out of my mind...

Walking in the Rain

2012-01-17T01:01:00.000-05:00

I grew up in an era when boys did not cry...at least not when other boys could see...and began learning about pain at eighteen months of age. My feet and hands were severely burned by boiling water from a vaporizer, and there was doubt whether I would learn to walk because of the pain. I learned to walk and to control and suppress the pain, but in the process lost my childhood.

My Mom, my Dad, and me...
before my injury

My mother told me that, where other children might be serious, I was grim. I seldom smiled and almost never played with other kids. I grew to be the protector for my siblings, because I did not fear pain. Aloof and silent, I read and watched and waited, wading in when needed and remaining alone...except for a very few friends, most of whom were adults.

My mom often joked that I was born an old man, but we both knew why I liked to walk in the rain...

Mick

Walking in the Rain

At a young age I learned: don't sob and wail
When I hurt, and I would feel heroic.
That to let on that I hurt was to fail,
Seek sympathy where I should be stoic.
I sought to prove to myself I was tough,
And met distress with a grin and a song,
For no torment would ever be enough,
To make me admit anything was wrong.
I wanted always to smile through the pain,
Even though it felt I might be dying;
So l often went walking in the rain,
Because no one could see I was crying.
I'd lost myself in a forest of fears,
And sailed on an ocean of unshed tears.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

River of Time

2012-01-16T21:30:00.000-05:00

Reading through some of my old messages, I stumbled over a memory of how I was moved by Jim Croce's song, Time in a Bottle. Jim and Ingrid Croce performed on the college concert circuit, where I sat one evening, coffee cup in hand, transfixed by his story songs. His 1972 song about trying to save time has resonated across the years and gained special meaning for me when I was diagnosed with leukemia. I love the line: "I'd save every day like a treasure..." His lyrical fantasy still haunts my dreams.

Anyone who has come face-to-face with his own mortality will tell you how precious becomes each second, of each minute, of each hour, of each day. For me, time is a river system, cataracts that propel me always forward in a current too swift to swim against. I have always been part of the river and cannot set foot upon its banks. The best I can hope for is to tread water or float along with companions in the stream until, at last, I drift into my own estuary, and alone...meet the sundering sea of eternity.

Mick

River of Time

On countless cataracts it carries me.
Full rudderless, I float on currents swift,
A helpless spirit compelled to the sea,
My passage, an ancient, enduring gift.
A lifetime I must tread its mighty flow;
I cannot climb ashore...it moves too fast.
What lies ahead I simply do not know,
And all behind quickly becomes my past.
There's little I can do, but daily strive
To rise, and to ride the wild churning foam;
To boldly endure until I arrive,
At my destination, my timeless home.
The river takes us all, without our thanks,
And God alone may stride upon its banks

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hole in the Bucket

2012-01-05T21:50:00.000-05:00

I sing silent songs and saturate the subtle silences haunting the untrod halls of my cerebral redoubt with music unplayed and lyrics unvoiced. My eyeballs vibrate to the flash and thunder of silent symphonies...music that echoes across the vast expanse of my imagination to the delight and wonder of my soul, but can never be heard by another except in the ebb and flow of my poetry. I lack the spark, the talent, the bridge to bring that music outside and share it as melody, harmony, tone, and chord...as music.

In my own mind, I sing the poems I write. I feel their innate harmonies and the rhythms that drive them forward. My inner voice weeps and laughs and cries for joy. It soars to incredible heights and plunges into the darkest abyss. But, it all remains inside, for my true physical voice seems disconnected from the wonders within. My poems must sing for themselves, because I cannot carry the tune from within to without...there's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Poems are music for the mind.

Mick

Hole in the Bucket

I sing within the shadows of my mind,
Where no one else can hear the airs I sing,
And thunder forth whatever I can find...
In total silence...let the rafters ring!
My voice: Basso Profundo in my head,
Could shatter the foundations of a house.
Unlike my true voice, which many have said,
Reminds them, oh so much, of Mickey Mouse.
My sense of rhythm follows no known clock,
My sharps slide high, my flats, beneath the sea.
The glory of my voice, I would unlock,
Unfortunately, I can't find a key.
I can't carry a tune by chance or choice...
There's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hidden Empires

2012-01-05T13:34:00.000-05:00

Folks ask from where I get all the stories and strange ideas in my poems and essays. Is there some Big Book of Aberrant Anecdotes, Flaky Fables, and Mystifying Myths I reference regularly? Do I have a secret source secreted away on the infamous Internet? Are there piles of copious notes and curious narratives hoarded about my home? Sorry, but search all you will, my sources will not appear...because they reside solely in my mind.

I travel about the empires of experience and imagination of my inner world. I ramble about in the ramshackle attic of my mind. Here I find my ideas, and here I store my records. The human mind and imagination are too vast, too multi-dimensional to be cataloged on paper or deposited in a data base. When I write, I welcome you to my world, telling its tales and relating its beautiful memoirs. These are my hidden empires...

Mick

Hidden Empires

You will not find them under my pillow,
Nor in my briefcase or under my bed.
You can follow me anywhere I go;
Any search will lead to ends that are dead.
The trappings of my life seem so normal,
One can stumble on the everyday.
My lifestyle is so simply informal,
Even boredom tries to leave in dismay.
So, where do I closet all the stories,
The adventures and tall tales that I write;
The depths of despair and all the glories,
The long journeys from darkness into light?
I retrieve all the memoirs I can find,
From empires hidden deep within my mind.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Shine a Light

2012-01-02T21:39:00.000-05:00

January is named for the Roman god Janus, a two-faced god who looks to both future and past. New Years Eve, I dreamt I sat up, shivering in the silent darkness of my bed, in the wee hours of January 1, 2012, and saw a vision of myself perched on the ancient marble head of Janus...unsure which way to look...fearful of the regrets of the past and the uncertainties of the future. I was terrified that by trying to look both ways, I would overbalance, slip, and plunge into the misty shadows at the foot of the timeworn stone deity.

