Sky Music

The sky is bright.
A silver glow
Of brilliant moonlight
Limns all below,
And sparkling starlight twinkles in the firmament,
Of softest velveteen, endless and permanent.

Music ethereal
Caresses night,
Silent and aerial,
Essential, right,
And filling up my senses with the sound,
Of silent music love makes when around.

Mick McKellar
November 2024

Please Tell Me Why the Media Are Mad

Please tell me why the media are mad!
Why do their crises often make no sense?
Stories that should scare me just make me sad,
Reading the news leaves me depressed and tense.

Presidents confront thousands of issues,
Yet all they talk about is two or three.
I can’t watch the news without my tissues,
Their talking points are now my allergies.

Daily come expensive, flashy mailers,
And each extols a candidate’s strong suits,
Or why some slightly bent ones need jailers,
For with the devil they are in cahoots.

Slowly, I’ve adapted to the clangor,
Although I think the waste of time is sad.
My response is neither hate nor anger,
Please tell me why the media are mad!

Mick McKellar
November 2024

A Whisper and a Song

Some lives become a shout of love to hear.
Some lives sing out with boundless joy and mirth.
Some lives cry out with pain, yet never fear,
For each and every life must leave the Earth.
In that leave-taking, dwells an emptiness,
Surrounded by aggrieved cacophony -
A wall of memories and loneliness,
Abyssal-deep and wide as any sea.
In all the shouts and songs and anguished cries,
In all the memories and stories old,
In all the tears and all the empty eyes -
A life, a whisper and a song, are told
In solemn prayers to Spirit, Father, Son.
A life, a song, a whisper, has passed on.

Mick McKellar
October 2024

I Listen to the Politicians Speak

I listen to the politicians speak,
And note each piecrust promise they reveal.
If representative,
Of places they all live,
Their words should have a more assuring feel.

But all the ancient platitudes they squeak,
And all the unkind stories that they tell,
(Another candidate
Is someone I should hate?)
Make me feel increasingly unwell.

I want each politician to bespeak,
How they will manage storms and stress and strife;
To keep us safe and sane,
Keep watch on guns and grain,
And maybe help us have a better life.

Mick McKellar
October 2024

Fairy Circle

I stood upon adventure's razor edge,
A chance to taste the spice of things long feared,
A chance to dance an ancient sacrilege,
For on my lawn a Fairy Ring appeared.

Tread lightly where unseen Sidhe shadows play,
In dawn's soft light or twilight's creeping gloom,
For though your footsteps feel so light and gay,
The Tuatha Dé Danann craft your doom.

Beware the ring where fairies dance and play,
For mortals who join in their sacred round,
In dawn's first light or twilight's shadowed sway,
May find themselves by fae enchantments bound.

I jumped right in and jumped back out again,
In hardly what you'd ever call a dance.
I felt a fool for fearing their domain,
But I was never going to take a chance.

Mick McKellar
September 2024
 

No Crisis

I walk about in my bag of ocean.
I carry the sea in My Water World.
Although it seems such a novel notion,
My main and my jib are both unfurled.
I sail swift currents in my inner sea,
Though it is tidal, at the Moon’s behest,
Whose slow and gentle force moves mightily
To alter and remake me without rest.
It’s easy to puncture my outer shell,
If you make a hole in me, I will leak.
Repairs are possible but hurt like hell,
And take longer if the bag’s an antique.
Yet denizens of my vast inner sea,
Claim no climate crisis inside of me.

Mick McKellar
September 2024

Intelligence

I worry that intelligence of the artificial type,
Will soon tax and filter everything I hear and see,
And fill my world with such incredible levels of hype,
I’ll wonder if my mirror reflects someone else, not me.
My computer tries to finish sentences I write,
And argues with my grammar and the words I tend to choose.
I feel it’s found me wanting, or maybe not too bright.
If we played a game of Chess it’s likely I would lose.
I understand that certain things are beyond my control,
Years of work and sharing online mean that I’m well known.
A.I. has full access to my life in a fishbowl,
But works through my computer, the terminal I own.
Let it judge me all it wants, let it laugh and scoff,
When I’m tired of arguing, I’ll simply shut it off.

Mick McKellar
September 2024

Incredibly Ancient Monkey

I looked at my deck,

And thought, what the heck

Is that pile of rags and wood?

Then my eyeballs popped,

And my breathing stopped,

When it moved like no junk pile should.

Slowly it rose,

On prehensile toes,

And quickly began to take shape.

Rags became clothes,

A face with a nose --

It looked like a 6 foot ape!

Out popped a tail,

That grabbed a side-rail,

And steadied him on his two feet.

Now I knew more,

As I opened the door,

T’was a monkey I was to meet.

“Hello,” I said brightly,

Smiling politely.

“Hello,” said a voice deep and mellow.

“Friends call me Mick.”

“IAM!” he said quick,

Extending a hand like a pillow.

