Hand of Friendship

He stood upon a hill and waved to me.
The first thing that I noticed was his smile,
And friendship that it offered seemed to be
What made my immigration strife worthwhile.
I climbed the hill and took his proffered hand,
I shook it, and I flashed my brightest grin.
My family was in the promised land,
And thus began our journey to fit in.
Though most of our new neighbors welcomed us,
And we worked to become Americans;
The politics became so poisonous,
That all our invitations turned to bans.
He stands upon the hill, out in the sun,
But now his hand of friendship holds a gun.

Mick McKellar
October 2018

Maybe that change is not the result of immigration, but the politics of hate and fear turning our welcome sour.

Mick

The Dyson Sphere

I dreamt that I lived in a Dyson sphere,
In a time so far away,
We no longer used words like month or year;
We only knew night and day.

It didn't seem crazy, to see the land
Climb upwards into the sky;
To see mountains that had no summit, and
Never pause to question why.

Our power came down from the mountains, which
Reached to panels near the sun;
Whose traveling shadows, like a huge switch,
Made night when the day was done.

We traveled in tunnels far underground,
To go any place for free:
Sitting in vacuum tubes that made no sound,
At extreme velocity!

The oceans and islands and great, huge lakes,
Had water enough for all.
And farmers replaced what crop growing takes,
From the land inside our ball.

Small particles drawn from a neutron star,
Helped provide our gravity.
This happened outside, and it was so far
That I never got to see.

I dreamt I was there for about a day --
And a life, that felt so right,
When something suddenly pulled me away,
And I woke...at home...at night...

I'll never forget my other life, when
I felt only joy, not fear.
I humbly pray that I can try again,
My life in a Dyson sphere.

Mick McKellar
October 2018

I dreamt this last night, and it was so vivid, so real -- that I had to tell the story. The sight of a lake bigger than Superior rising into the sky, arching into a vast distant haze is something I can never forget -- even if only a dream...

Mick

A Near Binge

My attitude of gratitude has dimmed.
Its gentle glow and glimmer can't impinge
Upon the gloomy path of ennui, trimmed
With comfort foods on which I like to binge.
The cookies whisper from our cupboard shelves,
That calories leak from the broken ones,
Also, because these treats are made by elves,
There is no fat in sweet cinnamon buns.
Though spicy salsa makes chips taste divine,
And crunching sounds are pleasing to my ears,
I only eat a few, so it's benign:
Containers promptly sealed with bitter tears.
So I can truly claim, I don't collude
With sweet and salty, crunchy, tasty food.

Mick McKellar
October 2018

News is nearly always upsetting these days. Fears, hopes dashed, the inmates are running the institution -- so I seek solace in unhealthy, and therefore tasty food. But, I have it under control...I really do.

Mick

This is Just to Reply

I have read all
the words
that you shared
on my screen

and which
you undoubtedly
left there
on purpose

Forget them?
they were too painful
so tart
and so cold

Mick McKellar
October 2018

P.S. WCW -- I stole your plums...

Mick

Vale of Tears

When life becomes roughly assailed by fears,
And wanders too close to the vale of tears;
My only recourse is to find, at length,
A forgotten reserve of inner strength.
I look to my family, those I love
More than myself, loving far and above
Any remorse or regret I could face,
Should I choose to suffer loss in their place.
In those dry, barren hours spent alone;
When the fearful aching reaches to bone;
When I cannot help, but to count the cost
Of wand'ring alone in the desert, lost:
I let my fears go, make solace my goal,
And let my tears flow, to water my soul.

Mick McKellar
October 2018

Bits and pieces. Scraps of an old poem, abandoned during the chill darkness of an early winter morning. Vague fears dancing in semi-lucid dreams. All of this resonated with the palpable fear of losing something precious.

Mick

Sole Survivor

I wander along through the misty night,
Aware of the darkness, but little more;
Embracing the shadows, avoiding light,
And pushing my indigo mood before
Me, as a snowplow clears a path through white.

Tonight's white is billowing clouds of black,
Charcoal, and soot-colored frigid, frore fog -
Caressing my face and stroking my back,
The touch of a lover, sharing a jog
Through a soft-clinging pitch-black velvet sack.

I journey alone in my shadowed flight,
Through a world of dimly-sensed phantom life,
Which distant, veiled, leaves my precious sight
Impaled by sombrous obsidian knife.
I'm the soul survivor of endless night.

Mick McKellar
October 2018

We are indeed the sole survivors our darkest journeys through Stygian gloom and darkling worlds, hidden from all...hidden even from ourselves -- soul survivors.

Mick

Walk the Dark Dream

We walk the waking dream -
Dark night and endless day,
Where gifts along the way,
Are seldom what they seem.

Our tenuous controls,
Of life's most precious threads,
Reside within our heads,
And reach not to our souls.

For sleeping mind plays tricks:
Like dreams of punting on
The River Acheron,
And swimming in the Styx...

Wherever we may go,
Upon that inner shore -
What we cannot ignore,
None else can ever know.

For in that waking dream,
On paths in darkest mind,
The truths we think we find,
Are seldom what they seem.

Mick McKellar
April 2008

Found this poem lurking in a forgotten directory with a couple of other poems from a darker time in my life. I was struggling with class discrimination and an urge to seek acceptance in a world that viewed me as unworthy.

Mick