in the air."

Mick

Dichotomy

Dichotomy

Never happier, than when not laughing;
Never more in love, than scolding my child;
Never more at ease, than when I’m gaffe-ing;
Never more severe, than when acting wild.
Never hungrier, than when I’m sated;
Never more relaxed, than when energized;
Never more wistful, than when elated;
Never more serene, than when I’m surprised.
Never sillier, than when I’m austere;
Never more certain, than when I surmise;
Never more kindly, than when I’m severe;
Never more foolish, than when I am wise.
Never more at peace, than when I’m crying;
Never more alive, than when I’m dying.

Mick McKellar
August 2015

Human beings are a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, inside a paradox.

Mick

Whisper to My Heart

Whisper to My Heart

My mind remains so full of daily cares,
I scarce can see my moments through my needs.
So blinded, changes catch me unawares;
I can’t see where my stumbling journey leads.
The beating of my heart fills up my ears.
The sound of my own voice rends silent air.
I taste the bitter, salty, tang of tears,
From lashing, angry hatred ev’rywhere.
A rational redoubt of human thought,
And paragon of logic, science bred,
Can not refute the insight that I bought,
With coin earned while I flickered, nearly dead:
With senses filled with logic, joy, and woe,
Lord, whisper to my heart what I must know!

Mick McKellar
August 2015

A silent prayer I’ve never uttered aloud; my last thoughts before I sleep silently carry this request to God each night. I spent most of my life trying to think my way through every challenge, when I should also have paid attention to that tiny voice whispering to my heart.

Mick

Sweat Equity

Sweat Equity

Near boiling waters of hideous pain,
Across a path that carries you hither,
Where nightly deluge of sulfurous rain,
Makes your eyes burn and your limbs all wither;
Stands a wall of amorphous, living fire,
Towering upward and searing a sky
So black, when the soaring and roaring pyre,
Scalds menacing storm clouds, it makes them cry.
Wicked scabrous fumes fill the deadly air,
The rocks and the stones shriek in agony.
Though nothing alive could survive long there,
In a tiny, hot room prepared for me!
"I must be in Hell!" I screamed in my fear.
"First time in a Sauna?" Asked someone near.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

I remember my first time in a sauna. I thought my lungs were being cooked and my backside barbecued. After that, it was great,  sweaty fun.

Mick

Words for Wounds

Words for Wounds

Each day begins with promises unbound;
So many pleasant possibilities.
So many opportunities abound,
That I can scarce decide which chance to seize.
I want to help, to lift somebody’s pain;
To raise a spirit, cleanse a weeping wound,
To touch a life where unhealed scars remain,
With understanding lovingly attuned.
The stories that I write may seem inane;
Sometimes they’re harebrained, odd, or maybe true.
Yet, if a tale can help someone in pain,
I have to write -- I can but follow through.
For words may salve a wound that will not heal,
And I must tell the stories that I feel.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

Of course, I write for me. However, I share because someone, somewhere may find solace in my sometimes silly words or ridiculous rhymes.

Mick

Tough Audience

Tough Audience

I talk to myself when I am confused,
When I'm uncertain which way I should go,
And get comments from someone unenthused:
The laughing crow outside my window.
I pour out my heart, all over my sleeve,
The crow speaks up, and he just says: "Haw, haw!"
I grumble aloud: "Just shut up and leave!"
Rustling feathers and a single, "Haw!"
I rush to the window, bellow: "Enough!"
The bird, unimpressed, merely ratchets: "Naw!"
My avian critic, though really tough,
Will never share anything that he saw.
Our arguments always end in a draw;
He always calls my ideas: "Caw, Caw!"

Mick McKellar
July 2015

You can’t win an argument with a bird. They’re a flight risk…

Mick

Shake the Earth

Shake the Earth

I trembled at the power of a mind,
When focused on a single complex thought;
The wonders that an intellect might find,
With little more than talents that it brought.
My early dreams are cherished memories.
I’d planned to conquer villains, one and all:
To bring all human hatred to its knees,
And watch the reign of pain and terror fall;
To hear my wisdom echo through the sky,
And help me sing the future to its birth;
To hear my music make the angels cry,
And know my written word could shake the Earth.
Last night I dreamt my thoughts were taking flight,
To fill the universe with golden light.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

So many begin with dreams of shaking the world, but wind up hanging on for dear life. In my dreams, there is no limit to what I can accomplish.

