Tapestry

Tapestry

My heartbeat was weaving a melody,
As frantic, I grasped what words I could find;
To construct a ladder of poetry,
And climb through a window into my mind.
The pack on my back was as black as coal,
And went unnoticed, as I was leaving
The deep, dark hole where I stole my own soul;
A vital part of what I was weaving.
My hand swept the sky to gather bright stars,
And moonlight to shimmer and radiate,
To breathe life into ancient avatars,
Who would populate scenes that I create.
In my fantasy memoir majesty:
My life story, my living tapestry.

Mick McKellar
March 2016

We are all weaving something to leave behind as a legacy.

Mick

Impressions and Images

Impressions and Images

In the sweet softness of slumber's embrace,
Dreams of the Earth-bound can swiftly take flight;
As the artist of mind observes it all,
Impressions and images fill the night.

Rocks under water, movement and stillness,
Silky white skirts of a river’s swift fall;
Restful reflections from liquid light mirrors,
Azure haze filtering glow above all.

Blue green and tan pull the eye sunward,
Hazy horizons surrounding the deep;
Fire streaks the surface of water at rest:
Hot coals of red snow powder shorelines steep.

Soft gold and green caress dancing rivers,
As steel gray and lavender swallows sand.
Curtains of white screen verdant embankment,
Soft liquid silver soaks shoreline's dark band.

Silver white cascades frame portrait of life:
Ancient, bent tree greets soft morning sunlight.
Sunset breathes foxfire on basins of blue,
Golden mist burns through forest at twilight.

Cerulean snow wreaths green and gold fire,
And evergreens skate on mirror dark blue.
Blue water iris staring at Heaven,
As black water mists cliffs of gray iron dew.

Cotton ball clouds settle slowly to Earth,
Frothy seafoam decorates green sand shore.
Slowly I float from the sky to the strand,
Longing to dream and to fly there once more.

Mick McKellar
March 2016

Sometimes, my dreams take flight with technicolor images throughout the night.

Mick

Adrift Upon a Drift

Adrift Upon a Drift

I placed my hope within a tiny boat,
I built with promises and sealed with tears;
Then cast the lifesongs from my heart afloat,
And filled its sails with dreams bright and sincere.
The sea that softly rushes on my door,
Moves slowly, though it does not seem to flow;
Its milky waves are still upon the moor --
A frigid sea, an ocean made of snow.
Its sprays and plumes are crystal on the gale,
They dance and flash and sparkle in the light.
White winter waves stand tall, and without fail,
Crest brightly in the midwinter moonlight.
I’ll wait until the craft that I set free,
Adrift upon a drift, comes back to me.

Mick McKellar
March 2016

Even a winter sea carries hopes and dreams.

Mick

Sometimes I Hear My Bones

Sometimes I Hear My Bones

Sometimes I hear my bones.
They settle while I dream,
and sing a sweet sigh,
as tired tendons forget tensions
that hold them prisoner all day.

I listen for their chatter,
when I reach for my tea cup,
or climb the stairs to my room;
but the moaning of muscles,
and the rushing of bellows
as my furnace breathes,
drowns them with a river of sound.

Sometimes I hear my bones,
as they clatter and rap,
when Winter's white finger
makes me shiver and shake;
the rattling clack of a bone quake.

I listen to their music in the night,
as bone passes bone,
when I shift my face
buried in my pillow,
to breathe easy and free;
and their syncopated snapping
calls me from my dreams.

Sometimes I hear my bones,
as they shuffle and pop,
complaining about the load
and the long hours...
All they want is to rest.

Mick McKellar
March 2016

As I get older, my bones complain more loudly.

Mick
 

Life, Maybe

Life, Maybe

My life is more than empty hours to fill,
And calls me to become more than I am;
To reach for stars with passion, faith, and skill,
A crusade greater than a tinker's damn.
Yet, walking such a path without a guide,
Seems far beyond the talents I possess.
To journey on with nowhere I can hide,
Go forward on a hunch or on a guess,
Takes courage I'm uncertain that I own,
And asks me to abandon common sense.
To leap into the arms of the unknown,
Means leaving safety here upon the fence.
My heart tells me I need to act bravely,
And then I'll learn to live my life, maybe…

Mick McKellar
March 2016

One can get sore from always sitting on the fence.

Mick

Manifest Serendipity

Manifest Serendipity

I saw them, writ large last night, in a dream:
Huge letters as tall, or taller than me;
They stood on a lawn, near a nimble stream,
They spelled: MANIFEST SERENDIPITY.
Bright, glowing with rays of summer sunlight,
As emeralds, diamonds, rubies would be;
I bathed in the radiance of the sight,
Shining: MANIFEST SERENDIPITY.
Then deep, distant voices began to sing;
The shining letters were singing to me.
Over and over, they chanted one thing:
“You must manifest serendipity!”
I’d pondered what my life’s purpose should be;
The answer was glowing in front of me…

Mick McKellar
March 2016

Life is full of tough questions. Sometimes the answer is a clear as six-foot tall, glowing letters near a stream in a dream…?

Mick

Phantom Footfalls

Phantom Footfalls

My shuffling gait on the floor of my room,
When my slippers scuff the old hardwood planks,
Brings echoing forth a sonic heirloom,
From a time when dark footsteps were mind pranks.
My pillow is near the attic stairway;
A steep, almost ladder with vocal treads.
They whisper of footfalls both night and day,
As the ancient construction shrinks and spreads.
I can hear our house breathe on long, cold nights,
As warmth dissipates through papery walls;
And winter winds whistle through tiny sites,
To sing with the draughts in stairwells and halls.
Their songs awaken stark, unreasoned fears,
When phantom footfalls touch shivery ears.

Mick McKellar
March 2016

Old houses tell tales and sing of silent spirits. Wind songs whisper along empty halls and footfalls haunt long, chilly nights.

Mick

The Peeking Owl

The Peeking Owl

Twas a Great Gray Owl in a darkling wood,
Staring at me from behind a pine tree,
Asked me “Who?” I was, as a gray owl should.
I responded quickly, “Why, I’m just me!”
He blinked just once, as if considering
What he should day, then he simply asked, “Who?”
So, I stood still a moment, pondering:
What more I could say, what more should I do?
I said, “I’m a writer,” and spoke my name.
He nodded just once, and then he asked, “Who?”
By now I was growing tired of this game,
And said, “I’ve nothing more to say to you,
Except: nevermore to a bird of prey!”
He made a rude noise and he flew away.

Mick McKellar
March 2016

Conversations with owls tend to be one-sided affairs; more like an interrogation than a conversation.

Mick

Breakout

Breakout

I slipped my fetters and I ran away;
I did not look back at my lifelong jail.
The guards I feared, the source of my dismay:
Not there to respond, my flight to assail.
My prison walls, made of anger and fear,
Crumbled silently, fell away to dust;
And the bars that held me, year after year,
Lay beneath my feet -- gone to powdered rust.
The haunted, long years, in that monstrous cage
I built from the fear of what others think,
Fueled sorrow, sadness, resentment, and rage;
And unleashed a flood of digital ink.
My greatest joy, now my Muse is set free:
Though I share what I write, I write for me!

Mick McKellar
March 2016

This piece sprang fully formed from something a friend posted. It was a Facebook meme that said: "The greatest prison people live in, is the fear of what other people think." Apparently, it's a quote from David Icke, a conspiracy theorist who makes a living trying to change what other people think… Hmm…

Mick