Gypsy Moon

Gypsy Moon

With a cry of joy she welcomes the night;
Her voice a call for the silvery light —
A dance to the thrill of a mystic tune,
On a golden thread of the gypsy moon!

I watched her dance through a dark window pane,
Softly bejeweled by a short summer rain;
On a sparkling lawn bathed in ghostly light,
The sky below with the stars shining bright.

I felt the strong pull of that ghost-lit globe,
And I ached to shed my tattered bathrobe,
To join the mad dance on the diamond lawn;
Till I broke the spell with a tiny yawn.

I frantically searched for the gypsy sprite,
But all I found was a wet moonlit night...

Mick McKellar
April 2016

Feel the pull of the Gypsy Moon!

Mick

Too Digital to Die

In early youth my mind harbored grand dreams,
Of fame and wealth and notoriety.
Nightmares of failure all had the same themes:
To live and die in anonymity.
And so, the Internet brought hope to me:
A chance to publish, make my name well known;
A place to share, and best of all — twas free,
But I could not foresee how far it's grown.
Words I wrote more than twenty years ago,
Are still alive and haunting search replies.
My public words forever put on show;
All that I shared, still there for searching eyes.
My legacy forever will be nigh,
Because I'll be too digital to die.

Mick McKellar
April 2016

It never dawned on me, years ago, that I was already writing my autobiography — by posting on the Internet.

Mick

Effluential People

"Garbage in — garbage out," said the old school,
At least, that is how our leaders quote it;
Til "Dollars in — garbage out," became the rule,
As our current politicians wrote it.
Politics was the art of compromise,
Where nobody totally won or lost;
Twas a messy way to achieve the prize,
And everyone bore some of the cost.
But with dollars driving the ship of state,
Compromise has become a dirty word.
Our leaders refuse to negotiate,
From positions radical or absurd.
How can those officials represent me,
If someone bought their flexibility?

Mick McKellar
April 2016

It's supposed to be public service, not a permanent job.

Mick

Stairway to Bedlam

Stairway to Bedlam

He climbed the stairway to Bedlam tonight,
His body demanding sweet oxygen.
And every step was a bitter fight
To feed the fires of this scion of men;
Whose bellows have nearly bellowed their last,
And whose furnace succumbed to corrosion.
His reserve fuel levels were falling fast,
As he faced perpetual non-motion:
The familiar ache filled his arms and chest,
And the fuzzy fog crept into his mind;
He stumbled along till he came to rest,
Leaving a trail of used tissues behind.
He opened the tank, positioned the hose,
And the breath of life rushed in through his nose.
Ahhh…

Mick McKellar
April 2016

It's like drowning in air.

Mick

Tree Hugger

Tree Hugger

Were wakeful trees watching me silently,
When soft, snow-laden, slowly I stepped past?
As I trudged by, it rare occurred to me,
They'd see my plodding passages as fast.
I'd oft admired their strong and stately stance;
Their quality of arboreal grace.
That even when the Fall gales make them dance,
Perforce they bend, yet stay rooted in place.
To them, I must seem near ephemeral:
A spirit candle flickering with light;
A passing daytime shadow quick and small,
Or just a thing that goes "bump" in the night.
I wondered, would they take note -- notice me,
If slowly I should stop and hug a tree?

Mick McKellar
April 2016

When I walk in the woods, it nearly always feels like the trees are watching. Still I have to wonder what they "see."

Mick

Love and Possibilities

Love and Possibilities

He sat alone in his hospital bed,
Numb from his eyeballs to fingers to toes,
And wondered again why he wasn't dead,
And why he must suffer repeated throes.

He knew guilt -- from asking himself these things;
He should be grateful that he survived.
Yet aware of costs that survival brings,
His life leaves his small family deprived.

The doctors said: "Don't think about the price.
Don't worry about it. Just rest -- and heal."
And he tried hard to follow their advice,
But the flood of bills was both quick and real.