Mick

Whispers of Silence

Whispers of Silence

Tinnitus bells ringing the livelong day,
Makes the sound of silence hard to define;
The aggravation never goes away,
As my ears ring and pop, whistle and whine.
I can't understand voices on my phone,
When I take a message, much of it's guessed.
I seek quiet places, sit all alone,
Isolated, my hearing needs a rest.
Do fish in the ocean look at the land,
And contemplate being there if they're caught?
A concept as easy to understand
Is absence of sound -- it’s a foreign thought.
I cannot explain, not adequately,
What whispers of silence would mean to me.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

I don't remember if I have ever known silence.

Mick

Élan

Élan

I’ve grown weary of all the bickering;
So many voices demanding their say.
Though human spirit may be flickering,
The flame of freedom is fading away.
Creative vision was once a blessing,
To view our world a fresh, different way.
Now a writer must always be guessing:
Will he be judged offensive or risque?
If you speak, or write, or draw with your heart,
And have the clear convictions of your soul;
Though a misanthrope may tear it apart,
You have met the clear purpose of your goal.
For once a truth is revealed to us all,
It has a spirit they cannot recall.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

I write for an audience of one, but I share just in case another may want to build on my thought.

Mick

Dream Tears

Dream Tears

My dream drifts higher, mounting to the sky;
A leaf upon my stream of consciousness.
A long, contented breath, a serene sigh,
Escapes my mind to see such winsomeness.
I climb the sky on frail gossamer wings.
I feel the sun and chase the winds aloft.
I taste the joy, as all creation sings
Of all that’s good, in voices sweet and soft.
I sing as higher yet I scale the blue.
My spirit feels the music of the spheres,
Each note a vibrant, resonating hue,
Enraptured by the melodies it hears.
I weep upon that pinnacle of flight,
And dream tears stain my pillow on that night.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

I have found beauty and joy in such wonderful dreams, and long wished I could share both the wonder and the music.

Mick

Blanket Show

Blanket Show

Though contemplation’s not my cup of tea,
And meditation is slowly frazzling,
At night, my inner eye can barely see,
For brooding in the dark is not dazzling.
To cogitate my midnight reverie,
With personality so saturnine,
I lay alone to daydream pensively,
And practice rumination while supine.
While recumbent and deliberating,
My horizontal ponderance grows old.
When introspections demand translating,
Reflections seem to slow and I grow cold.
In other words, my thinking is so slow,
I fall asleep enjoying “Blanket Show.”

Mick McKellar
July 2015

We tried to trick the kids into bed by promising a “blanket show.” They didn’t buy it after once or twice. Now that I am slowly sliding down the hill of my prime, I find that I rather enjoy the blanket show so much, I often miss my evening meditation.

Mick

Breaking Habits

Breaking Habits

What if the world woke up happy today?
Could we all find the right side of the bed?
I'd love it, if we could have just one day,
When none of us made another one dead.
Why not have a week when peace was the norm,
When no bullets flew for thousands of miles,
When only nature created a storm,
And grimaces were converted to smiles?
What if we all spent a year helping out?
We can do anything for just a year;
Help people suffering famine and drought,
Banish the specters of terror and fear.
Wouldn't it be wonderful, simply great,
If our whole planet forgot how to hate?

Mick McKellar
June 2015

So many of us are addicted to hating, it would be a tough habit to break. What if we all joined a really huge support group? Hey, we might even lose some weight!

Mick

Dancing In the Dying Light

Dancing In the Dying Light

I run until I have to stop,
About ten feet or so;
To find a stone, and sit on top,
And watch the twilight show.

If western clouds cooperate,
And let the sunset through,
Let golden light illuminate
Red dust and silver dew;

I'll see bright particles of dust,
That drops of dew enhance,
Perform a silent ballet, just
A simple swirling dance.

The music of a soft, slow breeze,
Completes this wondrous sight:
The dancing dust, the sighing trees,
The dying of the light.

Mick McKellar
June 2015

There is wondrous beauty in the simple pleasures of life, and I am happy I don't have to run far to enjoy them!

Mick

Wind Drift

Wind Drift

He stood upon a precipice so high,
He scarcely heard the cries of those below,
Who saw his figure braced against the sky,
Outlined with morning sunshine’s golden glow.

