Tender Palates

Tender Palates

Though the tang of life often bites the tongue,
Surprising the unwary with its spice,
It gives pause to the palate of the young,
Persuades them to sample a smaller slice.
For the little ones teethe on tasty tales,
Saccharine stories and sweet fantasies,
That leave out the unsavory details,
Of their candy-coated calamities.
Vary their penchant for syrupy fare,
Giving bitter and salty with control.
If they taste all of life with tender care,
Maybe they won’t try to swallow it whole.
Fantasy’s flavor is a honeyed treat,
But experience savors bittersweet.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I believe there was some wisdom in the old fairy tales that often had scary villains and unpleasant consequences. It may have taught those of us lucky enough to hear and read them to be careful and exercise caution when taking a bite of life.

Mick

Parentology

Parentology

Children are our lives and our legacies,
Puzzles to be solved and to be treasured.
Loved for their marvelous intricacies:
Complexities too great to be measured.
Childhood can be terror in Tiny Town,
Rebellions rising from the slightest row;
Or afternoons spent with a goofy clown,
And all the giggles patience will allow.
Experts will tell you what you should expect,
And then sell you their insights by the book.
But, all their advice won't make you perfect,
Because most of it is gobbledygook.
It's best to ignore all of the above,
And just be there, with your arms full of love.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

It's best not to worry about keeping track of all the things you did wrong when raising your children. When they grow up, they will be able to give you a list.

Mick

In the Moment

In the Moment

I have a mission walking out my door,
Something important, maybe overdue.
Then, I'm looking back, where I was before...
I can't remember what I had to do!
I meet a neighbor standing in the street,
Remarking that our houses look the same.
I tell my wife how great it was to meet...
I can't remember our new neighbor's name!
I drive up to our big box shopping mall,
And stand outside, just staring through their door.
My wife and kids wait with me, one and all...
I can't remember what we're shopping for!
I feel much better sharing this, it's true,
And yet, I can't remember...Who are you?

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I was going to write something poetic and profound about this poem, but I can't remember what I was going to say...

Mick

Dream for All Seasons

Dream for All Seasons

I lazy lay in sunlit summer field,
Relaxed on sparkling bed of winter snow,
While camouflaged in autumn's vibrant yield,
Spring flowers made my pillow softly glow.
I reveled in the warm and peaceful light.
My spirit sang with voices in the air,
Sweet songs of soaring, of the joys of flight,
And freedom to take wing to anywhere.
I rose to stroll along a verdant stream,
Bright shining in the golden light of day,
While pondering: If I walked in a dream,
How I might find a way that I could stay.
I awoke, pillow soft beneath my head,
The morning sunlight shining on my bed.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Ever wake up from a wondrous dream, all tucked-in and warm, and try with all your might to just get back to that dream and stay there for a bit longer?

Mick

Slice of Night

Slice of Night

A slice of night fell hard into my dreams,
Its touch so cold, it froze my sleeping heart.
All heaven echoed with my silent screams,
As frigid darkness tore my dream apart.
Where once I walked in light beneath the sky,
With fragrant clouds of heather all about,
I now raced ‘cross the moors, a raven’s cry,
Near deafened by the icy-cold wind's shout.
Though sword of crimson ice was in my hand,
Held ready to defend or to attack,
I swiftly fell, and sprawled on frozen sand,
Lay completely defenseless on my back.
But, I will rise again, to stand and fight,
Until I overcome that slice of night.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Loss of friend or family always hits you like a slice of night. It is necessary to battle the darkness, to fight against that slice of night.

Mick

A Waste of Skin

A Waste of Skin

I fear to turn into a waste of skin,
A useless dependent of little worth;
That to justify the skin that I'm in,
I may need functional, urgent rebirth.
I’m told to be careful of close contact;
Each person I meet is a petri dish.
For whenever I try to interact,
I’m an accident with a risk fetish.
It’s so hard not to be a fatalist:
Somewhere, there’s a superbug knows my name.
If Twinkies and mildew can coexist,
Then why can’t microbes and I do the same?
Although being careful is not a sin,
Total solitude is a waste of skin.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Isolation has been an effective tool to keep me out of the hospital. I also keeps me effectively out of my life.

Mick

Portraits of Moving Streams

Portraits of Moving Streams

[Can you hear the symphonies in my words?]

The silent timbres of my voices swell,
As they harmonize with vast threads of thought:
Passage to passage, where ideas dwell,
Measure to measure, where insight is sought.
A thousand thousand legends and stories,
Long caroled by minstrels, mighty and kind,
Meander -- limitless inventories,
Throughout the vast dark of my sleeping mind.

[Can you taste the melodies in my verse?]

