Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Pocketwatch

Native Americans met on a path,
Walking the dust of the day from their feet.
One was bright as day, and one dark as wrath;
They both thought was “Bonne chance” that they should meet.
One old, one young, they conversed as they walked.
Tales were told: tall ones and some very small.
Hours went by as they walked and they talked,
And they rested on an ancient stone wall.
“Are you hungry?” Asked the much younger one.
The older man winked, looked at his bare wrist...
They laughed at the old joke, it was such fun,
But this time the old joke had a slight twist:
Hands in their pockets after the riposte,
Held cell phone and watch...and both thought: ”almost…”

Mick McKellar
August 2019


Sometimes, old jokes hold deep truths up to the light.

Mick

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Descent of Blessings

The liquid air was firm as ever wrought,
And silence smothered each begotten sound.
Darkness swaddled every random thought,
Angels took note, and gathered all around.
As sadness swelled beneath my coverlet,
And loneliness entrapped my heart inside;
I ached, a wounded spirit trapped, and yet
A refugee without a place to hide...
When wondrous light illumed my ceiling/sky,
And angels, countless as the stars of night,
Soft, silent choirs and seraphim that fly,
Succored my aching soul and filled my sight!
Each carried prayers and wishes without cease:
Gifts of grace and love, thoughts of hope and peace.

Mick McKellar
July 2019


Sometimes the outpouring of love and a tsunami of good thoughts can trigger a heavenly display and wrap a suffering soul in angelic care.

Mick

Monday, July 08, 2019

At the Mercy Gate

I think the leukemia took my tears --
Open desert, dry eyes see shifting sand,
To cover a river of children's fears,
And shadows of cages so near at hand.
The wailing wind mimics children crying;
Icy voices distant in cruel heat.
Loud harrowed cries escape spirits dying:
Brutal life, father of unjust defeat.
Torrid and airless, the place where they wait,
Stench of humanity stealing the air.
A lost chimera without advocate,
Locked out of paradise, left threadbare.
Mercy denied by those steeped in disdain,
Heaven's gates closed against children of pain.

Mick McKellar
July 2019


What must it be like, to flee with your parents, pain and fear behind, uncertainty and fear ahead? To be ripped from your only anchor in the world and be locked in a cage, with little food and no one to care? To swim in a sea of agony and sleep in a swamp of pain, the promise of security and freedom denied? Can you hear their cries among the ghosts of the night?

Mick

Saturday, June 29, 2019

Pythagorean Morning

I met a weary fellow,
Standing silent in the dawn.
His companion, dark yellow,
Was watering someone's lawn.

He yawned and shrugged and mumbled,
His canine friend did the same.
I said, "Hello!" He grumbled.
I pressed on, and asked his name.

At first, he hesitated,
Fixed his eyes upon his friend;
At last, "Damon" he stated,
As our dogs sniffed, end to end.

First, I introduced my mate,
My companion for walking.
This did not ingratiate,
And still he wasn't talking...

"What'd you call your furry chum?"
My own name I then proffered.
Still, he stayed profoundly dumb;
A sigh was all he offered.

Quick, a smile broke on his face,
"It's Pythias," he shouted.
(Ice broke in that silent place;
An outcome never doubted.)

I asked why he chose that name,
And what put him on that track.
I heard my new friend exclaim:
"Because he always comes back!"

Mick McKellar
June 2019


Storied names decorate the lives of many of our furry friends.

Mick

Friday, June 21, 2019

Early Riser

I awoke from my somnolent flight,
As morning began to devour night;
Cascades of words spilling forth so deep,
I gasped for air and couldn't sleep.

In the dim, unearthly chill and damp,
I moaned with a sharp, poetic cramp,
Struggled to focus my bleary sight,
And tapped away in my screen's harsh light.

Wan pewter light filled my window frames,
As I fought for words and thoughts and names.
Slowly my thoughts finally coalesced,
In a mind that simply would not rest.

I marshalled my sluggish, weary mind,
A writer's drive and finesse to find.
I saw my muse on a distant hill,
And beckoned her to come closer still.