“You are who?” I inquired.

He smiled, looking tired.

“My name is Iam (sounding spunky),

It’s a description

An abbreviation

For Incredibly Ancient Monkey…”

“I once was a tree,

And a vast prairie.

I lived as a whale and a shark.

I flew through the air,

Looked down from there,

And I rode on Noah’s crowded ark.”

“I sleep for a while,

As an old debris pile,

That nobody looks at twice.

But, when need is near,

That’s when I appear

To offer my aid and advice!”

“Remember this rule

Not to look the fool:

Nobody else can see me.

Nor can they hear,

When I am near.

So don’t introduce your new buddy.”

“I need to inquire,

Build my knowledge higher,

Until it burns blinding bright.”

With that, he’s gone.

I’m standing alone,

And shaking from sudden fright.

I turned around.

Went in, sat down.

I wondered if I’m a wreck.

I wracked my brain,

But can’t explain

The monkey fur on my deck…

Mick McKellar

August 2024

Shadows of Love

A little light leaks into every life,
In the darkest night, stars show the path.
Though black terrors dance with a smoky knife,
An army of shadows blocks their wrath.
Electric beams from compassion's torch
And empathy's candles burning bright,
Stream oceans of brilliance from love's welcoming porch,
A flood to your aid in the lugubrious night.
Painting the shadows of those who stand fast,
And rush to your aid when the need is dire.
Your army of shadows, powerful, vast,
Shadows of love, their hearts afire.

Mick McKellar
July 2024

Sometimes, when we are at our lowest point, all we see are dark threats and shadows everywhere. It pays to remember that without light, there are no shadows.

Mick

Heliophobia

The golden tongue of the hungry old sun,
Licked my thin skin til it tasted of brine.
It roasted my fresh flesh, and just for fun
Made my blood turgid as badly mulled wine.
Endeav'ring apace to shelter my face,
I wore a large hat with a massive brim.
I did with dark fabrics my limbs encase,
Sunblock was slathered on every limb.
But sunblock rubs off on clothing and bed.
Dark clothes and hats can be dreary attire.
Thinking of sunlight as something to dread,
Just feels wrong to me, sets my mind on fire.
My Daedalus says to follow advice!
My Icarus tells me sunshine is nice...

Mick McKellar
June 2024

Moonlight

The sky feels alive when the moon shines bright,
Limning the trees with white and quicksilver.
It amplifies the grandeur of the night,
Slowly adrift on a star filled river.

Baleful and pale its countenance shimmers,
Oft making the darkness scamper away,
Revealing insects, swift airborne swimmers,
Hiding from night hunters after their prey.

Fleet foragers foray forth and they dance,
From silver gray shadow to branch and leaf.
They skip and dance across pale-lit expanse,
Though some of their dances are dire and brief.

The moon sails along on its merry way,
Sharing silver magic, both fair and fey.

Mick McKellar
June 2024

Making Do

I have suspended mufflers from the ground,
By wrapping them with bailing wire around.
I've patched a rusty hole big as your thumb,
With packing tape and black Rustoleum.
I've fixed a hole in rusty floorboard worn,
With roofing from our barn in a storm torn;
And fixed a broken window (one or two),
With sheets of Visqueen, clamps, and super glue.
I'll drive my patched-up vehicles around,
And wait for used car prices to come down.

Mick McKellar
June 2024

Peace Is Made At The Dinner Table

From the divine flame, we are sparks that fly,
Alike more than not, under the vast sky.
Diversity blooms in the gardens of mind,
In colors we wear, and thoughts that we find.

Mirrored ideas, in other's eyes seen,
As half-formed thoughts, in your works are now keen.
The mystery lies not in our varied prayer,
But in common truths that diverse creeds share.

Philosophers ponder, splitting hairs fine,
Seek borders and conflicts to draw a line.
Human rights, survival, a common thread,
In labyrinthian tapestries, quickly spread.

Conflicts arise, from differences sown,
In race, wealth, culture, their seeds overblown.
Yet stories tell, of strong hatreds unmade,
When common foes are together waylaid.

Peace talks falter, from top to ground,
In macro terms, solutions are bound.
But perhaps the answer lies in the meek,
Building bridges, as the human spirit seeks.

For in each encounter, face to face,
We find our humanity, our collective grace.
If we but start small, with the one next door,
Perhaps peace will spread, from shore to shore.

Mick McKellar
June 2024

From a short essay I wrote on October 16, 1995 and shared with Edupage on a daily email weblog (a text precursor to a podcast).

Mick

To a Noisy Woodpecker

How can a woodpecker be so dumb?
Thinks my metal chimney is a drum?
But, I think he does it just for fun,
"Rat-a-tat," just like a machine gun!

Looking for your food? Save a penny.
My tin chimney doesn't have any.
Looking to build a small, cozy nest?
Shiny metal tubes are not the best.