He watched retirement funds disappear.
He felt their small savings dwindle and fade.
His vague trepidations became true fear;
He questioned all of the choices he'd made.

For what is the value of just one life,
If extending it causes so much pain?
If his valiant battles create such strife,
Must he weigh the cost of his hard fought gain?

As he found himself wanting on that scale,
Considered ending the cost of his care;
He saw a small fire burning green and pale,
And a raggedy fellow standing there.

From the ageless face came a soothing voice,
Singing words warm and soft and hard as stone.
The words said that no man should make the choice,
To discard a gift given him alone.

Life is more precious than silver and gold;
Not to be measured by man's graft and greed,
Not to be stolen, nor traded, nor sold,
Though it may be given at greatest need.

He could not know what his presence may mean,
To the people he loves in days to come;
He might be the beacon through storms unseen,
To guide a lost loved one safely back home.

The Minstrel sang of possibilities,
Of chances only life can generate:
Visions of futures that one only sees,
If viewed with eyes powered by love, not hate.

Later that night, as he drifted toward dreams,
He felt the Minstrel's soft, feathery touch;
And understood life's not bad as it seems,
And the scary bills -- maybe not so much...

He saw life is not about owning things,
About balancing books and policies,
Not about money, cabbages, or kings;
Life's about love and possibilities.

Mick McKellar
April 2016

Desperation is often the stepchild of fear and misunderstanding.

Mick

Winter Star

Winter Star

Our house is warm,
and yet I sit and shiver.
Winter's white bear, awake and hungry,
haunts my frosty windows,
seeking to force its gelid immensity
through mouse holes and settlement cracks.

It stalks me, its insatiable hunger
shining through its icy, white eyes.
I sense a gaunt greed,
through my wool and my fleece.

Then a golden dagger pierces my frosty panes,
stabbing the empty, frozen lust,
and chasing the frosty beast into nearby shadows.
Outclassed and over-matched,
by golden beams of the Winter Star;
the ravenous craving for warmth retreats.

My frigid fear runs away,
through the brilliant Summer fields in my mind.
Touched by the mellow fire of a honeyed blade,
my shivers subside,
and I take one perfect breath,
before a great, gray spoiler
shields the Winter warrior from view;
leaving me with a sunny memory,
and a gentle smile.

Mick McKellar
April 2016

The touch of Winter sun is a welcome interlude, that too seldom visits.

Mick

Write of Passage

Write of Passage

A writer of songs and my soul's delight,
Seeks tunes that cannot be vocally sung;
For the notes all live in the key of light,
Too sweet to be sung by a bitter tongue.

For my shadowed path, often dark and drear,
Seldom wanders in the bright lands of light.
A voice that whispers of gathering fear,
Can be overwhelmed by the shining sight.

And thus, the most difficult task for me,
The challenge for such a bitter old voice,
Is recognizing a sweet melody,
And vocalizing the sonorous choice.

Endure my attempts, to eliminate
Long gray pages darkened by shadows rife;
While I teach my tongue to illuminate,
The passages in the book of my life.

Behind all the mountains of doom and gloom,
That shadow my words in a long twilight;
Is a land of beauty where flowers bloom,
And ballads are sung in the broad sunlight.

Mick McKellar
April 2016

Bear with me, I'm learning to write about happy stuff!

Mick

A Visit from Earl Grey

A Visit from Earl Grey

I groaned upright from a long winter’s nap,
Snuggled beneath a great mountainous quilt.
My eyes glued shut, my mouth tasting like crap,
I stumbled down stairs that a sadist built.
Thus my day began in a treacle fog:
The body moving, but the mind asleep.
Though I’d slept like the proverbial log,
The log was in charge of driving this heap.
Somehow, I located my old tea pot,
And managed to measure some loose, black tea.
I blended the leaves with fresh water, hot,
And enjoyed the fragrance surrounding me:
The leaves’ bitterness, bergamot’s nosegay.
I awoke to a visit from Earl Grey!

Mick McKellar
April 2016

Some days, waking up means following your nose…

Mick