The watchers felt his gaze as he looked down,
His silent study held them all entranced.
His concentration forced his face to frown,
As on the edge of terror he balanced.

Three times, he felt the wind give him a shove,
As though to push his body from the brink;
Or slapped him with a sunlit velvet glove,
To break his reverie and make him think.

He shook, confused, uncertain, and afraid,
Unable to remember why he came;
Nor understood the journey that he made,
Or why he played this lonely, deadly game.

The sighing of the wind became a song,
It sang to him of freedom and of rest.
He hummed a little, almost sang along,
His heart beat wildly deep within his chest.

A strong hand gripped his arm and held him fast.
He turned to see another on the ledge;
A minstrel dressed in clothes of greenish cast,
Who helped to guide him back from death’s dark edge.

“How odd!” He thought, to see a tiny fire,
A cheery blaze of deep, emerald hue.
A welcome sight, a bright funeral pyre,
Considering the deed he came to do.

“I didn’t want to die writhing in pain;
I thought it best to end my agony!”
Caught in the act, he thought he should explain,
“I thought it best to end my life quickly.”

The Minstrel sang of courage just to live,
To face those painful battles, day-by-day;
And to accept the truth he had to give:
That life is not a gift to throw away.

The song revealed the lives that he could touch,
The people he would hurt with his demise,
And family that he would hurt so much,
It brought unbidden tears to his blue eyes.

He cried a little while, then looked around;
The Minstrel and his green fire both were gone.
He sat and heard the wind’s soft, plaintive sound,
It seemed to say, “Get up, friend...life goes on!”

Mick McKellar
June 2015

Sometimes it takes more courage to live, than to die.

Mick

Angel's Tears at the Gate

Angel's Tears at the Gate

An angel stood forth on a western wall,
Above all the grandeur of Heaven's gate;
And lowered his head so his tears could fall,
On the crowd outside, some seething with hate.

His tears washed the innocent of their stain,
And changed all their clothing to brilliant white.
When drops touched the haters, it caused them pain,
Turned their skin blood red, and clothes black as night.

The innocent tried to approach the gate,
To enter Heaven, begin a new age;
But were blocked by the others, filled with hate,
Who then tried to destroy them in their rage.

The innocents stood forth, with open arms,
And embraced the haters before that gate.
They held them all fast, despite faint alarms,
And slowly absorbed the stain of their hate.

The angel then cried many joyful tears,
That showered the crowd now beneath his sight.
The innocent saved their now hate-free peers;
 All entered the gate, their clothes brilliant white!

Mick McKellar
June 2015

It seems we may need a flood of angel's tears.

Mick

I Dream

I Dream

I dream about finding pure words to say,
That sing to the soul and caress the heart;
That make blood-lust in humans go away,
And destroy the hate that keeps us apart.
I dream I can sing with clarion voice,
That makes the Earth tremble and shakes the sky;
That gives the blind haters only one choice,
And leads them to listen to love's pure cry.
I dream the wind brings only scent of rain,
That the acrid fumes of war dissipate;
That twilight can sigh without hint of pain,
And sunrise carries no shadows of hate.
I dream that the senseless killings will cease;
I dream that our children will live in peace!

Mick McKellar
June 2015

If only my dreams could come true!

Mick

Fish Out of (Warm) Water

Fish Out of (Warm) Water

Though I love to walk out on wintry days,
To climb life’s ladder by several rungs;
If I’m not wary, there can be delays,
When the cold wind sucks the air from my lungs.
I fear drowning in a cold sea of air,
On the floor of a bleak ocean of gas.
I shiver and gasp for what isn’t there;
A waking night terror that will not pass.
As my air-starved body silently screams;
I draw even deeper the icy draught,
Whose wicked wintry touch burns to extremes,
My delicate, elegant, frail air shaft.
A breathless fish stranded on frozen shore,
I flail about til I’m inside once more.

Mick McKellar
May 2015

What does it feel like when someone with 25% lung capacity comes in contact with UP winter air? It’s not a pleasant experience…

Mick

Descant for Daylight

Descant for Daylight

Whispering voices of the countryside,
Murmur lowly when friends are listening.
I hear them when the sun has gone to hide,
Its last rays leaving bright clouds glistening.
Twilight pauses, anticipating night,
The land draws a breath of the evening air;
Sunset chimes echo with crystalline light,
Golden and crimson sing everywhere.
The rush of shadows that follow their song,
Softly surrounds the brief silence of dusk.
Rustling leaves move the anthem along;
A descant for daylight shedding its husk.
A crystal canticle, to purify
The end of the day with a lullaby.