Sending out a message, far and wide:
"My territory! You stay outside!"
Or maybe it's that old bird bromide:
"I'm looking for a woodpecker bride!"

Feeding, nesting, or territory,
Beating on my chimney bothers me.
Whatever your urgent message be,
Please go hammer it on a real tree!

Mick McKellar
June 2024
 

A Gifting of Borrowed Hearts

Through tender trades and heartfelt debts,
We gift our hearts without regrets.
A beat, a fleeting warmth we share,
In hopes that love may flourish there.

Ev'ry throb, a promise spoken,
Cherished 'til the bond is broken.
For hearts, though not our own, impart
The truths of love's enduring art.

Given with no thought of sorrow,
Borrowed hearts create tomorrow.
In giving love, we find our parts:
The timeless dance of borrowed hearts.

Mick McKellar
June 2024
 

I Found You In The Quiet of My Soul

I found You in the quiet of my soul.
I heard Your whisper bless the stars at night,
And though discovery was not my goal,
I found a love that makes my life so right.

I pray to You with gratitude and pleas,
Your gospel echoes deep within my heart.
Knowing your love has set my soul at ease,
And caused my fears and worries to depart.

Lord, I cannot conceive the infinite,
Nor can I understand Your mighty ways,
But Your creation is magnificent!
The glory of Your works fills all my days!

Yet, there remains the smallest gift of all,
Perhaps, most precious of His gifts for me:
To wake each day, to answer morning’s call,
And pray: “Thanks, Lord, for this sweet gift for me!”

Mick McKellar
June 2024

Grandpa Dreams

I dreamed of being a Grandpa.
I would wear wingtip shoes,
Brown pants, a forest green sweater,
And smell of Old Spice
And Earl Grey tea.
There would be Peanut butter cookies
And butterscotch Lifesavers.
My pockets would jingle with quarters and keys,
As I would check my grand, old pocket-watch.
I would tell sad/happy stories
About my old friend, the Footsore Fox,
And our old friend, the Ribald Rabbit.
Silly stories, perhaps,
In the grand scheme of world culture,
Or local politics...

And the kids would smile a little,
Shake their heads a little,
And feel embarrassed for me.
For quaint words that sang in my writings:
Empathy, consideration, peace, and commitment
Among them.

I would sit in my great wooden rocking chair,
And sing silly songs for them,
Or teach them to fish on a quiet morning,
At the lake,
As my Grandpas did for me.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Riding the Crazy Wagon

Aboard the crazy wagon, we go,
It squeaks and it creaks, it's quite the show.
Over bumps and lumps, the journey's fast...
Or else it's slow -- toward a future vast.

The conductor's shadow, tall and stark,
Looms near the end, where we disembark.
Yet tribulations can't make us abate
The clickety-clack rhythm of fate.

Celebrations and joy ride along,
In life's symphony, the strongest song.
A one-way ticket in my hand so tight,
From the chairman Himself -- my guiding light.

Riding the rails, through long days and nights,
My ticket offers tears and delights.
I'll cherish the ride, all that transpires,
Until the end, when my time expires.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Fox's Journey of Self-discovery

I'd settled at table, ready to eat,
When a sudden knock had me to my feet.
The Footsore Fox stumbled through the front door,
And I wondered what he had come here for.

Fox said for a cookie and Earl Grey Tea,
He would gladly explain it all to me.
With a sip of tea and hunger sated,
This was the story ol' Fox related:

"Upon the trail of life, I paused to peer,
A backward glance, in search of yesteryear.
Into the past, where paw prints mark my way,
To glean the wisdom that might guide today.

In valleys deep, where shadows hold their court,
I wandered lost, in time's relentless fort,
Whose walls of gray obscure the light of sun,
Regretting some deeds I have left undone.

Dark weeping stones and mist that swirls like fears,
A voice that echoes, falls, and disappears,
In dusk of life, where hope seems far and faint,
I stood alone, my heart beset by plaint."

Fearing this chasm, Fox leapt to the now,
Where his trials and tribulations bow
To the strength he has found in present stride,
For though the path is rough, it's here he'll bide.

No cake-walk journey, but smoother than before,
The road unfolds, less daunting than the lore
Of darker days, now shadows of the past,
Their lessons learned, their memories outcast.

For he does not dwell in what has been,
Nor does the Fox leap to futures unseen.
The oracle's vision, tempting as it seems,
Is but a siren's call, just fleeting dreams.

"The moment now is where I stand,
With lessons learned, close at hand.
From darker days, the wisdom I've accrued,
Is the lantern guiding my pursuit renewed.

So forward on this journey, I must tread,
With eyes set firm on the path ahead.
The past, a teacher stern yet just,
Instructs me in the art of trust.

To trust in steps I've yet to take,
In the promise of the dawn I'll wake.
And though the road may twist and turn,
It's here, in now, I live and learn."

