Awake, Adrift, Yet Under Way

Awake in snowy fog of early morn,
Windows ablaze with grey ambient light,
My dreams of realms where old magic was born,
Return to dim and drifting thoughts of night.
Now cast adrift on pewter twilit seas,
Without a sextant, ship's clock, map or chart,
Nor crew, to hearken to the captain's pleas;
I set a course to mark my journey's start.
I drift from port, alone upon the stair,  
And ride the cataract to galley bright,
Whose harbor welcomes me to heave-to there;
With breakfast on the quay a welcome sight!
From darkness into brilliant light of day,
The voyage of my life is under way.

Mick McKellar
December 2021

Early morning in midwinter is a world heralded by shades of grey, silver, and white. To awaken within the fog of dreams is to be cast upon a colorless sea with little sense of direction. I can always find the kitchen by drifting down the stairs, and breakfast may be waiting on me...

Mick

Sweet Sesame

Sweet sesame, you’re my sweet sesame,
A touch of tenderness and subtlety.
Soft, silky joy so wondrously fine,
You even taste like summer sunshine!

My lips sing with happiness, excitement, and fun,
As my tongue caresses your tender young bun.
Sweet sesame, source of sweetness streams,
You’re part of the hamburger of my dreams.

Mick McKellar
October 2021

Just having some fun.

Mick

Friends are a Blessing You Can Make

Loneliness is a decision you do not make.
The stairs go down and down,
Easier than up, because gravity...
And you are too tired to try.
And you are too tired to cry.
And no one sees your shoulders shake.

Pain is a memoir you do not make.
It writes in fire upon your soul,
With icy fingers steely sharp.
For you have no tears to shed.
For you have no scars of red.
For no one hears your silent quake.

Fear is a burden you do not make.
It spans your path with darkness deep,
Its shadow thick that claws and clings.
You feel alone -- no warmth to share.
You feel alone -- with none to care.
Does no one sense your silent wake?

Friends are a blessing you can make.
To dispel the crushing weight of fear,
To read your pain and share your path.
You're not alone -- if someone cares.
You're not alone -- if someone shares,
And hand-in-hand your journey takes.

Mick McKellar
October 2021

Loneliness can be a self-fulfilling curse. Often those with chronic illness can feel like an  invisible wanderer, feeling not only pain and fear, but shame. It can be difficult to share.

Mick

Amazing Dreams: Angel’s Breath

Listen to the distant song
Of twinkling stars above.
Open up your aching heart
To whispered songs of love.
Brush the velvet folds of night,
Softly, with your mind.
Feel the hushed, the tender touch,
Of angel’s breath you find.

Distant, roofless halls of stars,
So vast, and burning bright;
Beckon you, your lonely soul,
To gather in their light.
But life demands you walk your road,
With those you love, and more.
Time enough to visit stars,
When life’s short path is o’er.

Mick McKellar
October 2021

I love it when my dream path wanders among the distant stars.

Mick

Amazing Dreams: The Lost Soul's Price

The wind on the road in the lonely dark,
Sang a tune softly with warnings so stark,
I dared not ignore their timely advice;
Though I had no desire to disembark,
From my darkling path of the lost soul's price.

In grief, I embarked on this austere quest,
With only one other, my silent guest,
Whose attempt to befriend a misanthrope,
Who eschewed both companionship and rest,
Depleted his store of friendship and hope.

Alone now, astride an ancient draft horse,
Who alone seemed able to set a course,
We wandered forlorn in the dreary mist;
Pain in a saddle, a bag of remorse,
Cracked visage broken, and face Faery-kissed.

Sudden as thunder came warm, soothing light.
Gone were the shadows, the gloom, and the night;
Gone was the burden my old shoulders bore.
A kindly young man appeared on my right,
"Come down!" He commanded with great ardor.

"Why so dismal, my child, what troubles you?"
He asked. (His eyes said he already knew.)
"I caused a death, and I must pay the price!
Pay the lost soul's price is all I can do!"
My words were bitter as frozen blood ice.

His laughter was warm, with comfort and love,
"His soul is with God, in Heaven above!"
He shone like sunshine on newly formed ice.
"You were not at fault!" Said a wondrous dove,
"And He paid for every lost soul's price!"

Mick McKellar
September 2021

My dreams can sometimes wake me up.

Mick
 

Amazing Dreams: The Old Man on the Hill

I stood on a hill overlooking the world,
And the world looked up at me,
In my raggedy jeans,
In my t-shirt covered with my dog's fur,
In my sagging socks,
In my wispy hair fluttering faintly,
In the sun.
And in my crusty, crackling whisper I said,
"I can not cry for you!"
For I had no tears to shed for them.

