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