The Fox sighed once and curled up on the floor,
Hugged tightly his cane and began to snore.
His journey of self-discovery done,
Peaceful sleep is a reward he's won.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Time's Tapestry

In time's tapestry each day is a thread,
Woven with colors of joy, hope, and dread.
Each tick a stitch in the fabric of fate,
Crafting love stories, both modest and great.

The dawn ushers in a canvas so wide,
With the golden hues morning can provide.
The sun climbs high, painting aspirations,
In the firmament of life's creations.

Midday displays the true heart of the tale,
Where ev'ry plot thickens beyond the pale.
The choices we make and the paths we take,
Are powerful brushstrokes that our days make.

The afternoon light casts a solemn glow,
A gentle reminder of the tempo.
It's a pause in the verse, a soft refrain,
Before evening comes to claim its domain.

As twilight descends with a quiet grace,
Soft shadows lengthen, embracing the space.
The glimmering stars, in the night unfurled,
Whisper secrets of the celestial world.

The moon, a beacon in the dark expanse,
Guides nocturnal revelers in their dance.
It's time for reflection, for dreams to chase,
In the wee, silent hours of night's embrace.

The cycle goes on, day in and day out,
A living symphony, without a doubt.
Each day is a sonnet, each hour a line,
In poems where life and love intertwine.

For life is a poem, written anew,
With sunrise that breaks the day and the dew.
And all may be poets in this grand scheme,
Crafting new verses of the living dream.

And new verses written with hearts ablaze,
Build glorious legacies of our days.
For the poem of now is ours to pen,
In the book of life, again and again.

Mick McKellar
May 2024
 

My Favorite Season is Now

When youth did flourish, autumn was my prime,
For frost did quell hay fever's irksome time.
The trees in splendor, colors bold and bright,
The air tastes crisp, from dawn till fall of night.
No vexing swarm to mar the outdoor cheer,
In autumn's grasp, the world seemed cool and clear.

Yet now, within these walls, my days are spent,
Each precious, like jewels that once were lent.
No longer do I claim a favored time,
For each day's a stanza in life's grand rhyme.
Whether it's rain or snow, or skies of gray,
Each sunrise brings a gift, a brand new day.

Alive, I stand amidst the tempest's roar,
Feeling its might, its power to my core.
What season do I cherish? None, you see,
For 'now' is all the time there needs to be.
Each moment is a lifetime, full and pure,
A chance to love, to learn, and to endure.

So ask me not of autumn's golden hue,
For 'now' is ever fresh and ever new.
For rain or shine, or snow's white tapestry,
Alive am I, and that's enough for me.

Mick McKellar
May 2024
 

Crimson Dreams

Dream the First

Upon the crimson plain I dash,
With heart alight and spirit brash,
Leaping high with joyous thrall,
Beneath the moon's cerulean shawl.
Its azure glow casts shadows long,
While restless birds croon jazzy songs.

The wind, a dancer, twirls with glee,
A joyful, wild, and free marquee,
Otters glide through dust-laced streams,
In this land of waking dreams.
Cloud whales drift in skies so vast,
Their hues of white and green amassed,
And olive trees, in orange flame,
Stand proud and tall, ever the same.

A sun of black draws forth the night,
Its absence of light a curious sight,
My hand, it quakes with a sword that hums,
A numbing tune to which it succumbs.
I sprint with purpose, my goal defined,
By phantasms guarded, through mists entwined:

A jewel of worth, closely kept.
Through shadowed plains, I've deftly stepped.
Battles fought in the darkened expanse,
Each move, each parry, an intricate dance.
Stymied, halted, yet I persist,
With life near spent, I clench my fist.

The treasure gleams within my sight,
Its guarded shimmer a beacon bright.
Yet as I near, my heart does scream,
For reality shatters this wondrous dream.
A clarion, a harsh awake,
From epic quests, I must now break.

But fear not, for dreams do weave,
Into our souls, they never leave.
The crimson plains will call once more,
For epic tales and mythic lore.
So hold fast to dreams of jeweled delight,
For in our hearts, they burn ever bright.

Dream the  Second

In dreams' embrace, we find retreat,
From life's swift pace, its drumming beat.
The crimson plains stretch wide and far,
Beneath the watch of every star.
And there I stand, with treasure bright,
Within my weary, grasping sight.

The guarded gem, with luster keen,
Amidst the shadows, barely seen.
A phantasm's ward, a spectral guise,
Obscures the prize from prying eyes.
Yet onward still, my spirit yearns,
For questing's fire within me burns.

Through trials many, and dangers vast,
Each moment fleeting, each breath my last.
The blackened sun withdraws its glow,
As if in mourning, or in woe.
The humming sword, now still and cold,
Has tales of valor, yet untold.

The otters' dance, a dusty swirl,
In twilight's grasp, they twist and twirl.
The wind dancers, with joyous cries,
Beneath the vast, unending skies.
Cloud whales sail, with grace they roam,
Within this dream, their airy home.