Mick McKellar
May 2015

The day begins with a golden chorus, it ends with a crystalline lullaby.

Mick

Faded Photographs

I was shorter, then...

Faded Photographs

I love that I still have a family;
And progeny who know I haven't died.
Who, though I'm older, and weirder, and...me,
Still send me printed photographs with pride.
I represent a fading, distant past;
A time they've viewed as mostly black and white,
In faded photographs with silver cast,
That cover all the surfaces in sight.
They see me with their eyes tuned to today,
A digital dilemma, out of sync.
I see them in a slow, old-fashioned way,
That lets me sort my memories and think.
The pictures I display for all to see,
Are part of my enduring legacy.

Mick McKellar
May 2015

Digital photographs are convenient, inexpensive, and immediate. Old printed photographs from before the digital revolution, some from before color photography are treasures.

Mick

Wishing Candles in the Clouds

Wishing Candles in the Clouds

One night I peered through frosty window pane,
My glance secured by distant, flick'ring flames;
The sky-borne wildfires leapt a dance arcane,
And flaring through the mists, played silent games.
My breath upon the window blurred my sight,
And yet, I gazed entranced at frosty gleams,
That pierced the icy darkness of the night,
And waltzed across the canvas of my dreams.
They moved as though the music of the spheres,
Inspired their capering through inky skies.
I scarce contained my sudden, burning tears,
As countless, crystal lights caressed my eyes.
Did angels burst through misty, scudding shrouds;
Or were they wishing candles in the clouds?

Mick McKellar
May 2015

Who hasn't gazed on the far-away, flickering lights of the night, and made a wish or two?

Mick

Green Silence

Green Silence

The heart of a living tree knows patience,
Seeking only to survive and to grow.
The stubborn will of grass knows persistence,
Defying the wind, the rain, and the snow.
The beautiful flowers know flash and style,
To caress the senses and warm the heart;
And the seeds know stillness and silence, while
The long sleep of winter fulfills its part.
If the lives of plants know wisdom so deep,
Yet only observe us and never share;
Are they silent because they are asleep,
Or reticent because they do not care?
Perhaps they all choose to remain apart,
Awaiting kindness from the human heart.

Mick McKellar
May 2015

We are only now beginning to understand that plants react to us and our actions with a vague and unique awareness.

Mick

Burden of the Peacock

Burden of the Peacock

The peacock’s burden is also his prize:
His colorful spread, a riot of hue.
Although its beauty may dazzle your eyes,
It’s behind him -- he can’t admire the view!
His mighty display is for others' gaze,
To intimidate or attract someone;
The best he can hope for is loving praise,
Or putting an enemy on the run.
I wonder, at night when he tries to sleep,
Does his tail get wrinkled, or worse get bent?
Can he get it cleaned and pressed really cheap?
Are there bright extensions that he can rent?
Something so feathery, flimsy, and frail,
Must have him telling a whale of a tale.

Mick McKellar
May 2015

All the snow has me thinking of color, I guess.

Mick

Chronology

Chronology

Time is my constant, my fleeting companion,
A dancer, a juggler, a broken brass ring;
A smile in my darkness, when I lose the way,
My last helping hand, loosing everything.

When young, my companion moved very slowly,
To follow my progress on silent cat feet;
Then later run rapidly, growing bolder,
To spur me on forward, my future to meet.

We're both growing tired, my consort and I,
Sometimes I think maybe the puzzle's my fault:
I want to go back to when time moved slowly;
I don't want the journey to come to a halt!

Mick McKellar
April 2015

As I grow older, my chronological companion becomes both frenetic and less linear. Perhaps that explains the apparent rush toward an unspecified end of the ride.

Mick

Biscuits and Gravy

Biscuits and Gravy

Coffee in the morning opens my eyes,
Romancing my senses right from the pot;
Dark, aromatic and heady surprise,
That will leave my sleepy taste buds distraught.
Mellow, provocative, uplifting tea,
Though not as potent as coffee’s caffeine;
Jolts my palate invigoratingly,
Without being bitter, pungent, or mean.
Juice has its place, both acidic and sweet,
Teamed with bacon and eggs, muffins or toast.
Various cereals of oats or wheat
Are tasty, but not what I love the most:
Smother biscuits with thick sausage gravy—
The savory train to heaven for me!