I woke shaken from the dream and said a prayer for peace of mind to focus on living in the present -- for one cannot live in the unchangeable past, nor in the uncertain future. As I prayed, the moon peeked past the clouds and momentarily touched my window. I felt my petition had been answered.

Happy New Year!

Mick

Shine a Light

I was lurking in the shadows, alone
And frightened, at the rolling of the year.
My heart felt heavy, brittle, hard as stone,
My muscles locked with overwhelming fear.
In silent darkness, perched upon my bed,
The new year drenched my mind with cold dismay.
As voiceless trepidation filled my head,
Trembling and soundless...I began to pray.
I asked for peace, for mercy, and for light,
And through my window, slashed a silver ray
Of brilliantly-shining argent moonlight,
That flared just once and chased my fears away.
And so, without a whisper or a word,
I knew my passionate prayer had been heard.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Christmas Gift

2011-12-25T22:47:00.000-05:00

On day 308 after my blood and marrow stem cell transplant, still alive and loving it, I wandered outside to shovel a bit of snow and breathe the cold, crisp air of Christmas morning. It's such a simple thing, shoveling and scooping snow. Although most would consider it a bother and near drudgery to pile on the winter weather gear, dry boots, and warm gloves to lift and push a few inches of snow out of the driveway, from the walk, and off the porch; I revelled in feeling my muscles move, watching my breath fog the frosty air, and hearing the strong, warm beat of my heart as I worked.

I received my Christmas gift when my eyes opened this morning. Each day is a gift for anyone who has come face-to-face with his own mortality. To know how precious is life and to understand how fragile is our grasp on this mortal coil, troubles and all, makes the present my precious present, and today my most precious Christmas present. Sharing it with my family and my friends was pure delight and wonderful memories worthy of many pleasant dreams.

Merry Christmas,

Mick

Christmas Gift

I stood outside and watched it snow this morn,
And shivered, just a little, in the cold;
On Christmas day, the day that Christ was born,
And pondered when (or if) I would grow old.
Despite the trials of the year gone past,
And more than sixty-one years gone before,
The days have raced by me so very fast,
I need a calendar, just to keep score.
I looked up at the Christmas morning sky,
And said a prayerful "Thank You" just to be
Alive, and with freezing tear in my eye,
Gazed at the silent snowscape around me.
My heart, ablaze with joy, in its own way,
Unwrapped my precious gift, this Christmas day!

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Christmas Dreams

2011-12-18T00:36:00.000-05:00

In the year past:

I have suffered changes, both great and small.
Yet the change that eclipses them one and all,
The one that disturbs me, profound and deep,
Is my tendency to drift off to sleep...

A peaceful doze in my easy chair, bathed in the gentle aura of Christmas lights, drifting off to timeless tones of traditional Christmas music is a wonderful way to enjoy the peace of Christmas...at least until the sugarplums dance in my head and I wake up hungry for Christmas cookies and hot cocoa (with tiny marshmallows). Memories of Christmases past warm my heart and fill my dreams. May your Christmas dreams keep you warm and happy all year!

Mick

Christmas Dreams

As he sat in front of his Christmas tree,
The tired old man drifted off to sleep.
Its twinkling lights were the last he would see,
Before his soft slumber, profound and deep,
Ferried his soul to a wonderful place,
Where memories of Christmas past abide;
Where blessed somnolence and yuletide grace,
Led his spirit to wondrous joy betide.
As the bright Christmases of years long past,
Dwelt once again in his sleeping embrace,
Brilliant images danced, cascading fast,
As a rushing wind tags a downhill race.
He slept on in peace, with only a trace
Of a timeless smile on his ageless face.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Poet, of Course

2011-12-17T13:49:00.000-05:00

I've been writing poetry since 1962, when I wrote my first poem for my mother...at age 12. Since then, I have written more than 1,000 poems (some pretty good, some pretty awful), a great many papers, articles, and reports. I have made thousands of journal entries, since I started "journaling" about the same time I started writing poems. Yet, despite several efforts, a best effort at the great American novel has eluded me.

Recently, I was asked why I have not authored a book...a novel. I was asked why I write so much poetry, when poetry seems to be so little valued and widely ignored in this age of blockbuster books, blustering blogs, and ever-present e-books. It has not been for lack of trying. I think perhaps my recent journey into shadow and re-emergence into the light may provide the impetus I need to start such a project once again. But, will my Muse grow restive, and interfere?

Mick

Poet, of Course

My best plans are often interrupted,
By the sudden appearance of my Muse.
Many a good night's sleep is disrupted,
When my poem suppressor pops a fuse.
Though I reason with logic empiric,
There's a part of my mind that thinks in rhyme --
Whenever I hear a good song lyric,
I try to re-write it, every time.
I work very hard, and fight a good fight
Against my Muse, and try to defeat her;
Yet when descriptive prose I try to write,
I comes out iambic pentameter!
If I write a novel, go make your bets...
It will be written in rhyming couplets.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Carol of the Stars

2011-12-12T00:35:00.001-05:00

I went outside tonight, and it's 20 degrees, air clear as crystal and a velvet sky with millions of diamond bright stars and a moon so bright it dances on the snow. I went outside tonight, just to listen to the music of the stars, and to reach upward and touch the carol of the universe. Christmas is timeless in the northern climes, green and silver, gold and white, gray as shadow and brilliant bright. I went outside tonight, and I gazed to the East, secretly expecting to see a distant star, reaching across the years with the promise of joy and peace.