Despite my efforts to wax profound,
My muse walked away without a sound.
I searched for reasons, but don't know them.
All I got was this silly poem…

Mick McKellar
June 2019


The early bird gets the worm, but all I got was Drang and Sturm.

Mick

Wednesday, June 19, 2019

Song of my Soul

A noisome flood of stark demands,
Wash joy from weary, startled hands;
And braying beasts, their hate replete,
Draw Earth from deep beneath our feet.
To silence wailing, frantic fear,
Sing soothing words for all to hear:

The beauty of the human soul,
Is dazzling when a heart is whole!
It's voice quakes Earth and rends the skies,
The spirit soars, the essence flies.
Such power springs from sharing of
Pure truth and life and joy and love!

Prevailing wisdom seeks to prove,
That hate has more power than love;
That fear is rational and right;
That isolation shows our might;
And profit makes the world go 'round.
Yet, silence is a lonely sound.

The triumph of the human soul
Is attained, when a heart is whole.
It shakes the Earth and rends the skies,
And spirits soar, and essence flies;
Releasing power from sharing of
Pure truth and life and joy and love!

Mick McKellar
June 2019


Hate-filled speech and demands to hide in fear, behind walls and guns, makes my soul want to sing to the world about the true sources of power.

Mick

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Conversations with Cancer

Hello there Cancer, my old friend.
Shall we converse until my end?
I like to think I know your ways,
Though, we play hide-and-seek most days.
I search each crevice, bump, and crack,
And fear to find you looking back.
I swear, because you’re such a fright,
I hear you laughing in the night.
I look behind me on the stair,
To catch you following me there;
And though you’re never there, I swear
I sense your presence ev’rywhere.

Oft we have fought, and battled hard --
Old dogs who share a broken yard;
Though we will take no other lives,
Neither can win while one survives.
Yet, my facade remains serene;
Our vicious battles rage unseen.

Shadow companion, hear my voice:
Conflict with you was not my choice,
Though I am happiest, it seems,
When I defeat you in my dreams.
But, nonetheless, whilst morning dawns,
When dew bedecks the sleeping lawns
And birds and bugs fill warming air.
You, cold companion, always there.

When I stare into the abyss,
When I consider all I’ll miss,
Because you siphon strength away,
Because you take your toll each day,
Because your fingers, bloody, red,
Sate appetite that must be fed:
I wonder, do you feel remorse,
As you begin each baleful course?

I talk to you, but do you care?
Are you impossibly aware?
Do any words, when I complain,
Mean aught to thoughts on other plane?
Do silent tears shed in the night,
Mean anything to living blight?

Know this, dark pestilence obscene,
If you can garner what I mean,
Because your silence, no reply,
Mocks both my courage and my cry,
My fierce resolve will amplify,
Until the day I feel you die.
When I your savagery outlive,
There will be nothing to forgive.

As promised vengeance draws e’er near,
It’s time for you to feel the fear!

Mick McKellar
April 2019


Diplomacy doesn’t always work.

Mick

Friday, April 12, 2019

Rare Velleity

Awake, I sense that outside -- air has bite:
Icy incisors slicing through the flow.
And once again my world is cold and white,
Fortunately, I have nowhere to go.
This turn of Spring to face old Winter’s ire,
Foul aggravation to us passers-by,
Is fear of facing Summer’s coming fire --
Embracing shadows rather than the sky.
With halting steps the sun resumes her reign,
Overcoming vast, chill proclivities.
Green voices soar in warmer songs again,
And bring the long, white season to its knees.
Vast choruses of Summer sing to me,
Overwhelming Spring’s rare velleity.

Mick McKellar
April 2019


An April snowstorm is common here, and yet it always feels wrong.

Mick

Monday, March 18, 2019

Mute Fire in the Sky

Stasis is more manifest,
And visible in light,
Than in the evening shadows,
Or in the dark of night.
Silence shared for all to see,
Courage and fortitude,
Make a stout and strong redoubt,
When all are brash and rude.
To rail against the clamour,
When all are fast asleep,
Is casting sacred arrows,
In vast unmeasured deep.
To rise with watchfires blazing,
Flames silent, leaping high;
Morning minds awaking see,
Mute fire streaking the sky!