The olive trees, their branches spread,
Stand sentinel as I tread.
Their fiery hues, a beacon's call,
Within the dream, they never fall.
And I, a dreamer, bold and free,
Chase the jewel that beckons me.

The shadowed plain, a challenge wrought,
With every step, a battle fought.
Again, again, I'm pushed to brink,
Yet from the quest, I do not shrink.
Life's essence drains, but hope remains,
Within the dream, it still sustains.

A scream, a shout, a call to wake,
From slumber deep, a harsh, rude shake.
The telephone, its chime, a knell,
That breaks the spell, with jarring swell.
Yet still I know, when night does fall,
The crimson plains will softly call.

For dreams are more than fleeting shade,
They're where our deepest hopes are made.
And in that realm of endless night,
Our fantasies take winged flight.
So hold them close, those dreams of yore,
Deep in our hearts, they're something more.

A treasure trove of tales untold,
Of crimson plains and jewels bold.
Of moonlit nights and shadowed lands,
Where dreamers reach with outstretched hands.
And though the call may come to wake,
Those dreams are ours, and ours to make.

We need but dream, both you and I,
To share the ever-dreaming sky.
For in our hearts, these tales reside,
With each new dream, they're amplified.
In dreams where we are truly free,
To leap for joy, to dance, to be.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

The Fire Within

In this pursuit, where many might succumb,
I rise, a phoenix, from the ashes gray.
For every step feels like a beating drum,
That echoes with the life I'll seize today.

My lungs, though frail, are warriors at heart,
They fill and fall, a testament to strive.
In every breath, a work of living art,
A sign that hope and I are still alive.

Though malady may claim my flesh as due,
My spirit fights, a flame that burns still bright.
Each breath reclaimed, a victory anew,
A testament to unseen, inner might.

For in that fight, where weakness may be found,
A fiercer strength within us is unbound.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Resolve

In the quiet hours of night's embrace,
Where whispers of my breath so softly tread,
I strive 'gainst time with an abiding pace,
To mend the wearied airways that I dread.

Each moment's filled with purpose, fierce and true,
A battle fought with every shallow breath.
The strength I garner, subtle as the dew,
Defies the creeping shadow known as death.

Work is my sword, and will my sturdy shield,
Together, they carve pathways through despair.
With every exercise, my spirit's healed,
And finds within the dark, a light so rare.

Though illness seeks to quell my body's song,
My purpose to improve is ever strong.

Mick McKellar
May 2024
 

To My Children:

Paint my wisdom,
On the canvas of your journey.
Count the gray in my hair,
And weigh the measure of my sorrows and joys.
Trace the lines on my face,
And see a map of my life.
Listen to my voice,
And hear the laughter of my history.
Look into my eyes,
And see the wisdom of my errors.
Glance at my visage,
And see the face of my humanity.

The history of my life is the youth of my future,
And a harbinger of your path.

Mick McKellar
May 1996

I found this in a pile of old essays and forgot I wrote it. Seems applicable still.

Mick
 

Kindergarten: The Quiet Rug

I remember the milk cartons, warmed by the sun.
I remember my broken cookie - just one!
I remember my rug smelled old and dusty,
I remember the floor smelled damp and musty.
I remember the teacher said: “Take a nap.”
I remember the hard floor felt like crap.
I remember a room full of kids -- wide awake.
I remember we knew it was teacher’s break…

Some were moved elsewhere because they wiggled,
Some, reprimanded because they giggled.
It was never a nap, there on the floor --
Just a cease-fire in an ongoing war.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

It really wasn't a nap at all, just a chance for the teacher to take a break and for us to calm down a bit.
 

Mick 

Rehabin’

Upon this steed of steel I ride, with fervent pace and stride so wide,
Expending calories, I glide, with breaths so deep, they swell with pride.
My pulse, it beats a lively tune, a testament that life's a boon,
With O2 levels well in tune, I'm living proof, not gone too soon.
The faces here, they beam with glee, a band of others, we agree,
To push, to pull, to bend the knee, and share laughs, in a fitness spree.

No lack of air shall I abide, as fellow riders by my side,
We chat and trek, a plodding tide, our journey far, our spirits tied.
Inhale, exhale, a rhythmic loom, weaving health in this gym's room,
Twice a week, an hour's bloom, in this communal wellness womb.
This ritual, a hope's decree, that longer life's not just a plea,
But with each rep, a chance to be, a part of life's grand tapestry.

Mick McKellar
May 2024
 

I started pulmonary rehabilitation a couple of weeks ago, hoping to expand my body's ability to deal with failing lungs. #notwithoutafight

Mick

Cranky and Tired and Watching TV

Sometimes the world is too much for me.
News is confused and dark as can be.
I'm tired and limp as cold spaghetti,
Propped in my chair with chips like confetti.
I'm cranky and tired and watching TV.

