Moments Along the Way

I often dream of blood, as old men do,
And fear my passing will go unremarked;
My inner fire gone unseen, never sparked
Or brought to flame, my words unheard though true.
I know in my head that we must all leave,
But my heart lives a secret fantasy:
That a tiny part, a flicker of me,
Will live on in passages I conceive.
I see in the faces of progeny,
Faintest shadows, tracing my countenance.
Their love of music, the way their words dance,
Grant me a measure of longevity.
I savor our meetings anew each day,
And treasure those moments along the way.

Mick McKellar
October 2019

We all seek our own forms of immortality, I guess.

Mick

Conflict

The truth is: I did not push you away;
No effort of mine has set you adrift.
Although...I did nothing to make you stay,
And oftentimes distance may be a gift.
Our journey began as a search for truth,
Your truth or mine...we did not specify.
We moved in lockstep for most of our youth,
Until we no longer saw eye-to-eye.
You rush, I retreat, we battle each day;
The gale of our fight a howl in the night --
Our conflict is joined, our troops in array,
Our goals are in sight, we both know we're right!
Your vict'ry -- Pyrrhic -- I'll not let you gloat...
Go ahead and use the TV remote.

Mick McKellar
October 2019

Not all conflict is important...outside the moment.

Mick

The Logging Road

A logging road in our great Northern wood,
Dipped and cambered over layers of days;
Softly remembering all that it could,
Of every foot that traveled its ways.
Hesitant footfalls that stalked in the dawn,
Following fleet, cloven anguish and fear.
Crushing and grinding of massed metal brawn,
Dragging dead bodies, silent and austere.
Tiny feet scurrying past in the night,
Darting and dancing, alive and afraid
Of the death that glides soundlessly in flight,
Or chasing someone trying to evade.
Remembering us as slowly we walk,
And noting our passage, but not our talk.

Mick McKellar
October 2019

I think that the forest remembers everything we do there and ponders it deeply and overlong.

Mick

Cold Comfort

Is life poetic? Is life poetry?
I guess the concept is one for long, slow
nights of reflection, and early morning
bursts of proud prose and of profundity.
Today is Tuesday and it’s grey outside,
with just a touch of mottled greenish brown.
White threatened yesterday, majestically.
It fell sloppily from a pewter sky,
and decorated the long, grey/green grass.
It did not stay long in the empty yard,
melting away swiftly as memory;
leaving a chill as welcome as regret.
My mind has no hold on either of these,
and Summer’s grass has no hold on the snow.

Mick McKellar
October 2019

Pondering the changing seasons is slow, chilly work.

Mick

The Gift of Bruises

I stumbled, rushing, as today sped by,
Focused on one foot after the other;
Never looking up to admire the sky,
Perhaps too busy to even bother.
I stumbled, and then I began to sway,
A moment of confusion, however
I sensed that my end is not far away,
Knowing no road that goes on forever.
I stumbled, as though rushing to and fro --
My measure of living life to the max --
Had left me lost, with nowhere else to go,
And no idea of how to relax.
I stumbled, I tripped, I tipped, and I fell:
And the gift of bruises has taught me well!

Mick McKellar
October 2019

To stop and smell the roses, sometimes you have to stumble.

Mick