Silence in the morning of our world's end,Mick McKellar
Left us all undisturbed, abed, asleep.
Warnings of danger — on which we depend,
Had failed to generate even one peep.
Our representatives, long un-appraised,
Could not explain where our treasure all went;
Though episodic voices had been raised,
Whispering deep rumbles of discontent.
When cries for action unanswered remained,
When pie crust promises were never kept,
When faith in the beast could not be regained,
And the beast slept on, while the people wept;
Until its beating heart finally ceased —
All because nobody dared shake the beast.
Joe hid from August's soul-oppressing heat,Mick McKellar
Inside the entrance to the local mall.
He watched a terrified boy from his seat,
Stumble in through the door and nearly fall.
When something in the frightened young man's eyes,
Caused him to shiver, he rose to his feet;
And then, despite the boy's desperate cries,
Pushed him outside, into the August heat.
Trying to break free and to run inside,
The young man twisted, turned, and pushed away.
And Joe saw what the boy had tried to hide:
Explosives, and a vest to shrapnel spray!
Joe grabbed him tighter, told people to run,
And dragged him out into the parking lot.
Then stood there, swaying in the burning sun
And laughed — to find himself in such a spot!
The boys eyes had gone bloodshot, wide and wild,
He started gulping air and tensed to run.
And Joe prayed: "Lord please help me save this child,
A child, as much a weapon as a gun!"
A bullet pierced Joe's shirt and then his breast,
And waves of pain exploded in his mind.
He loosed the boy when blood sprayed from his chest.
He felt the pavement slap him from behind.
A cop ran up with anger on his face,
And shouting words and phrases memorized.
He glared at me in my protected space,
And far too late, I think he realized.
He realized that I was not the threat.
He realized the kid was wired to blow.
His sad eyes said that he owed me a debt,
And realized he had nowhere to go.
The cop dove as the kid blew up his vest,
His body sheltered me from shrapnel fire.
He jerked as shrapnel tore his head and chest,
And movement stopped as I felt him expire.
The smoke and dust suspended in the air,
Hung motionless in silence so profound,
It shocked me when a voice both strong and fair,
Became the rich and lovely — only — sound.
A man dressed as a Minstrel walked to me,
And touched the cop, who rose and walked aside.
"I pray there is no pain!" He said, "You see,
The officer, the boy, and you all died."
That what I did saved lives he shared with me.
The cop reacted as he had been taught.
The boy was told he'd save his family,
And go to Heaven, just as he had sought.
The Minstrel sang some songs of strength and might.
He showed us all the paths to our reward.
And, as we left I saw the strangest sight:
The Minstrel leaving — this time, with a sword...
The ploughman speeds across my field of dreams,Mick McKellar
Singing, as with joy he seeds my slumber.
Voice sonorant, awash, silently streams
And feeds my dreams, budding without number.
The dreams spring skyward, stretched in silent dance,
Swaying in rhythms unheard, all night long;
Til in the moonlit silence, just by chance,
I hear a whisper of my own heartsong.
Simple, soto voce, and so alive,
I almost fail to catch its faint bouquet;
As lively dreams subsume its strength, and strive
To reach my sleeping mind and run away.
As I keep pace and follow right along,
To dance my dreams while singing my heartsong.