Minutes flow by in a silent stream,
Fuzzy as dust in a golden sunbeam.
Hours drift slowly as I softly dream,
About homemade pie with sweet whipped cream.
While cranky and tired and watching TV.

Primetime eventually runs dry,
With nothing to watch, nothing to spy.
Talk shows that drone a late night lullaby,
Convince me it's time to say goodbye,
To cranky and tired and watching TV.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Golden Hours

Upon a sunny afternoon so fair,
We dance within the bright fire's gentle flare.
The golden beams doth play upon the skin,
A lively jig that stirs the soul within.

The water's surface, firm beneath our feet,
Supports our sprinting strides, so swift and fleet.
We drink the air, as fresh as morning dew,
And taste the tang of lemon bright and true.

The children's smiles, like treasures to behold,
Reflect the stories and the dreams untold.
At play, they work, creating worlds anew,
In innocence, life's beauty they pursue.

We gather close the sunfire's fading light,
To warm the bones against the chill of night.
The embers glow, a heart's eternal balm,
A whispered lullaby, a soothing calm.

And as the revelers grow tired and worn,
We lull to sleep with songs of day reborn.
For in these moments, memories are spun,
Of golden hours beneath the summer sun.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Ozymandias With a Red Tie

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (AND MICK)
 

I met a traveller from an American land,
Who said—“Two golden, legless sneakers of stone
Stand on the East coast. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the tie of Red;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Donald Trump, bigly Dictator;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

The Dawn of Dreams

 

Twilight steals across the canal,
As the last red rays of day fade.
And night's curtain descends.
Soon is the dawn of dreams.

Whispers of Winter whirl about,
Our house glows under clouds of rose,
In skies of robin's egg blue, and
I snuggle for warmth with hot tea,
And the summer love of family.

The canal glimmers -- a silver ribbon,
Its surface rippling with secrets.
Memories of golden daffodils,
Flames to ignite the fading landscape.
Their petals flutter and dance,
A celebration of fleeting beauty.

Winter's wind, a mischievous spirit,
Weaves through ancient branches,
And carries the scent of pine and frost,
A promise of snow-kissed mornings.
Our home trembles, a ship at sea,
Its timbers creaking in harmony.

And there, by the fireside glow,
We gather—the heartbeats of kin.
Laughter ripples -- spilled sunlight,
Warming our souls against Winter's chill.
In this cozy haven, love blooms eternal,
A fragrant bloom in the garden of time.

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Enjoy Your Joy

What do you do when you're getting old,
When your blood is thin and your butt is cold?
What do you do when your left leg aches,
When you scratch an itch and a fingernail breaks ?
What do you do when your memory,
Is as slow as treacle but thin like tea?
What do you do when your new “trick” knee,
Turns “proud and elegant” to wobbly?
What do you do when your mellow voice,
Becomes a scratchy, wheezing noise?
The indignities of senior life,
The signs of wear and aging strife,
Cannot delete, cannot deprive,
Your joy because you’re still alive!

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Night gives way to gray

Night gives way to gray
Naked arms pierce white blanket
The Sun shines somewhere

 

Poem by Mick McKellar
Photo by Sandy Lapeer

Human Resources

It seems a lifetime ago I managed the benefits programs for Michigan Technological University. When I started there, the department was known as Employee Relations. The name had a friendly, personal tone that made one part of a relationship with employees - people. During my tenure there, the department came under new management, and with it came a name change to Human Resources. I fought against this name change, because it sounded impersonal and seemed to reduce employees from people to resources - essentially, numbers in a spreadsheet.

When people become resources, it facilitates the use of all those pretty equations MBAs learned in business college, and it makes it possible to analyze, prioritize, and finalize numbers to optimize, downsize, and right-size an organization by remote control...from the sterile and protected world of resource management. Enter the numbers into the spreadsheet, hit the Enter button, and Exit the world of employee relations.

Numbers, however, can lie -- just as pictures can lie -- lies of omission. It is simply not possible at our level of knowledge - of either technology or humanity - to distill all that a person brings to a job, to an organization, into a number. Organizations are living things, and the people who work there are organs - living parts of a living organization. Would you suggest scheduling surgery on a patient, based only on what one can glean from a spreadsheet? I would not. Yet organizations undergo radical employee-ectomies every day, often solely to balance a number on a spreadsheet. Think about it.

Mick

Human Resources

High on the mountain, the air's pretty thin -
The view is great, but everything's small.
The tiny people are pawns, spent to win,
And they hardly seem to matter at all.
That's why the HR Conversion takes place,
And people become human resources -
Just simple numbers that don't have a face,
A voice, a vote, or any recourses.
When tough decisions must be quickly made,
It becomes easier just to define
Them as just moves in a game to be played:
A game to be won at the bottom line.
But it's not a battle on a board game,
And to treat it as such would be a shame.

