The Myth of Earth

The Myth of Earth
By dark green bough and shrouded glen,
By lives of trees beyond our ken;
Within that vast botanic history,
There lies a dim forgotten story —

Of once-existing fields of green,
With dark-brown soil and water seen
And touched by man, yet not defiled.
And clean fresh air with fragrance mild —

Of pines and flowers all around,
And sunlight streaming to the ground.
Where joy and laughter, glee and mirth,
Were universal laws on Earth.

But times like these are myths to men,
And peace and love beyond their ken.
Look out your window — if you can,
At Earth, defiled and scathed by man.

Mick McKellar
1968 or 1969

I found a copy of a poem I wrote longhand, and remembered sharing it with Cathy Cole, Publications Editor at Michigan Tech in 1968 or 1969 while I was a student assistant. It was buried in an old book.

Mick

Word Magic

Word Magic

I wonder at words, the magic I find,
And the power I feel, when I find one
That lights up the dark places in my mind,
As through a window toward the rising sun.
I shiver when words I use ev'ry day,
Sparkle and crackle with magical light,
As though attached to ancient lines of ley,
And I, the word wizard, dispel the night.
I smile when words dance to music unheard,
And they come to life on an empty stage,
To paint a story — bewitching, absurd,
As they caper across my empty page.
Though stories range from funny to tragic,
They all begin with precious word magic.

Mick McKellar
July 2016

We've all felt the magic of a well-crafted story as enchantment spins through our minds on the wings of magical words.

Mick

Pacing the Storm

Pacing the Storm

My thoughts are woven in words of wonder;
They flash and dance in lively lightning leaps.
Sometimes they burst forth — full-cloaked in thunder,
Or rumble, distant — as a rain cloud weeps.
Furious downpours spawned in crowded mind,
Flood the fingers and flash the fertile page;
And yet, at times, the darkness leaves me blind,
My phrases cast aloft in fear or rage.
The surging lightning leaps from cloud to cloud,
As mind-storms bathe the sky in anxious wrath;
Crashing on passion's anvil — long and loud,
And far below, the writer seeks his path.
His task is to pace the storm, full throttle,
And to capture lightning in a bottle.

Mick McKellar
July 2016

What is it like to write poetry? Sometimes, it is a wild ride!

Mick

The Light Within

The Light Within

Oh! The milk of life tastes so very good,
I can't help worrying I must be wrong;
For I daily drink far more than I should,
And my taste buds dance to its hearty song.
When loneliness threatens this life of mine,
Companionship offers a hearty glow;
Though daylight may hide its sparkle and shine,
Its warmth reveals its most welcome outflow.
As church windows shine a comforting light,
That warms obsidian shadows outside,
And music pierces the silence of night:
Beauty to leave despair no place to hide.
So from darkness and pain I am set free,
By the light and music deep within me.

Mick McKellar
July 2016

Some people bring their own darkness with them, and if fortunate meet those who shine brightly enough to dispel the shadows.

Mick

Bequest

Bequest

My deep thoughts, I have an impulse to hoard;
I feel I cannot express them out loud.
Yet when thinking, I access where they're stored,
And by writing, I shout them to the crowd.
When I read an author's thoughts in silence,
We meet, face-to-face, in our solitudes;
And by following the writer's guidance,
Live his or her life in our interludes.
My written words hold a piece of my soul,
A gift I bequeath to generations.
Though none may read them, in part or in whole,
I hope to live on in my creations.
Such timeless, intimate conversation,
Is my ultimate communication.

Mick McKellar
July 2016

If I don't write, my dearest thoughts will become only old, water-hardened, cold ashes in the perishable redoubt of my mind.

Mick

Free Advice

Free Advice
Remember, get enough sleep, say the wise:
Very late to bed and early to rise,
Besides putting morning sand in your eyes,
Puts fat on your gut, your hips, and your thighs!
Remember, drink enough water each day,
To hydrate your body the simple way,
To wash out the toxins, the experts say;
And locate the bathrooms without delay.
Remember, find enough fiber to eat,
To fill up your tummy, it can’t be beat;
And then move around — get up off your seat,
Or when you stand up you won’t find your feet.
You just might, if willing to pay the price,
Live long enough to give your free advice.

Mick McKellar
July 2016

At least half of what I see, hear, or read on media is free advice. Regarding its value,
I agree with Benjamin Franklin: “Wise men don’t need advice. Fools won’t take it.”

Mick

After Work

After Work

I drive to my place.
The radio blares
About crime and race,
But nobody cares.

My heart has grown tired
Of hearing bad news.
My snacks have expired.
There's mud on my shoes.

My car's making noise.
My grass is uncut.
I trip over toys,
And fall on my butt.

I might as well mime,
When talking to teens --
They spend all their time
Staring at small screens.

My wife is so tired,
From each awful chore,
I think she's expired,
Til I hear her snore.

I eat -- drinking tea,
Stretched out on the couch;
While watching TV,
To practice my slouch.

Late news fills my head
With crime, death, and war.
So I'm off to bed --
Can't take anymore!

My eye sheds a tear;
I silently pray
A sigh for God's ear,
And thus ends the day.

Mick McKellar
July 2016

Unfortunately, this is how the day ends for untold millions of us.

Mick