Mick McKellar
March 2019


Sometimes a whisper, or the stoicism of silence, is louder than the cacophony of the crowd.

Mick

Saturday, March 16, 2019

Dust, The Gathering

Invisible, adrift upon my air,
Mounting up to the ceiling when I move
Over there -- from just about anywhere.
And yet, I do not feel my fairy shove.
I sense that I stir the air, a blithe spoon
To agitate the broth we fair inhale,
Then fouled and filtered, we share again soon,
To ripen and age, like an oft-told tale,
Released to drift and sail on currents soft,
And swiftly airborne artifacts collect.
Whilst fair suspended, they journey aloft,
Till laden all on distant shores are wrecked.
Flotsam, jetsam scattered to fade and rust,
And fain become the bane I know as dust.

Mick McKellar
March 2019


With my lung problems, a bother has become a bane.

Mick

Sunday, March 10, 2019

Weather Vain

Though my faintly steaming mug,
Is a welcome friend, to hug
    Close to me;
To absorb its heat, I think
Leaves an apathetic drink:
    Tepid tea.

Through a window rimed with frost,
I reflect on what is lost,
    Bittersweet...
And consider what it takes,
To relieve my body's aches,
    Without heat.

It may seem so very strange,
That a sudden weather change,
    Causes pains.
Still I don't think it's hormones,
If I feel it in my bones,
    When it rains.

Wicked ravages of time.
Make me sensitive to clime,
    As it wafts
Where I used to have my hair.
There's a bald patch, sitting there,
    Sensing draughts.

As I hear the nightwind's cry,
Seek the moon's face in the sky,
    And its glow;
It grows harder to be old,
In the deepest winter's cold,
    And the snow.

Mick McKellar
March 2019


As I get older, winter grows colder...

Mick

Saturday, March 02, 2019

Dangerous Poesy

Words have a wicked sharp, dangerous edge,
That softly caresses, that cuts to bone,
That seals sudden breaches, that drives a wedge;
Whetted berm of a blade that poets hone.
To whittle at life until myths emerge,
To carve fantasy from biography,
Releases a deep-seated need to purge
The dust of turmoil, the fog of ennui.
But the prideful poet, a prince of verse,
(At least, in his fevered and frenzied mind,)
Can cut too deeply, too quickly, or worse
Disfigure life's story, abrupt, unkind --
Declaiming his truth as though from God's grace,
Spreading his dogma all over the place.

Mick McKellar
March 2019


Reminder: Pretty words may be dangerous weapons as well as powerful tools.

Mick

Friday, March 01, 2019

Gift of Legacy


As Winter's west wind mutters,
And toothless, bites my hand;
As frozen silence stutters,
Snow stings like wind-blown sand.
My feet mired in a snow drift,
I seek to touch your face.
My empty hand bears no gift,
Perhaps, a simple grace.

The gesture that I proffer,
One artless, pleading art;
In wrinkled hand I offer,
My silent, shuttered heart.
My gift remains extended,
And when taken from me,
A gift of life, unended --
Becomes a legacy.

Mick McKellar
March 2019


Life sparks thought. Thoughts become feelings, images, and words. Shared they become a gift. The gift becomes life and perhaps a legacy.

Mick

Monday, February 11, 2019

Writer's Block on a Monday

Why do I write in the dark of night,
In the downtime, when sleep should hold sway?
Why does my might recoil from that fight,
When I'm active -- enduring the day?
Why do my words just lie there like turds,
Stale and impotent as last month's rent?
Why do I save the whey, not the curds,
Preserved as though they were heaven sent?
Why do I press, my focus transgress,
To totter on wandering pathways?
Why does my best work fail to impress
Those friends who remember my good days?
The answer's sold in the dark and cold,
Where the once-bold grow tired and old.

Mick McKellar
February 2019


Some days the search for the profound is simply a visit to the lost and found.