The piercing cold, the pearly snow, the precious touch of an icy breeze on a soft winter night made my heart sing and my soul soar to dance among the stars. Christmas is my favorite time of the year, especially when I feel the joy of the gift of life.

Mick

Carol of the Stars

Black velvet sky, with diamonds beyond price,
Soars soft above a field adrift with snow;
A masterwork of ebony and ice,
A-glimmer with a silver moonlit glow.
The tableau shifts before my wond'ring eyes,
As starlight sprinkles drifts with gems of light;
Clear crystal chimes cold-echo from the skies,
And pierce the subtle silence of the night.
Enchanting voices which caress the air,
And softly whisper Christmastime is nigh,
Swell suddenly to carol ev'rywhere:
Sweet voices of the stars fill all the sky.
The moonlight dims before the Eastern Star,
And love shines forth from long ago and far.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

A Face in the Crowd

2011-10-10T17:31:00.002-04:00

I have not been writing much lately. Considering how much joy it gives me to put my virtual quill to electronic paper, I had to search for a reason. In that search, I discovered to my chagrin, that I may well have been hiding from the blunt and solid reality of living with my infirmity, my inability to make the final leap from terminally ill to terribly uncertain. Sometimes, I feel like the ancient oak: stolid and solid on the outside, yet silently rotting within. Little wonder, I guess, that I would seek to hide in plain sight, and become just A Face in the Crowd.

Mick

A Face in the Crowd

I've been hiding again,
Lost in the silent sight
Of those who know me.
I dwell as little more than a wraith,
Haunting the anonymous fog,
Creeping in from the shore-less sea --
Boundless waves of humanity,
Surging about all that is me,
Afloat, adrift in Eternity.

The soft caress of the mist,
Warms my cheek as though kissed,
Enfolds my weary shoulders,
In word-less, whispering embrace.
Dreaming, I see the sun pass --
From blazing dawn to blush at dusk,
While faces, distant and familiar,
Drift past in the golden haze:
Reaching, searching, yet not touching,
Never touching...

My memory holds close the rough,
The rocky reassurance of Earth,
Beneath my seeking feet, now numb
From treading on shadows and pain.
Mourning, I regret my flight,
From the edge of sorrow and fear,
To hide, a shade in penumbra near
The dark, and reside, a vestige,
An echo in search of a refuge.
And though I shout, both strident and loud,
I remain a mere sylph, a face in the crowd.

Mick McKellar
October 2011

Adjusting Sails

2011-08-16T19:16:00.000-04:00

I was recently reminded of a quote from William Arthur Ward, who said: "The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails." I began wondering if my ongoing medical problems and the concomitant paranoia about germs, injury, and infections were driving me toward becoming that classical pessimist who simply curses the wind because he cannot change it.

I would like to think that, as seas become rough and my life-boat is tossed upon the foam, I will have the stamina and confidence to scale the mast and adjust the sails -- always keeping within sight of a lighthouse light and the safety of a home harbor.

Mick

Adjusting Sails

When wind shifts blow my little boat off stream,
And seas begin to toss me side-to-side,
I search horizons for a lighthouse gleam,
For there's nowhere on this ocean to hide.
The temper of the sea defines my path,
Swift changeable as clouds that sail the sky,
Unforgiving and fluid in its wrath,
And heeding neither need nor sailor's cry.
As long the westering sun seeks its bed,
Cleaving gray shadows with its brilliant rays,
I'll ride the tide, and bathed in blazing red,
Seek out the silent solace of home quays.
Then, when the last gleam of the sunset pales,
You'll find me on the spar, adjusting sails.

Mick McKellar
August 2011

Wasp on the Ceiling

2011-06-20T21:54:00.000-04:00

I guess it cannot be helped. Despite my best efforts, there are still dark hours and even dark days, when the weight of challenges simply overwhelms me, and despair finds a crack in the walls of my redoubt, flowing in and forcing hope to tread its black waters. Change always seems to bring at least one black bag among the luggage. Most of the time, I can simply put the black bag aside until I am ready to dispose of its contents. Occasionally, however, the contents spill across an hour or a day and darken everything for awhile.

I do not welcome these times, both for the pain they bring and the effort expended to illuminate the dark and drive the shadows from my life. Like discovering a wasp on the ceiling, I cannot simply ignore the little beastie because it may decide to hurt me, and the longer I leave it alone, the more likely it is to attack. I simply have to step aside and deal with it.

Mick

Wasp on the Ceiling

My thoughts pour black, as bitter as coffee,
To fill my derelict, bottomless cup.
Passions gone cold flow as slow as toffee,
When old, dissipated, and all used up.
My face, gone gray as late autumn morning,
Startles my mirror, and shatters my eyes;
Those shadowed orbs, which offer no warning
Or guidance to where inner darkness lies.
An empty vessel at an empty quay,
Silently, swiftly, after midnight moored,
When facing an equally empty day,
Rides high at anchor, it's cargo outpoured.
I find this terrible, hopeless feeling,
As welcome as a wasp on the ceiling...