And they laughed...

Their bloated, bleary and bulging faces,
Shining with a ghoulish light of hilarity,
Bathed in self-indulgence,
Born in unfocused hunger,
Bred in fear and hate,
Glared in focused rictus --
Uttering a hideous growl of mirthless laughter
At the old man on the hill,
Who had no tears for them.

And they blamed...

Eight billion minds burned a hole in my chest.
Eight billion hearts poured their grief in my soul.
Eight billion voices cried my name in their rage.
And I threw my arms wide,
So none could miss.

My hand brushed the moon as I reached for stars;
My arms gathered light from ages past,
And wisdom from those who walked there.
My heart hummed with joy,
As I comforted all,
And I found the tears,
To shed for all humankind.

Mick McKellar
September 2021

Amazing what one can do in one's dreams.

Mick

Amazing Dreams: Fantasies of an Old Man

I stand on the brink of a waterfall.
My wings gleam white in the dawn’s golden light,
Showering sweetly on faces of all
Who gasp at the sudden death of the night.
Many who hide in the valley below,
Shield tender ears and avert fearful eyes --
Gravity lashes water to bellow
And to roar as the falling river cries.
None hear my aging voice cast on the air;
Comforting words never reach tender ears.
I pierce the abyss on wings white and fair;
The joy of my flight distracts from their fears.
Their cheers and hurrahs support my grand flight.
Their bright shining faces dispel the night.

Mick McKellar
September 2021

When folks are so afraid they cannot hear and cannot see, joy may break through to dispel the shadows and bring the light.

Mick

Canopy

All alone one day, in our big backyard,
I closed both my eyes with a great soft sigh,
Then I stood stock still without breathing hard,
And raised both my arms to the sunny sky.
I squared my shoulders and I locked my knees,
Standing straight and tall in the morning's glow,
I heard singing birds and felt a soft breeze,
Then I let my imagination grow...

Hungry roots plunged deep into rich brown earth.
I had thousands of leaves instead of hair.
My canopy of consciousness, gave birth
To awareness of trees everywhere.
I felt the Earth spinning beneath my feet.
I felt agony from forests ablaze.
I cried at the sacrifice and defeat,
Of each woods and forest we humans raze!
I shared in their green communion a while;
I felt the depth of their long, slow regard.
Then quick -- with a teary eye and a smile,
I stood all alone in my big backyard.

Mick McKellar
August 2021

Although this journey might be a fiction, there remains a possibility it is not.

Mick

Old Words, New Friends

His voice crackles from its frayed edges,
And from the surge of his sputtering dynamo --
Pushing and pleading, cajoling
Old and familiar words to carry more:
To hang longer in the dusty air,
To sizzle and pop and dance
With the urges and sins of youth --
Almost forgotten, except in dusty dreams.

Savory words, gone salty and rich
With harmonies of hue and hazy shadow,
Beckon your child mind to drift and dream,
Plunge, ever-so-slowly,
Through a honey-rich patina, polished
By ageless passage and care;
To find the youthful spirits and ageless wonders
Who linger there.

Mick McKellar
June 2021

Why do old men write poems? One question. One million answers.

Mick

The Crumbling of the Stoic’s Wall

Grey stones recall the passing rain and wind.
They rest reclined on mortar, brittle bound
To brethren burked, unable to rescind
The wit and wisdom sealed them to this ground.
Through quietude, the silence of the nights;
The warmth of sunlight, dappled on their flanks;
And press of winter’s snow and cold that bites;
Long silent stones find neither praise nor thanks.
But walls are built by man, though strong and just,
And all things age as seasons shuffle by.
Time leeches life and mortar turns to dust;
The stones themselves grow weathered, worn, and die.
For all things mortal temporary be,
Except for love, which lives eternally.

Mick McKellar
May 2021

I am, perhaps, feeling my mortality this fine sunny day and wondering about the durability of what I may leave behind when I depart.

Mick

Grandpa

I found him crumbled in his rump-sprung chair,
A wizened stump comprised mainly of bark.
Bright sunlight made a halo of his hair,
His eyes like jewels, twinkling in the dark,
Under the cliff his brow hung o'er his face.
It seemed impossible that he had shaved,
A face so seamed and craggy e'vry place,
One needed magic just to get it laved.
A rumble stirred within his ancient breast.
His tree-limb arm sprung forth and grabbed my hand.
The gnarly tree unfolded from its nest,
But didn't need my aid to help him stand.
He laughed, then whispered (as close as seemly),
"I'm so happy that you came to see me!"

