Breakfast: Family Camping, 1960

I remember the friezes,
Of tree limbs on canvas,
When soft morning breezes,
Said: "We're not in Kansas!"

Rippling the amber wall,
Shaking out last year's dust,
Filling the dim, canvas hall,
With the smell of vacation stardust.

Barely there, a deliciousness arose,
A dream to awaken my sleepy senses,
Tickling, fondling, caressing my nose:
Exotic, erotic, the way that incense is.

Was that coffee, fresh and mellow?
Was that sausage, spicy and crisp?
The aroma, toasty brown and yellow
Pancakes, stacked -- the wil-o'-my-wisp?

Seeds of chaos, we burst from our tent,
Filling the air with the forest floor.
Unconcerned how the others went,  
Baby birds clamored for more, more, more!

As each of us jockeyed for eating room,
A feeding frenzy raged unabated.
In fifteen minutes twas all consumed;
One dropped a sausage. Picked it up. Ate it.

These memories are a laugh, a great ride,
But for sandwiches, burgers, beans and franks,
Mom and Dad worked so hard to provide,
None of us ever thought to say: "Thanks."

Mick McKellar
December 2023

A Holiday Treat

Holiday nights spent with all you adore,
The passionate nearness of sweet ardor.
The moon and stars shine down from above,
Your heart beats faster because of your love.
Hot chocolate kisses in front of the fire,
Sweet spicy fragrances fan your desire,
Soft, slow music stirs your hungry soul;
Nervous, your hand plunges into the bowl.
A handful of caramel corn in your grip,
Will soon be stuck on your mustache and lip.
Your fingers are searching for just the right chip,
To scoop up a teaspoonful of the dip,
Your wife will remark, standing on her feet,
"At one time, I was your holiday treat!”

Mick McKellar
December 2023

Who Will Tell Grandpa He's Too Old to Drive

The rest of us want to get home alive,
But slow-trolley Grandpa is behind the wheel.
Though one of the best men ever to drive,
This craft needs someone awake at the keel!

Traffic is heavy, aggressive, and quick,
And old men are slow to react to change.
His confident driving, so slow and slick,
Gets quickly confused on an interchange.

It is critical that he stays awake,
To help his passengers safely arrive.
There is no nap he can afford to take!
Who will tell Grandpa he's too old to drive?

Mick McKellar
December 2023

Hang Up, Grandpa

Once again, I could not stop talking;
Once again, I would not shut the heck up.
Although others tried to end that long call,
I was on a roll, not stopping at all.
This desperate grandpa would not shut up,
 But stretched the Christmas call without balking.

And once again, I repeated myself.
My mouth kept moving, mind striving to find
Topics and aches and pains to keep chatting,
Until the others gently combating,
Insisting though both gentle and kind,
Twas time this old Elf got back on his shelf.

Once again, I simply couldn't let go.
I can talk until the batteries die,
Beyond the limits that most can endure,
Dragged once again on the nickel tour:
Thread-bare stories and memories awry.
And gently, they tell me it’s time to go.

Mick McKellar
December 2023

Christmas Shopping, 1956

Smudges in the streetside snow,
Root beer ice everywhere we go.
Flaccid air that cuts to the core,
Store music is a generic bore.

Buckle boots with buckles broke,
To keep out slush are a jingle joke.
A driver in a Christmas rush
Splashes us with Yuletide slush.

Christmas shopping checkout squeeze:
A world of wet boots, butts, and knees.
Suddenly, we’re with my dad,
To carry all the gifts we had --

Out to our waiting chariot,
Adrift in slush-filled parking lot.
We’re in the back seat, looking down,
We can’t get up or look around.

My mom arrives and dad gets out,
We hear a moan, a cry, a shout.
They enter our wet biodome,
Silence reigns the whole way home.

We haunt our cold, damp, metal jar,
Til’ mom and dad unpack the car.
We march into the house, a mess
Of flapping boots and slushiness.

Supper comes (and quickly went),
A face wash and some Pep-so-Dent.
Soon we all are sent to bed...
Nothing asked. Nothing said.

Mick McKellar
December 2023

Not The Life I Hoped For

I don't need you to fix me.
Though sometimes I cry,
Alone in the night,
From the fear I might die;
And ashamed of that fright.
You’ll never hear that sad plea.

I need love and compassion.
If you see me grimace in pain,
Your patience is what I desire.
I hate being sick again.
“Stay home.” Is what they require,
And medical gear’s out of fashion.

Mick McKellar
December 2023

Golden Days

Advice I give is good more than a year.
I make soup from a raindrop and a smile;
My stories bring both laughter and a tear,
And both of them repeat after a while.

My beard and mustache used to be dark red,
But now they’re mostly white and silver-gray.
My hair no longer covers my whole head;
What’s left seems like it wants to fade away.

I used spend my days working around,
And now I spend them sitting on my grass!
I spoke and sang with such a mellow sound,
And now I sneeze and cough and pass some gas…

Days -- they flitter past in merely minutes,
Far fewer up ahead than left behind.
Golden Days are here with all their limits:
‘Long as I get to live them, I don’t mind!

Mick McKellar
December 2023

Snow

 

by Mick McKellar / December 2023

Three Angels

Three angels lifted me up high so I could see
The oceans and the lands of our blue home.
They did not speak to me, but stood back, silently
And gestured quietly, I would say solemnly,
That I observe our planet’s biodome.