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Etiolated

2011-06-13T22:49:00.000-04:00

It does chafe the soul, hiding from the sun in an area that is not known for a lot of sunny days. I was never a sun worshiper, lying for hours in direct rays to tan my hide. Born with the "Celtic curse" of fair skin and a penchant for burning and peeling instead of turning brown, I have always taken some precautions. Yet I spent many a happy afternoon hiking, swimming, or just walking about on our rare and wonderful, sunny days.

Now, because of my skin's delicate condition and the effects sunlight has on my medications, I must avoid exposure to direct sunlight, whether natural or artificial. Because I used to have house plants, I know that most living things need some light to survive and stay healthy. People housed away from the sun develop a palor and even vitamin deficiencies. Will I turn pale and colorless away from the old haymaker? We shall see...

Mick

Etiolated

I've been told I must stay out of the sun;
A medicated mushroom in the dark.
The restriction makes sense, but it's not fun
To hide inside -- a Jubjub-hunted Snark.
I'll watch TV or a video disk,
And bathe in LCD/CRT light,
Or avoid the illumination risk,
By venturing outside only at night.
I wonder, will I simply disappear?
Will I vanish, once I've become too pale?
I could hide here, in perpetual fear,
A prisoner inside a light-less jail,
Or wear sunscreen as thick as molasses,
A broad-brimmed hat, a mask, and sunglasses.

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Gray Majesty

2011-06-06T21:08:00.000-04:00

Sunset at Eagle River, MI

Nothing built by man will last forever. I have heard that phrase and with the possible exception of the Twinky, I agree. We are temporary residents in and on our world. In the long view, most of what we have built has been completed in a tiny fraction of the time our world has existed, and much of what we have built has become ruins, either by our own actions or the great relentless recycler: time. Yet, we expend extreme amounts of resources to build monuments to ourselves and our ideals.

The ruins of some of our strongest ancient redoubts, castles and towers built of huge blocks of stone, are now tourist attractions. Pyramids and temples slowly erode and will eventually become one with the soil on which they stand. Yet, compared to the span of our lives, they seem almost timeless and permanent. As living humans, we are ephemeral creations of the living God, our candles briefly burning to hold back the night. Little wonder we seek immortality in metal and stone. Once our soul has moved on, the ruins of our lives may endure a little longer, mute testimony to our ideas and ideals, pride and prejudices, values and vanity -- standing against the ravages of time with gray majesty.

Mick

Gray Majesty

Silent it stands at the edge of the sea,
Poised on a jut just above a sea cliff.
Once a great tower, providing a lee,
For sentries whose bones in the wind grew stiff.
Built from the limestone, the bones of that land,
Stoic, it stood there for two centuries.
Though weathered it endured and looking grand,
Survived until war brought it to its knees.
Explosives and bombs weakened its great wall,
And beaten by wartime technology,
Its wondrous battlements began to fall,
Collapsing inward almost silently.
Though time takes a toll so relentlessly,
The ruins stand firm with gray majesty.

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Epic Dream

2011-06-05T21:14:00.000-04:00

Did you ever dream an epic dream? You know, the stories where you and others are in mortal danger, and through long odds and even longer dark and deadly chases, you emerge victorious. I am a fan of fantasy and science fiction stories, so my epic dreams can range from space opera to mythic fantasy stories.

One such dream involves the defeat of dark and shadowy hounds by the application of secret knowledge and the power of light. The story is a complete fantasy, powered by the Ambien I took while being treated with high dose steroids. For some reason, Ambien dreams are in technicolor and surround sound. I hope you enjoy my epic fantasy, my epic dream...

Mick

Epic Dream

Soft forest bracken brushed me as I ran.
Twigs snapped, and leaves were crushed beneath my feet.
My heart was pounding, quick as my heart can,
As on I labored, neither fast nor fleet.
Dark and brooding shadows closely followed;
The swift and deadly darts of fear they cast,
Left their victims empty-eyed and hollowed.
So many fallen, now I was the last,
To face the hounds, and their evil battle,
With every fibre of my being;
And avenge the others, led like cattle,
To their deaths, unfeeling and unseeing.

Scraping, clawing, quickly up I scrabbled,
Now desperate to top the nearest tor.
Gathered there, the other's spirits babbled,
Clamoring for revenge and so much more.
As I breached the rim, I turned to measure,
The number of the hounds confronting me,
And determing if my precious treasure,
Could capture or destroy my enemy.
Silently, their darkness flowed toward me,
Dividing to surround my high redoubt;
Soon I'd be an island in a black sea,
Dark seething at the shore with no way out.

I put aside the fear, calmed my spirit,
And touched my inner core, where lies my strength.
Power surged so loud the hounds could hear it,
And paused their advance, watching me at length.
Down my spirit reached to touch the Earth's core,
And up my mind embraced the wan starlight.
I opened up my heart just a bit more,
Inviting other's spirits to the fight.
As a lens I focused all this power,
And flooding all below with brightest light,
Watched the shadows vanish, the hounds cower,
And flee the battleground without a fight.

Silently the other's spirits left me,
And leaving only gratitude and peace.
One might think I'd lonely and bereft be,
And lost, when I felt all that power cease.
There upon the tor I stood and shivered,
And listened for the normal forest sounds,
Please about the judgement I delivered,
Without destroying any of the hounds.
Knowledge is the treasure that I carry,
So deep within the inner core of me,
Using it for good and also chary,
To cherish it and use it sparingly.

Contented that I would not end up dead,
I shifted and turned over in my bed...

