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

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

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

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

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