Mick McKellar
January 2008

Liberty

I love to breathe the fresh air of freedom,
To walk where I want, without any reason,
And to run when I feel a surge of joy;
Know that sharing joy is never treason.

Breathing free is a joy that fills my soul,
With gratitude for the wonder of life,
To climb countless stairs and not lose my voice,
Nor feel the edge of hypoxia's knife.

I want to walk without limits or bonds,
To feel adrenaline and dance with glee;
Have a healthy body and peaceful mind.
The liberty to be free to be me.

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Survivor Stands Strong

 

Winter storm was long

Wind and snow sing Evensong

Survivor stands strong

Poem by Mick McKellar

Photo by Sandy Lapeer

When Winter Took a Rest

When Winter took a rest,
And let the Autumn reign,
Northwest winds, fast and strong,
Fair swept the land with rain.

Autumn sped quickly by,
Powered by cruel winds,
Left behind a trail of gold,
And whispered to its friends.

November days were warm,
When sunshine glimmered bright;
Light snow came and went so quick,
That Christmas had no white.

Gifts given nonetheless,
Showed some both love and care,
Hope that peace and joy would come,
With the New Year to share.

January brought snow,
But also saw it go.
Winter seemed to lose its grip,
Let Springtime start to grow.

People, preoccupied
With polls and presidents,
Missed the beauty all around,
And lost their common sense.

When Winter took a rest,
It let the Autumn stay,
Gave the world a gentle push,
But they just looked away.

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Prepare2Sleep

 

Winter sun sinks deep
Twilight flows from distant reef
Life prepares to sleep

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Emailing Myself to Heaven

Please find my soul attached, oh Lord,
Your servant has grown oh, so tired.
I used the compression onboard,
And my connection is hard-wired!

I checked myself for viruses,
And used a competent program.
My name is in your addresses;
Don’t let me go to Spam.

Don’t Forward me to You know where,
But decompress my file above.
Just download me to Heaven there,
And file me under “Love.”

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Soft Silence

Today was not a day for talking.
I grumbled and fumed and fussed with fervor,
And ultimately found I was stalking
A song of silence, long an observer,
But not a passionate true partaker.
Not a songbird’s breath of freshening air,
Not a fiery volcanic Earth shaker,
Nor a stone-faced hypocrite, judging there.
A soul long denied the sweet gentleness,
And golden peace that flows from soft silence;
To hear patter of raindrops, and to guess
If falling on rooftop, flowers, or fence.
To hear the soft sound of snowflakes kissing
The Earth, instead of unending hissing!

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Cerulean Mind

A poem blossoms in my mind to praise,
A lake that fills my wintry heart with awe,
But you are far away and could not gaze
Upon the glacial wonders that I saw.

As I walk the Lake Superior shore,
I feel the coldness of the bitter breeze;
Waves all sparkle in their crystal splendor,
 A thousand jewels in the Winter frieze.

I marvel at the beauty of this scene:
The contrast of the blue and white and gray,
The silence of the lake, calm and serene,
The solitude of this secluded bay.

I think of how the seasons come and go,
The mirrored lake reflects the changing sky,
And dream of what the future has to show;
What wondrous wonders wait to catch my eye.

As on I walk along the frozen shore,
And marvel at the sculptures icy, stark,
I seek what icy nature has in store
For those who brave such snowy cold and dark.

Dancing on an ancient pale blue mirror,
Traversing the bright cerulean mind,
Each new frigid breath I take is clearer,
Than any of the ones I left behind.

I feel a surge of mystery and wonder,
And a touch of melancholy too,
To witness this bleak sub-arctic splendor,
And wish that I could share it all with you.

Mick McKellar
February 2024

The Chase

      I have another poem to share. It's from 2004.This one is a story, which introduces three wonderful characters who live with the people on the edge of a great plain. They are Ariel, a hunter, guide, tracker, and an arrogant young man. Jenna, his headstrong sister, who though intelligent is also gifted with the ability to get into serious trouble. Finally, there is Cinder, a full grown plains she-cat, roughly the size of Bengal Tiger, she is the ultimate plains hunter, and the symbol of all that is wild on the Edge. This is the story of how Jenna runs away from a life of perpetual servitude, only to stumble onto a life-long partnership and unconditional love. Enjoy.

Mick

The Chase

Ariel woke with a thorn in his side.
He'd wandered the woods all day without sight
Of his quarry, and he'd called it a night
Under a bush, near an ancient mud slide.
As there in the dark, he renewed his pledge
To search for the child, who'd fain run away,
Than fulfill her duty to learn, and stay
There with her people who lived on the edge;
He swore when he found her for her mother,
He'd teach her a lesson, fit for her age,
And just maybe vent a bit of his rage.
What else could he do? He was her brother!