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Green Dream

2011-06-05T00:14:00.000-04:00

This poem is based on a recurring dream, wherein I become one with the forest and listen to their long slow song about life, death, and rebirth in the wonder of spring. I have dreamed of becoming a tree and reaching from the cool depths of forest soil to the majesty of the grand forest canopy. To live so long that seasons are like days and to remember when the world was young.

If the trees sing to each other of the memories of days past, they must feel sadness at the way they've been used and abused. The toxins in the air and water, the acid rains, the burning of less-filtered sunlight, and the loss of vast forests worldwide could destroy their spirit and silence even the whispers. Whispers I swear I still hear when I walk through a forest glade where ancient first growth trees still survive. Maybe it just my over-active imagination, but I want to believe that any life so long lived must be aware.

Mick

Green Dream

I dreamed I woke in a cathedral green,
And walked alone amidst the giant trees.
Whispers touched my ears from voices unseen;
The weight of their watching weakened my knees,
And I felt them considering my worth.

Sunlight, filtered to a yellow-green haze,
Flickered and danced on the soft forest floor.
Entranced, I stood for what may have been days,
But, was certainly an hour or more;
The most complete peace I've felt since my birth.

Suddenly, a great silence descended,
And the only sound was my beating heart.
The air was still and the whispers ended;
I felt my physical self come apart,
As I welcomed a joining with the earth.

My arms and my fingers stretched towards the sun;
My feet and toes reached down, into the soil;
My legs were now fused together as one,
And I felt all my hair stretch and uncoil,
As I reveled, I sensed a wave of mirth.

The laughter of trees, a sound to behold,
From voices so deep and cavernous fair,
Became a song both incredibly old,
And reverberated everywhere.
It felt as though it encircled the Earth.

It sang of memories of clean fresh air.
Of drinking deep waters both cold and pure.
Sunlight caressing its canopy fair,
Of winter and summer a cycle sure,
And adding new rings to increase its girth.

Then I felt the giants focus on me.
The shadow of their despair had grown strong;
Their voices grew sad and melancholy,
And then the song faltered, something was wrong --
For of all these things there was now a dearth.

Their ghostly images flooded my mind,
And sadness over vast forests now gone.
In my dream, I was again humankind,
But my heart was as heavy as a stone,
Despite my green communion and re-birth.

In the still quiet morning, shadows long,
I still walk though the forest damps and dews,
And I listen for the sad forest song;
Always wishing that I had better news,
To justify their judgement of my worth.

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Nap Storm

2011-06-03T23:05:00.000-04:00

There I was, poised to tap away an hour or two, letting the ideas flow from mind to fingers to keyboard, when I blinked twice and discovered those two hours were already gone. I'd fallen asleep with my fingers on the keys of my ancient Dell Inspiron 2200, while the cursor on the screen, still patiently blinking, had not moved a pixel in any direction. My glass of ice water was tepid, and the fingers holding it were stiff. What happened?

I decided that, while opening up to day dreams, I got caught in a nap storm. This kind of napping is relatively new to me, and to tell the truth, I find it a bit frightening. The incredible speed with which I was gone and back again, although only my perception, was unnerving. That's why I call it a nap storm.

Mick

Nap Storm

I woke to find two hours had passed me by,
And I did not remember going to sleep.
I blinked to chase the drowsies from my eye,
And vowed to never spend time counting sheep.
My fingers were still resting on the keys
Of my old laptop, waiting patiently
Upon the lap desk, resting on my knees,
In a recliner, with the rest of me.
Though I like to fish in day dream river,
Angling for that slippery, shiny lore.
I waded in to capture a sliver,
But don't remember drifting from the shore...
And why was I afloat in slumber lake?
A sudden nap storm caught me in its wake.

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Banquet Without Price

2011-06-02T22:10:00.000-04:00

I know people who try to live in the past. Whether their future appears too bleak or they are afraid and worried about what is to come, they merely relive "the old days" and forget to live today. Others live only in the future. Their lives are a long string of destinations and disappointments. They forget to live the journey from now to the next now, building sun castles in the sky. When the clouds come, and bring rain instead of blue skies, their castles fall and they despair that life is unfair.

I know these people, because at various times in my own life, I was "these people." The gift of living one day at a time came with my diagnosis of leukemia. I am alive and intend to remain so as long as God grants me the gift of a new day, each day. The sure knowledge that each day could be my last is a strong motivation to pack as much living into each day as possible. Worrying about tomorrow or fretting about the past change nothing. Each new day is a banquet without price, and I plan to dig in and enjoy.

Mick

Banquet Without Price

I tried to live in the future, did I;

A wonderful and unlimited place,

Where sick people do not suddenly die,

And ev'ry competitor wins each race.

There is always enough to go around,

And no one ever gets angry or sad.

Laughter and happiness, the only sound

One can hear, for nothing ever goes bad.

And yet, like trying to live in the past,

A dead time, where nothing can ever change;

The fluid dreams of the future don't last,

And life there's impossible to arrange.

Feast on the past, add the future as spice,

For today is the banquet without price.

Mick McKellar

June 2011

Self-cleaning

2011-05-31T18:20:00.001-04:00

Imagine you had the power to create worlds. You could design planets that were gardens, frozen spheres, furnaces, or even desolate rocks. The gardens would need tending, so you could hire or even create caretakers for your garden world. But should they fail to care for it, or worse exploit and poison the garden, would you not build in some sort of self-cleaning mechanism, a sort of re-start button?

I wondered, what if the self-cleaning mechanism for our world has been activated? Could all the storms and climate changes be our own world attempting to "reset" or "reboot?" Not being the Creator of our world, I could not comprehend His mind, but in my own limited fashion I present one possibility...

