Under a ceiling of mellow haint blue.
Porch prophet, oracle, taking my stock
Of legion stories that claim to be true.
Poling my jon boat through sloughs of voices,
Teeming with phantoms of misadventures,
Haunted by spectres of bungled choices,
Shocked to see ancient blunders...with dentures!
Sunlight refuses to pierce through the gate.
Darkness and mist wail long poltergeist screams;
Shattering peace in robust waves of hate,
Frightening hearts and destroying their dreams.
I lose no sleep over what I can't do;
I am but a sojourner passing through...
Mick McKellar
September 2018
How many, I wonder, are in their rockers -- surrounded by signs, totems, and symbols that make them feel safer -- yet they are so shattered by the fierce hatred and calumny of recent events, that they have checked out, waiting to simply pass on. It is tempting.
Mick
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