Whether right or wrong, the merely mortal,
Swims freely among the stars of the night.
The fleshly form finds a hidden portal,
And sings of wonders in Heaven’s warm light.
My mind, unfettered by Earth’s rigid rules,
Finds such adventures an awesome delight;
To dance in moonlight with wizards and fools,
And sing to the soul when my heart takes flight.

[Can you feel the harmonies in my dreams?]

I struggle to capture the beauty I see;
I strive to remember the music I hear;
I strain to bestow the gifts given me,
On all who seek understanding sincere.
The images rendered by swift insight,
The word songs and stories sung in my dreams,
Drive me to transcribe the verses I write,
As though painting portraits of moving streams.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Writing a poem truly is painting a portrait of a moving stream. Reading poetry is very much like contemplating paintings in a gallery or museum. Each takes time and considerable effort. Perhaps that explains why so few enjoy poems in a world that demands so much already and allows so little time to contemplate, to consider, and to commune with author or artist.

Mick

Dreamsicle

Dreamsicle

I've been running from myself in my dreams,
Though why I'm chasing me I do not know.
It wouldn't be as crazy as it seems,
Except I don't have anywhere to go.
As I'm sprinting down snowy winter streets,
I'm right behind me, on cross-country skis.
My dog is chasing me to get his treats,
Yet, doesn't seem confused by what he sees.
My neighbors stand outside and point at me,
Oblivious to cold and blowing snow.
They smile, applaud, and cheer me silently;
It's clear that they appreciate the show.
I wake up, certain it's all in my head,
Yet, how did all that snow get in my bed?

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Two important facts you need to know: 1. Yes, I did have that dream. 2. No, there was NO snow in my bed.

Mick

Tinnitus

Tinnitus

I fall asleep with susurrations,
Whispers in my mind.
Among the countless cache of voices,
No friend can I find.

Words there are, and hissing anger,
Gasps of pain and fright,
Cries of fear from present danger,
Fill my mind each night.

Is it just imagination,
Product of my brain;
Or is it my anxiety --
Born of stress and strain?

Though the chorus oft crescendos,
Ocean at high tide;
Soon the brassy cacophony,
Begins to subside.

The voices soften, whispering,
Gently laugh awhile.
Words now are drifting, bright as if,
Uttered with a smile.

Faint murmurs drift, a brief snowfall,
Tender from above.
Words seem to matter not at all,
Are they thoughts of love?

I wake up, and pray it isn’t
Crazy as it seems --
That tinnitus may be hearing,
Sounds of other dreams.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I have long had tinnitus and cannot remember what silence sounds like. Sometimes the sounds are like soft voices in the dark.

Mick

Mouse In My Pocket

Mouse In My Pocket

As I was sitting by the fire,
All peacefully and warm,
A mouse climbed up my sweater,
Intending me no harm.

He searched my shirt's breast pocket,
For tiny bits of food,
And popped out spitting pocket lint,
Which hadn't tasted good.

He looked at me and said, "I'd 'oped
For bits o' bread or soup!"
Angry, he climbed back inside,
And left behind some poop.

He scrambled to my table,
Still glaring up at me,
And when he climbed on my old cup,
Peed in my Earl Grey tea!

I wanted to say something,
Acerbic, smart, and wise,
I sat there fuming, speechless,
Transfixed by small black eyes.

"Why is your accent British?"
Was my pathetic scream.
I swear he smiled as he replied,
"Don't ask me, it's your dream!"

Then as though composed of smoke,
He faded from my sight;
And I sat up, awakened,
By dawn's cold, wintry light.

My wife still wonders why I did,
Those things when I got up:
I vacuumed out my pockets,
And bleached my old tea cup.

Mick McKellar
February 2015


I was dreaming this little story as I woke up this morning. No, I didn't vacuum my pockets or put bleach in my tea cup. I did look in my shirt pocket, though.

Mick

Eating Peaches at Midnight

Eating Peaches at Midnight

My friends say I should purchase,
A fancy valentine,
Or buy a bunch of flowers,
And go somewhere to dine.
I’m too cheap to buy a card,
Or chocolates and wine.
Instead I’ll write a letter,
With poetry divine:

My tea is cold and bitter,
My snacks taste like bamboo.
I’m half-asleep and dreaming,
Of options to pursue.
My deepest aspirations,
Have just one avenue:
Eating peaches at midnight,
And dreaming about you.

Happy St. Valentine’s Day!