Mick

Self-cleaning

I stood upon a bridge that spanned the sky,

And surveyed all the world that turned below.

I cast my gaze from pole to pole, and I

Despaired that what I'd planted did not grow.

My garden wasn't simply choked with weeds,

Weeds had joined the trees and seas in dying.

My caretakers had filled only their needs,

The toxic mess they left had me crying.

The gift I gave them, a priceless treasure,

Needed only careful, loving tending.

Greedily they'd wasted the full measure,

Of resources now reaching their ending.

Reluctantly, I flipped a switch, meaning

I'd started the cycle of self-cleaning...

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Memorial Day 2011

2011-05-30T17:39:00.002-04:00

Memorial Day was never just a day off work for my family, because so many members of my family were in the service...all but me, actually. Medical and health issues kept me from service, but never diminished the pride I feel for those who served.

This year, we're in Rochester, MN, at Mayo Clinic, and I cannot be with my family. We attended the Memorial Day ceremonies at Soldiers Field Veterans Memorial, and I found it moving and reassuring to see a community give honor and recognition to its veterans, both the living and the lost. The memorial is a beautiful structure of granite walls, etched with battle scenes from all major U.S. wars. The memorial was packed, so I stood outside, peering over a wall, with several hundred other visitors and veterans. Their solemnity and pride made this a special Memorial Day.

Mick

Memorial Day 2011

I watched them march, peering over the wall,

The proud veterans and their families.

They were gathered together, one and all,

For music, and singing, and homilies,

Recounting the valor and sacrifice,

And the giving of the last full measure,

By their sons and daughters, in the service

Of their country's freedom, timeless treasure

Requiring constant vigilance as cost.

Their faces, unsmiling, were filled with pride,

Through speeches focused on those that were lost,

In wars where their young neighbors fought and died.

I stood and I watched, an unremarked guest,

As they remembered their brightest and best.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Silent Smile

2011-05-29T18:30:00.002-04:00

Did you ever watch someone read a letter and try guess the contents from the expression on his or her face? For some messages, the general nature of the contents is readily apparent -- especially strong emotions. Good news brings a grin, a chuckle, or a laugh. Bad news can show as anger or sadness. The one I like best, I call the silent smile.

Reading a letter from a friend that touches your heart and makes you feel warm and loved evokes a joy in your soul and an uplift to your spirit that softens the aspect of your face, and nearly always brings about a tender look in the eyes and uplift at the corners of the mouth...the silent smile.

Mick

Silent Smile

I watched her read a letter from a friend,

Her eyes moved back and forth at quickened pace.

I wondered if before she reached the end,

The contents could be read upon her face.

Sometimes her eyes would backtrack and re-read,

A word or passage slowly, carefully,

Or jump ahead with incredible speed,

To stop and gaze at something thoroughly.

Her face relaxed a little as she read,

And gentle tenderness filled her brown eyes,

To silently back what her soft smile said.

And though each fleeting aspect often hies,

A loving look will linger for awhile;

Knowing you're loved begets a silent smile.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

An Ordinary Day

2011-05-28T19:00:00.002-04:00

I suppose everyone dreams of a utopia or a special place, where the wrongs of our own world either do not exist or can be resolved by magic or just by caring friends and family. Mine always seems to include images from my favorite books, especially the fantasy works of Tolkien, Lewis, and Brooks; all mixed up with peace and plenty for all.

The images of an "ordinary" day in that wonderful place, I keep in a corner of my mind, as a refuge or redoubt -- a retreat from some of life's harsh realities. It is my special place, where I go when a procedure is painful, or I need a few moments to collect the ragged end of my emotions, frayed by an unexpected challenge or grand disappointment. Fear and anxiety cannot exist there, and once free of that pair, I can think freely and put things in perspective -- and that is on an ordinary day...

Mick

An Ordinary Day

I dreamed that I was in a wondrous land,

Where wizards cured diseases with a spell,

Or healers might, with a touch of their hand,

And a secret draught, make anyone well.

The rulers of the land were fair and wise;

The people were content and lived in peace.

The countryside was easy on the eyes,

And errant knights were the only police.

I moved from place to place with just a thought:

From room to room, or far as I could see.

Folks said it was a myth that wars were fought,

And none had ever heard of cruelty.

We celebrated life in ev'ry way,

And that was just an ordinary day...

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Dream Canvas

2011-05-26T21:02:00.003-04:00

I was blessed with the heart of an artist and the hands of a farmer with arthritis and a rusty bucket in which I cannot carry a tune. Entire symphonies, layered and deep intrude upon my musings and my sleep, but I have not the talent or training to write them down, nor the voice to bring them to life.

However, the world of words, not sundered from my life by any physical limitations, becomes the brush in my unsteady hand, the myriad colors upon my palette, the orchestra in my mind, and the chorus of my dream choir. I treasure the moments I am allowed to walk in that dream world, and find the mysteries waiting there for eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to embrace.

Mick

Dream Canvas

If I could write the music in my head,

And paint my words until they light the way,

Then dance unfettered, touching sky instead

Of letting all that beauty wash away.

If I could gather all the love I see,

I'd pour its essence deep upon the page,

So that the words alive inside of me,

Would live forever on the paper stage.

If I could sing an aria, profound

Enough to open all the wounded hearts

And souls, and share its loving healing sound,

I'd mend each broken spirit's fractured parts.