Mick

The Gift Perilous

I apologize, my grandkids, again.
We are leaving you a planet in pain!
Our world of wonder is weathered and worn;
Our sweet promises are tattered and torn;
Our pilgrimage broken by profit's grift.

We were given keys to golden gardens;
Given second chances, even pardons
For wasting the fruits of our rights of birth.
But in poisoning the bounty of Earth,
We've set your future afire and adrift!

Often I weep in my pillow at night.
I dream that, somehow, we can put it right;
If we bypass greed, ignorance, and hate...
Do you think, maybe, we are not too late,
To save our precious and perilous gift?

Mick McKellar
February 2019


I was wondering what I would say to my grandchildren, to explain what we've done to their inheritance…

Mick

Friday, February 01, 2019

Keweenaw Spring

January's a long year,
February is dark.
March is full of snow fear,
April's so damn stark.
May will tease us often,
June's rain bugs will bring.
When July's winds soften,
Maybe we'll get Spring!

Mick McKellar
February 2019


I first saw a meme today which said: "January is a long year."

Mick

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Colloquy


The fire in my belly grows dim.
My chill flesh remembers
Bright embers, within.
Yet, as memory fades,
As the spark we fed
With each hungry breath
Drifts near death;
Famished, urgent, wishing
For the heartfelt touch of another mind,
For the God-food of intuition,
For the fuel of cognition;
We hurtle, to hie to conflagration,
And flare into wildfire of repartee.
We sing a song of solitude,
And lend loneliness its long farewell.

Mick McKellar
January 2019

Solitude is sitting silently in a boat on a sea of friends.
Loneliness is sitting on a yacht in a vast, empty parking lot.

Mick

Sunday, January 13, 2019

Each Road is a Wall

When roads rise up and seek to block our way,
When forceful flowers grow and bar our path,
When shrieking wind demands to have its say;
We'll taste the bitterness of Earthen wrath.
Too long ignored, the death of common sense,
Let slip the fantasy of greed's sweet taste:
A recipe that profit beckons, hence
The surfeit's rise in toxins, trash, and waste.
When life itself is bartered on the scale,
And children caged to bargain on the floor,
The Earth itself, enraged beyond the pale,
Will rise in judgment, crying out: "No more!"
Don't think to run...and thus avoid the test:
Each road is a wall, lain down for a rest.

Mick McKellar
January 2019


Some actions are so heinous that the Earth itself may take note and endeavor to remedy the situation.

Mick

Saturday, January 05, 2019

January Snow

The breath of Winter's frozen heart released.
Shifting, sonorous, soft blanket of death,
Your grasping samite desert unappeased,
As all fall prey to creeping icy breath.
Your susurration sings of silent sleep,
And icy dreams cascading through the night.
Your shifting dunes on silent cat paws creep,
To sift and drift o'er landscapes lost from sight.
You fill the land -- a vast and soundless sea;
As muted, faint, and hushed, your rivers flow --
And dammed, your frost spray stings, when passing me
On winter winds that always seem to blow.
Your coverlet of frigid, frozen fleece,
Gives all about an icy sense of peace.

Mick McKellar
January 2019


I said to myself: "Say something nice about snow!" Imagine my surprise when I received a reply...

Mick

Tuesday, January 01, 2019

Shall We Prey?

White is the winter of twenty-nineteen,
Wherein the wolves -- pale polemics faint hide.
Dancing in gales grey and circling unseen,
Gauging what cover the news squalls provide.
Gone are old coordinated swift strikes.
Gone are lost chances to weather the gale.
Gone are discussions and simple dislikes.
Truth is prey predators swiftly assail.
Blinded by silvery frost from the skies,
As wisdom whispers insight with a hiss;
Torn in the tempest, the whisper soon dies,
Caught in the monochromatic abyss.
Frightened to death, hear humanity cry,
Left in the dark as the maelstrom roars by.

Mick McKellar
January 2019


I sense that we, the people, are under attack and as I read the news, I see only storm clouds and shadows of fear.

Mick