Jenna had walked down an old river bed,
Now jumping from stone to stone on the way,
And never touching the damp river clay,
So none could detect where her path had led.
Still, Ariel had skill like no other -
Tracking and finding were his only job!
She had to find a clever way to rob
The path of clues, which would help her brother.
Then, with an energy born of her strife,
Driven by fear of the future she'd fled,
She moved like a plains cat down that old bed,
Stealing away from an unwanted life.

Ariel wondered at Jenna's light tread,
Harder and harder to find were each clue,
Signs of her passage became far and few,
As into the mountains her journey led.
"Stone tells few tales," he'd told his young sister,
"Move through the land like a shadow at night."
Apparently, she'd been listening right,
As signs were so faint, he might have missed her -
Except by her habit - resting her head
On her arms, as she took a short rest,
And causing some hairs, that were rubbed and stressed,
To loosen, and be unknowingly shed.

Jenna knew well the loss of her tresses,
Would provide a path with many a sign.
And so, to confound and to misalign,
She laid false trails with hirsute addresses.
Her beautiful hair, a great source of pride,
Was loss to her heart, and pain to her soul.
Yet she abandoned her pride for her goal,
Using her treasure to help her to hide.
Back with her people, in their narrow lives,
Never were women much more than mere slaves.
Their only fate was to live in the caves,
And never be more than mothers and wives.

Ariel cried out in his frustration,
When he discovered he'd been led astray,
The obvious path that had lead away
From the river, lead to consternation.
The trail of hairs had ended so neatly
He'd hardly noticed his road signs had stopped,
His demonstration of skill had just flopped -
His little sister tricked him completely!
Defeated, he went back to the river,
Staring for hours at the stone in the sun.
Looking for small clues until he found one,
That chilled his bones, and caused him to shiver.

Jenna prowled onward, out into the plains,
Still with the river, but far to its right.
She still felt safe with the river in sight,
Watching her back trail, and taking great pains
To cover her footprints in the soft soil,
And trying hard not to crush the tall grass.
Often the soil would give way to morass,
And she moved forward only with great toil.
Finally, tired in twilight's dim hours,
She found a hillock and made a small bed,
Then curled up and slept the sleep of the dead,
Praying for safety to all kind powers.

Ariel sprang to his feet at a run,
Swiftly he passed through the shadows grown long,
Praying that he'd read the tracking signs wrong
And that the moon would be bright as the sun.
He'd seen a tiny heel print on the shore,
Leaving the stony, but safe river track,
In her desire to never come back,
His safety lessons, she chose to ignore.
Deep in his mind, was the certainty that,
What he had read in the mud must be true,
Next to her heel print, he had seen the clue -
Tracking his sister was a huge plains cat!

Jenna was dreaming of sunny days past,
Dreams that grew darker and even stranger
When a soft noise and whisper of danger,
Breached her fatigue and then woke her at last.
Jenna lay still, as her brother had taught,
And freezing as little animals tense,
Casting about and then trying to sense,
What messages the ill whispers had brought.
Far to her left she could sense a small mind,
Focused on tracking by scent her small prey,
Jubilant, planning on feasting today,
On the small animal she knew she'd find.

Ariel moved like a ghost on the trail,
Hunting the cat like a devil from hell,
Still, in the back of his mind, knowing well,
What would be lost if his hunt should now fail.
Suddenly, something brushed against his mind,
Touched him, and then it searched on it's quest.
He felt as if it had come from the west,
He leapt that way to see what he would find -
Only to stop, stone-cold still on his path,
Facing him, no more than paces away,
Ready to spring, to attack, and to slay,
Crouched a plains she-cat, hissing in wrath.

Jenna stood up and could easily see,
Ariel facing his death from the cat,
And realizing that she had caused that,
Reached out and touched the cat's mind easily.

Cinder considered the best way to kill,
Dinner that walked on two legs in the grass,
When velvet fingers created a pass
And an iron grip took hold of her will.

Ariel watched as the she-cat stepped back,
Turning to stare at a figure in white.
Jenna was standing up high in plain sight,
Bright as the sun against sky of pitch black.

Jenna's connection to Cinder, in ways
Unknown, each second, grew ever more strong,
Somehow she knew that in not very long,
They would be partners the rest of their days.

Cinder felt love for the first time that night.
Purring, she nuzzled the whisp of a child,
Who pushed aside her innate nature, wild
Sensing that somehow this joining was right.

Ariel watched this with wondering eyes,
And felt the joy as the joining took place.
Then, weakened by his long, frantic foot race,
Fell to ground, uttering small plaintive cries.

Morning found three, walking slowly toward home,
Ariel leading, as he felt he should,
Jenna not saying that she also could,
For she knew everywhere Cinder could roam.
Jenna would never be anyone's slave,
No man could force her to be his wife.
She had another that shared in her life,
Tacit assurance that men would behave.
Ariel too, had learned much from their flight,
Tested and bested by sister and cat.
He'd found his limits, a bold lesson that,
Would save his young life in many a fight.

Mick McKellar
July 2004