Mick McKellar
May 2021

The important thing is to be there.

Mick

I Tasted This Morning

Morning, though sweet, needs some salt from the night:
Mellow, astringent, refreshing and new.
Lavender sunshine births savory light,
Softly caressed by reflections from dew.
Slowly, my benighted orbs are revealed --
Starving, voracious from nocturnal fast,
Beholding a feast which had been concealed;
My eyes devour this shining repast.
Dawn tastes like rich golden honey and cream;
Sunlight is richer and savory sweet,
Misty bright sunbeams are marshmallow dream,
Blended they spin to a gossamer treat.
Spoonful by spoonful of sweet delight,
I tasted this morning -- loved every bite!

Mick McKellar
April 2021

Just waking up can be the sweetest treat of your day.

Mick

Lost Card

Ancestral voices led me on a chase,
From comfy repose to a cold, lightless place,
On a moor so ancient that none could find ,
This abyss that sequestered in my mind.

Though certain the old ones would want me found,
Would make sure that saviors abounded around;
I felt abandoned, forgotten, and lost,
Perhaps a rescue had too high a cost.

I stumbled along on a gravel path,
Through a garden's neglected aftermath,
To a wrought iron gate, with a latch gone slack,
And a glass veranda dusty and black.

The gate squeaked just once, and not very much.
The place came alive at my slightest touch:
Dust sloughed away and the glass gleamed so bright,
I needed a moment to clear my sight.

A building, so beautiful and immense,
It overwhelmed me, and it made no sense.
It stretched right and left, far as I could see,
On the lintel it read "Grand Library."

I knew right away I'd been here before;
I entered through a revolving glass door.
A crystal ceiling, mahogany walls,
And travertine floors gleamed in thousand halls!

Elated, I ran to indulge myself.
I grabbed a book from a nearby shelf.
The cover said "Dune," a favorite book,
I opened the cover and took a look...

Nearly every word had gone away!
Some pages were white, and others were grey:
All books, scripts, or poems that I could see
Were gone, were just empty pages to me.

I wander the halls sometimes in my dreams.
I wonder if all is lost as it seems.
I visit my white room when pain is hard,
And pray I find my lost library card.

Mick McKellar
April 2021

The first time I revisited my grand library after the chemotherapies was a scary dream and a sad reckoning with human frailty.

Mick

Riposte

Waxing wry and dry I juggle phrases,
To communicate what my mind conceives;
From dark, heartfelt slams to empty praises,
From fiction to truth that my heart believes.
Yet our tongue is delicate, so fragile,
A phrase can shatter, or turn in your hand.
Poke becomes lunge, piercing those not agile
Enough to parry or beat or to stand.
Shattering, jagged fragments of wordsplay,
Rend and tear with mortal ferocity,
Leaving remise or feint, defense or delay,
A riposte too late -- mere loquacity.
A thought or a breath after such a churn,
May just leave our world and never return.

Mick McKellar
March 2021

The seeming anonymity and safety of social media can lead to unintended harm.

Mick
 

Hack Attack

Each hack breaks my will, my joy, all my best,
Lost wind tears breath from my struggling breast;
It pulls at my eyes, that can no longer tear,
And my ears hear my fears soaring swiftly near.
Raw, rasping rattles of strained, painful breaths,
Offering lung tissues solitary deaths
As they flicker and fade with each exhalation:
Curious carnage of forced expiration.
Flecks of the conquered, as expulsed issue,
Collects on the soft, white breast of a tissue.

Comes a pause, and with it a sudden hope,
That the long strangulation has run out of rope.
Hope that is dashed once again, as if willed
By a demon, the storm clouds gather and build.
Lightning soon strikes an elusive trigger.
With each round, the storm’s force grows bigger and bigger,
Till the trigger, obliterated at last,
Signals the storm has finally passed.

Mick McKellar
March 2021

Someone asked me to describe the experience of a bronchiolitis obliterans coughing attack.

Mick

Love, Enough

Winter’s ice and snow sheds its crackling voice,
Humming to music by early spring's sun,
Dawn breaks, and invites nature to rejoice;
Another of God’s wondrous days has begun.
Bright morning light teases my window pane,
Slowly erasing the frost patterns there.
The glowing awakens my brain again,
My eyes follow motes adrift in the air.
The tatters of night are all brushed away,
Worries and shadows forgotten and gone.
The golden promise of a brand new day,
Grants my heart hope and gives voice to this song:
“Although we’re not rich and times can be tough,
We've all that we need if we love enough. “

Mick McKellar
March 2021

Waking up. Sunny morning. Warm bed. Life is good!