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I was eating canned peaches just before midnight, and well, it just happened…

Mick

Blended Voices

Blended Voices

I wish my poems could listen to you,
For your thoughts are more beautiful than mine.
But telling stories is all they can do,
That, and touting opinions I opine.
It’s my poet’s curse to paint and to sing,
Using only words (words that sometimes rhyme),
Of ocher sunsets in earliest Spring,
And of diamond carpets in Wintertime.
I can paint broken hearts with clumsy hands,
For words are a subtle, forgiving brush.
I can sing broad beaches, bright silver sands,
And moonlight that shimmers on ocean rush.
Yet, could my creation but hear your choices,
Think what we'd create with blended voices!

Mick McKellar
February 2015

At times, I cannot sleep because I hear the rolling moans of millions of poems, languishing in darkness, unfettered but unread. Perhaps they are simply so personal, relating to them is too difficult.

Mick

The Chaos of Loss

The Chaos of Loss

Yesterday, I remembered who you are.
Today, I know your face, but not your name.
The distance to tomorrow is so far,
That likely there will be a guessing game.
The words I want to say are written bold,
Upon a wall too far away to read.
My friends say this is part of getting old,
But, that won’t tell me how I should proceed.
For shelves where I once stored my memories,
Are growing barren and covered with dust.
Could someone help me find what’s missing, please?
There’s so much missing, my mind won’t adjust.
Would someone please unlock the recall dam,
And then, help me remember who I am?

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Call it Alzheimer’s disease or dementia or forgetfulness, it does not feel natural and it is frightening.

Mick

Regrets

Regrets

I sat alone with starlight as my aide;
My thoughts adrift on echoes of my past,
And deftly cataloged mistakes I made.
The number left me startled and aghast.
In welcome, veiling darkness, I grew pale,
And shook with bitterness I could not hide;
As I examined each precise detail,
My heart wrenched in its prison and I cried.
The icy starlight offered no relief.
The burden of my past seemed shattering,
Until my heart recalled my firm belief,
Only what’s done in love is mattering.
Wisdom I found to save my aching soul:
Perfection is a guide and not a goal.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Upon reflection, my life has long been about embracing errors and learning from the mistakes I've made.

Mick

Ocean of Dreams

Ocean of Dreams

Although sleep, for some, is a slice of death,
A necessity fracturing their day;
Every human having drawn a breath,
Needs to close their eyes, and to drift away.
Go where slumber allows us all to stand,
To a place where little is as it seems:
We walk crimson clouds and run silver sand;
We surf with whales on an ocean of dreams.
We see stars in a distant childhood sky,
Recalling the wishes we planted there;
Remembering what, but not always why,
Leaving our memories everywhere.
Dreams introduce us to all we desire,
And those dreams are where memories retire.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Why do I need to sleep? Why must I dream of days long past, or of things yet to be? And, when I forget, where do my memories go? I had a dream about it...

Mick

Journeys to Otherwhere

Journeys to Otherwhere

Soft nightwinds brush the meadows in my mind,
Stirring dream shadows across darkling moors,
Where foxfire illuminates paths I find,
Lest I swiftly stumble through twilight tours.
My nocturnal pilgrimages alone,
Which scarcely require that my feet touch ground,
Lead hither to otherwheres unbeknown,
For I have no clue where I may be bound.
The path that I choose as I close my eyes,
And reach for the essence that spins my dreams,
May lead me to truth or to myths and lies,
And nothing is ever quite what it seems.
I savor my journeys to otherwhere,
And I fondly dream I might tarry there.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I sleep more now, than I ever did before. Yet, my dreams are wonders to behold, grand stories and marvelous journeys on the soft winds of the night.

Mick

Passports

Passports

Books are lighthouses in a sea of facts.
They are the force that drives the tides of change.
Books are the bait, that silently attracts
The minds that see the wonder in the strange.
A lens to bring the distant marvels near,
A boon companion in the darkest night;
A book can teach you, so you do not fear,
For the unknown can cause the greatest fright.
Books hold the records of our storied past,
Tales of the faith and failures of mankind;
Stories of science, love, and hate amassed,
And all the magic, born of human mind.
They are the wind which sets the spirit free,
And the very heart of humanity.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I love books: hardcover, paperback, audio, and ebooks -- they have been my companions, teachers, and sources of solace since I first opened a cover to read. A book is my passport to otherwhere and otherwhen.

Mick

Not Human, Technically

Not Human, Technically

I don’t laugh anymore, I LOL,
And I check online media, a lot.
One misunderstanding I must dispel:
That my phone is smart, because I am not.
I need sunblock due to my monitor,
And I have friends that I have never met.
I rarely touch anyone, anymore,
And thought I might get a digital pet.
I converse with friends through a camera,
And take photos with my digital phone,
I type text to chat, and etcetera;
It’s an episode of the Twilight Zone!
To gain more speed and convenience, are we
Becoming digital humanity?

Mick McKellar
February 2015

This was, of course, written in my dark little office, by the flickering light of my monitor.

Mick