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Some old friends reminded me just how much I like biscuits and sausage gravy. Reason enough to write a poem!

Mick

Walking Backwards

Walking Backwards

I looked for some old footprints to follow;
And though I searched, there were none I could find.
I created my own, deep and hollow;
Walking backwards through the dust in my mind.
Though I could not see where I was going,
I could see all the way to where I’d been.
I pressed on in the dark, always knowing
That I could find my way back once again.
Though I mostly face forward when I walk,
So I will not blindly stumble and fall;
I step lively backwards, and I don’t balk,
Although sometimes I’ll walk into a wall.
This way, I wander beyond my confines,
Because I can’t see the big red stop signs.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

One should not be hampered by the customary, the safe, and the usual. Adventure lives beyond the stop sign.

Mick

Wondrous Lights

Wondrous Lights

I wandered outside on the porch tonight,
Stumbling and shuffling around on the deck.
I wanted to see the Aurora’s light,
So grabbing a railing, I craned my neck.
I could see no Northern Lights in the sky;
Perhaps they were hidden by village lights.
My vision took wing as my gaze flew high,
And I gasped at the wonders of the heights.
The stars were diamond-bright holes in the black;
The Milky Way spilled across the vast vault --
Numbers so legion my eyes could not track,
Arrogance with’ring before the assault.
I trembled once as my spirit took flight,
Drawn to the brilliance of the fierce starlight.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

When the skies clear at night, I simply must gaze up at the wondrous lights.

Mick

Colophon

Colophon

The end of the road seems distant tonight,
Though sometimes it seems just around the bend;
For my passage is slow, my burden light,
And my boon companions have time to spend.
Despite many potholes to walk around,
And rain that makes the road muddy and slick,
The laughter of friends, such a joyous sound,
Makes a difficult journey light and quick.
Still at quiet times, when we stop and rest,
I ponder what happens when I arrive.
Will I feel like I fulfilled a grand quest?
For nobody gets out of life, alive.
As I journey on, my last words should be:
“I love all of you for walking with me!”

Mick McKellar
April 2015

In today’s email, the word of the day was “Colophon.” It resonated with me, I guess.

Mick

Shadows on the Snow

Shadows on the Snow

From inside my parka's hood,
A fuzzy warm cave for me;
I peer through the howling white,
But winter is all I see.

I cannot see where I am,
And barely see where to go.
I navigate by the sun,
And by shadows on the snow.

The muffled cry of the wind,
Laughs at my bundled up ears,
Sings to my frozen heart, that
This journey will end with tears.

Only up here in the North,
Where spirits of snowstorms talk,
Could I get lost without hope,
Taking the dog for a walk…

Mick McKellar
April 2015

OK, maybe I’m stretching...just a bit.

Mick

Weary Voyage

Weary Voyage

A bit of fatigue sets my mind adrift;
Cut loose from it's moorings, it rides the tide.
Swells toss it about, and the sudden shift
Causes changed perspectives from the rough ride.
I drift rudderless along the shoreline,
Venturing unguided before the gale,
Running attuned to the rising wind's whine,
Powerless to skipper without a sail.
My cerebral navy remains afloat,
To follow all the currents in the sea.
My weary acumen is in that boat,
Gratified for such opportunity.
Despite my grand expense of energy,
It's strange that my fatigue should set me free!

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Sometimes, I believe my mind must be weary to drift away and see life from a different perspective.

Mick

Sleepless Night

Sleepless Night

The lights are on upstairs tonight,
And shadows move behind the shade.
It seems I cannot douse the light,
Until I write what must be said.

The words are frantic to be free,
To dance across my empty page.
Those I ignore, will scream at me,
Until I open wide the cage.

Should I not quickly write them out,
Or try to hold them in my mind;
When I check back, without a doubt,
There's nothing left for me to find.

So, pen in hand I just comply,
And write the words I want to keep.
When I am finished, I will sigh,
Put down my pen, and go to sleep.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

There's no fighting it, when the words want to play, I never get a bye.

Mick