Mick

Long Cold Night

Naught is sharper than Winter's wicked blade,
Whet upon dagger's teeth cerulean,
And tempered tough against the midnight shade,
To test one's tempest heart-fires truly on.
To wrest one's comfort, cozy and certain,
From blast and bluster, piercing and stinging;
Demands a fierce flame too bright to curtain
Away, and sets one's very blood singing!
Vigorous, powerful, life is so bright,
Its precocious beauty inflames the soul;
Saturates the spirit with living light;
And excites the heart its song to extol.
The music, the flame, and the life alight,
Defend this soul from the long cold night.

Mick McKellar
February 2021

The light of life and music of the soul are my prayers against the long cold night.

Mick

Let The Giant Sleep

A giant sleeps in hearts and minds,
Of people in our land;
Awakening when prudence finds,
That danger is at hand.

We cherish our autonomy,
(An independent lot)
Our wealth and our sovereignty;
We keep the things we've got.

Our freedom and our liberty,
Are often on parade.
We like to stand, alone and free:
An icon, strong and staid.

But, threaten our democracy,
With violence and strife,
Then menace us with anarchy,
And take innocent life,

Harm the helpless, hurt a child,
Intimidate the poor;
Take images of all defiled,
And share it more and more;

And you may stir the giant's ire,
His vengeance and his wrath.
Beware his purpose and his fire.
Beware his righteous path.

Americans, at heart, are fair,
And when misfortunes smite,
They care, they help, they give, they share,
Until what's wrong is right.

But, if that danger's an attack
On what they think is right,
They'll quickly take the battle back,
With all their righteous might.

So, hold your protest peacefully,
And share your thoughts so deep;
Retire your mob, mute the bully,
And let the giant sleep.

Mick McKellar
January 2021

There is a sleeping giant within the people of the United States of America. It awakened on December 7, 1941, with a roar heard around the world. It stirred again on September 11, 2001, and I swear the Earth shifted slightly in her orbit. The giant is wondrous and terrible to behold, and it cannot be controlled.

Mick

Cultish Behavior

To hide a secret, keep it in plain sight.
Inside a truth is where you hide a lie.
A deed de noir, if bathed in brightest light,
Leaves the palest of shadows few will spy.

An untruth, whispered, will seldom go far,
But if shouted often, becomes a fact.
An average schmuck can become a star,
If you make grand claims, then lie and distract.

Find something that folks are afraid to lose;
Claim the government's taking it away.
Tell them it is critical that they choose
To follow your schmuck, who will save the day.

A few will follow because they're afraid.
A few will follow because they are mad.
Anger and hatred and words loudly said,
Will give them direction they've never had.

But a schmuck is a schmuck, the truth will out,
And an angry mob may be the result.
Frustrated fanatics who scream and shout,
Are the fractured remains of a failed cult.

Though you scatter the fire, some embers glow,
Some remnants burn out, and others anneal.
Some embers are large, so their fire can grow,
But most are shattered, needing time to heal.

But mark my words -- This is wisdom, hard earned:
If you are not careful, you can get burned.

Mick McKellar
January 2021

Building a cult can be relatively easy if you follow a few simple rules and your timing is good. However, if your leader is a schmuck, incompetent, or just unlucky; a failed cult can be a dangerous thing.

Mick

The Cost of Conflict

Shallow cries of war and vengeance
Echo and wail, through canyons
Of glass, stone, and steel.
Gaslight tales and smoke,
Obscure and obfuscate
The weathered and withered eyes
Of angry old men.

Will the threshing floor chafe,
When the sledge elects the grain
And rejects the chaff?
Will the chaff arise and
Falsely claim it is grain?
Shall the harvest make war upon itself
In resentment, in grief, and in rage?

Life will suffer.
Grain will be spoilt.
And the wounded will reign,
While the children mourn
For their dead fathers.

Mick McKellar
January 2021
 

In the Bones of My Soul

When bright bursts of love enkindle my mind,
And my hesitant bonds have lost control,
My essence subsumes ev'ry thought I find;
I feel the fire in the bones of my soul.
When chill winds of freedom caress my heart,
And warm bonds of friendship my cries extol,
My bonds to my shadows are burst apart;
I savor joy in the bones of my soul.
When the quiet hours of a sleepless night
And slumber elude, minutes take their toll.
When sweet visions of fancy take their flight,
Gratitude gleams in the bones of my soul.
The architecture of my love is whole,
When I feel loved in the bones of my soul.

Mick McKellar
January 2021

It is good to feel loved deep in the fiber of your being.

Mick