And though, my palette has but words, it seems

I'll paint upon that canvas in my dreams.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Train

2011-05-25T22:57:00.002-04:00

How often I have heard folks tell me that, life is a journey and I should enjoy the ride. I suppose, like most Type A's early on, I was just like the people who built the expressways and superhighways across America. My focus was on the destination, not on the journey to the destination. Then, I got my first motorcycle and I learned quickly two very important lessons. First I learned that I did not like riding a small motorcycle on the expressway. Second, that it is important to enjoy the ride.

I no longer ride a motorcycle, but I have learned to enjoy the ride. All of life is a journey and I want my life to be that journey, punctuated with the spice and bitters of destinations along the way. If my life were just about destinations, more than half of it would be missing. Life is a journey. Enjoy the ride.

Mick

Train

I slept, and dreamt that I was on a train.

The coach in which I rode had no window.

I could not tell the weather, sun or rain,

Had no idea where the train would go.

The coach was larger, ever than I thought,

And it held more people than I could see.

All held tickets just like the one I bought,

Some were short, some were long, and none like me.

Folks got on and got off, I know not where,

And so, to pass the time, I made some friends,

Yet, when I turned around, they were not there.

So, I often asked when the journey ends.

They said I'd know, I'd feel it, deep inside,

In the meantime, I should enjoy the ride.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Blossom

2011-05-24T21:47:00.003-04:00

Blossoms in the wind, dancing and dodging, wobbling about with every little gust, seem so delicate and frail they should simply break apart and scatter their petals upon the gale. Yet, they bend with the pressure, bending and shaking, nearly breaking, and rebound to display their beauty. Rooted firmly in good soil and lovingly cared for, it offers the joy of its presence and the reassurance of the tenacity of life.

Planting and cultivating a friendship, especially one that will be tried and tested again and again by life's stormy gales, requires a loving hand, careful watering and tending, and occasionally a little manure -- applied judiciously and spread very thinly. For those lucky spirits upon this ancient planet, who in the course of their lives have known true friends, I grant you may be the richest souls alive.

Mick

Blossom

A flower, pale, bright, dancing in the wind,

Chancing its petals upon whirling air,

An offer of beauty it can't rescind,

From root, it endures, bravely standing there.

Its life delicately touches my eye.

Its sweet, simple promise touches my soul.

Its honest spirit makes me want to try,

To capture its essence, to keep it whole.

A treasure because it’s so very rare.

Its seed so tiny it defies eyesight,

And cultivating it requires such care,

That few of us manage to do it right.

Yet, with hard work and lots of love to spend,

We can blossom, and become a true friend.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Fun Park

2011-05-23T21:54:00.003-04:00

When the evening shadows grow long, and the day has worked its frustrations and challenges out on my brain, I relax and let my mind drift a little on the evening breeze, a single seed from from a old maple tree -- spinning away -- a helicopter without purpose, drifting on the winds of twilight.

Ideas, dreams, visions, and images all spin away as quickly as they surface. Imperfect, partially formed, hazy, and indistinct, they dash away to play among the facts and realities of the world, until they come home to dance and relax, mix and mingle, in the 24/7 fun park of my subconscious mind. Sometimes, they come out and play, and a poem is born...

Mick

Fun Park

The westering sun left me in its wake,

Adrift in the cool blue ocean of sky,

An evening breeze then gave me a shake,

And let slip my thoughts to randomly fly;

Darting and dashing a firefly's track,

Among those creatures that live in the air,

So quickly, as though they're not coming back,

But they always come home, sometime, same where.

When the sky grows indigo, velvet dark,

And the air is pierced with diamond starlight,

My thoughts gather swiftly at the fun park,

To dance, and to sing, and cavort all night.

The park where my thoughts come home to unwind,

Is open all night: my subconscious mind.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Dozer

2011-05-22T23:36:00.002-04:00

Falling asleep in an easy chair sounds like an every day occurrence, but this has not always been so for me. I rarely napped, and while taking steroid medications in the last month and a half, I required chemical help just to get my eyes closed at night. Today, for some reason, I need help propping up my eyelids.

"Catching up on lost sleep," seems a favorite reason for snoozers worldwide to explain extra hours spent in bed or a long afternoon nap on a comfortable sofa. I don't know if I can catch up on over sixty years of sleeping only four to five hours a night, but I do know that I'd rather not start just now.

Mick

Dozer

I thought that sleep lost, was lost forever,

A leaf on the river gone to the sea.

That doesn't stop my body, however,

From trying to find the slumber for me.

Despite my best efforts to stay awake,

Though snugly ensconced in my easy chair,

I then come back to myself with a shake,

And realize I have been snoozing there.

At first this left me annoyed and upset,

Nodding right off, at the drop of a hat.

It seems, I need all the sleep I can get;

I guess I'll just have to get used to that.

The body has simple wisdom to share:

When tired, find rest, any time, anywhere.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Cloudburst

2011-05-21T21:11:00.003-04:00

I truly enjoy listening to rain tapping on the roof, especially when I don't have to go out into the wet weather. Walking along in the rain, when there is no wind, and you have an umbrella, can be an enjoyable experience -- but how often does that happen? At home, in the Keweenaw, I most often see rain moving sideways, being driven by a storm wind, and fighting an umbrella under those circumstances adds frustration to the whole soggy experience.

Today started with a slow, but steady rain, and I decided to try driving my car for the first time since January. All was fine until the return trip to the Gift of Life Transplant House, when the sky opened up and let loose a torrent which made vision near impossible in downtown Rochester traffic. However, I passed the test. Five minutes after I parked the car, the rain stopped and the sun came out. I like rain, I really do...but it can be overdone.