I didn’t understand and quickly raised my hand
To ask them if this was some crazy test.
The angel in command, with gesture broad and grand,
Repeated his demand that I observe the land,
But gave no further nuance of behest.

I gazed upon the Earth, the planet of my birth;
Where my gaze stopped I felt emotions strong.
Few places had a dearth, too few were filled with mirth,
And rage’s mighty girth gave prejudice a berth.
But love and joy seemed nowhere to belong.

An angel caught my eye and sighed a mighty sigh,
And gestured for me, please, to step aside.
“You kill until you cry, yet don’t stop to ask why
The rage drives your outcry. You kill until you die
And glorify the deaths with wrathful pride!”

I felt no anger there, nor did I sense despair,
Just sadness -- so immense it blocked the Sun.
I felt my deep faith flare, erupting in a prayer
That burst forth in midair: “Life is love to share!
Rage and hate and killing profit no one.”

I turned around to see three angels grin broadly;
They shook my hand and laughed and called me brother.
Inside, buried deeply they’d found some empathy,
And prayers held in by me that emotions set free.
They said farewell and flew to find another.

Mick McKellar
November 2023

Young men dream of glory
Old men dream of peace

Mick

This Too Shall Pass

A nomadic band in a desert land,
Trekked border to border on golden sand.
They found an oasis where none could dwell,
For sticky, black goop had poisoned the well.

That meandering folk who used to roam,
Parked at the oasis and called it home.
Word spread far and wide that their wondrous goop
Smelled like rotten eggs, and made awful soup.

Big foreign investors and local toil,
Helped them pump out a vast pool of crude oil.
Though the pool is empty, the well gone dry,
The land’s still a desert under the sky.

They once lived on that land dwelling in tents,
Now it’s high tech and complex investments.
Then they remembered an age-old story,
Of fleeting wealth and vast vainglory:

For the happiness of an ancient king,
His people made war for a golden ring.
The ring knew his joy would never last,
Its inscription read: "This too shall pass!"

Mick McKellar
October 2023

Storm In A Jar

On the back  of the shelf,
Sits an old glass jar.
It’s all by itself.
It looks empty;
At least that’s how it looks so far.

No one knows for sure,
What it once contained.
I just know it’s a cure,
Welcome help,
When I’m angry or I’m pained.

I saw it flash one night,
When I was so mad,
That I wanted to fight;
Hurt someone.
Could have hurt someone bad.

Floating there in the jar,
Was a tiny storm cloud.
Lightning flashed so far,
It hit the bottom;
But it wasn’t too loud.

When I’m sick or I’m hurt,
There’s bad weather inside.
All my pain I divert --
And everyone thinks,
That I take it in stride!

Mick McKellar
October 2023

October Dreams

Far and away, o’er the wild, craggy hill,
Live old forest woodlands in peace.
And though they're ancient their magic is still
Alive, with sunrise from gold to cerise.
Tis a land where nobody ever goes,
Though tall tales are told by many a tongue,
Of eternal light, and everyone knows
Those who dwell there are forever young!
As Samhain grows nearer, the veil grows thin,
And careless dreamers have sometimes crossed.
The careless can easily dreamwalk in,
And it’s almost certain they'll get lost.
One must beware the ancient power streams:
The arcane magic of October dreams.

Mick McKellar
October 2023

Autumn Memories

The air is crisp and fresh and good,

The carpet of leaves shush like they should,

Over the river and through the wood.

I wish I could, oh how I wish I could!

Vainglorious Autumn has donned her best,

A rainbow of leaves sparkle in the West,

Chased brilliant streamers at the winds behest,

As the forest welcomes each awestruck guest.

I gaze out my window, my thought conceives

That my heart will feel what my mind believes.

I’ll watch until my mind perceives,

I’m jumping into that big pile of leaves!

I’ll feel all the leaves, cold, soggy, and wet!

I’ll disappear from sight, you can bet!

And then I’ll get stomped by a leaping pet,

About as much fun as a kid can get.

Then I sit back down in my rocking chair,

I’ll smile as the children caper out there.

I’ll laugh to recall the memories we'll share,

If we ever talk, some day, somewhere.

Mick McKellar

October 2023

 

What It Means To Live

Why does a child with one cookie share,
Yet the guy with a box full does not?
Why do the poor always seem to care,
While the rich cling to all that they've got?

Does having more make you less of a man,
When a neighbor cries out in great need?
Is it so hard to offer a helping hand,
Or engage in a simple good deed?

Why does a man or a woman lie
In the face of an obvious truth?
Is it only to stir up hatred by
Targeting bias and youth?

Why do old men run the government,
When women have so much to share;
And bullies who think they are Heaven-sent,
Poison news, both in print and on air?

They want our children to see and hear,
Only part of our long history;
Stories of anger, hatred, and fear,
Based on their own bigotry.

Share with children the spice of our life;
The wonders the world has to give:
The light and the dark, the solace and strife,
And to know what it means just to live!

Mick McKellar
March 2023

Stingy old men want to hang on to what they've got, and are willing to sacrifice the futures of our children to take away the possibility that they would see through their lies.

 Mick