Mick

Cloudburst

I love to quietly listen to rain,

Tapping softly on our roof when falling.

The natural rhythms sky tears sustain,

To the music in my heart is calling.

And when in sync, the flow is powerful,

To make a pewter-gray day a jewel;

Instead of the dreary, drab, and hour-full,

Tests of patience so many find cruel.

To walk in a light rain is a pleasure,

If there's no wind, and you've an umbrella.

A bubble of dryness is a treasure,

To a slightly damp, but happy fella;

Not because the other walkers are damp,

From each dripping head to each soggy shoe,

As through falling sky-dew they're forced to tramp.

But then again, I smile -- maybe that's true...

Still there are times I find rain abhorrent,

Especially when I am caught outside,

And unzipped clouds pour forth in a torrent:

A deluge leaving me no place to hide!

I trudge along, taking a cold shower

In my clothes, but that may not be the worst;

Try driving a car, through traffic's power,

When near blinded by a sudden cloudburst.

In other words, I really love the rain;

But when overdone, it can be a pain.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Senescence

2011-05-20T18:20:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking about growing older, a subject not in vogue for most of the last year, considering the challenges and uncertainty of those twelve months. However, it appears that, with the aid of modern medical chemistry and the application of multiple layers of paranoia about germs, I must consider getting older a possible outcome of the transplant process.

I've noticed changes that track very closely with those experienced by the older members of my family and some of my friends. Some nights, like a broken toy doll, if you sit me up my eyes close. If you lay me down, my eyes open. Ambient temperature has finally become a factor in my life, and I cannot determine why my eyebrows are reaching out from my face, as though to grab something. Always a dependable friend in the past, stairways have become my nemesis, for the steps appear to be propagating.

Maybe it's just me and my radical, new, senescent perspective on the world around me.

Mick

Senescence

I walk outside on a warm, sunny day,

And a sudden breeze make my skin feel cold.

On the sidewalk, I'm always in the way,

And why are all my young friends looking old?

I go to bed and I lie awake, wired;

Yet, ten minutes ago, dozed in a chair.

I sleep for long hours and wake up still tired.

Is my rest leaking out of me somewhere?

The hair on my head very slowly grows,

And stops in certain wide open spaces;

Yet it grows thick and quickly in my nose,

And other very unlikely places.

And though I've seen no construction, I swear,

They've made stairways longer everywhere.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Personal Rapture

2011-05-19T22:41:00.002-04:00

When Roger Whittaker sings The First Hello, The Last Goodbye, I am always struck by the line: "They say the moment that you're born, is when you start to die." We forget that life is a temporary job and could lose that job without a lot of notice. Young people seem to have little sense of danger or personal mortality. Older people sometimes seem to simply give up and let their lease expire.

For those threatened by a disease or disaster which could or will end that life, the initial reaction (at least in my case) is fear of losing everything and of dying alone. However, many discover that by living each day as a gift, and as though it may be your last, you can live in the present, the precious present, and not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow is in God's hands and is His present to bestow.

Mick

Personal Rapture

It's so easy to lose track of the fact,

That we all have an expiration date.

Little wonder so many of us act,

As if life and health remain on our plate,

Until we decide that the meal is done.

Invulnerable, we think, in our youth,

Many seek out thrills for life is boring;

And in our old age, though we sense the truth.

We spend a great deal of our time snoring,

Or worse, we end up spending it alone.

For those whose illnesses threaten their lives,

Fragile veils of self-deception shatter.

The loss of children, of husbands, of wives,

Of leaving behind the things that matter,

Fills their hearts with fear for when they are gone.

The precious present, for those who find it.

Is treasure beyond any Earthly store.

Some day they will die, but they don't mind it,

Living each day as if gifted one more,

Loving the gift as though it's the last one.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Crystal Bridges

2011-05-18T20:31:00.003-04:00

I have long believed that, when we think about someone we care for, a connection is forged that is untouched and unstained by distance and time. Concern, compassion, and love are powerful emotions that, at least momentarily, change our state of being from internalized thought to a broadcast channel of immense power. The closer we are to each other, the more we can "feel the love," and sense the underlying compassion and concern. A hug can be a life changing event.

Sometimes, when I pray, I can feel a connection with God -- the slightest, ephemeral whisper of a touch, yet overwhelmingly real and profound. Perhaps it is but the yearning of my heart to reach out and touch the face of God, or maybe He simply took my call. And someday, when I am done here, and go home, I am hoping for a universe changing hug.

Mick

Crystal Bridges

In a dream, I saw a bright glowing world,

A crystalline network, arches aglow,

Uncountable brilliant branches unfurled,

Flashing in myriad colors below.

For each glowing soul, the power of light,

Just waited to be given direction.

With each kind thought a crystal bridge took flight,

Forging a momentary connection,

A glistening conduit, bright gleaming,

Unseen, with whomever they thought about;

And a power surge, silently beaming,

Delivered the good they were sending out.

The image that warmed my own heart so much?

Each soul grew brighter with each gleaming touch.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Honoring the Gift

2011-05-17T23:47:00.002-04:00

I am a lucky man to have friends and family who care about me at a time when I could spend all my hours feeling sorry for myself. Yet, I do not feel sorry for myself. During and while enduring the challenges of my illness, I learned a valuable life lesson. I have learned to live in the present.

For each new day is for me a gift from God. I strive to make the most of each one and to live each day to the fullest and to honor the gift of each new day.

Mick

Honoring the Gift

The joy of a sunrise near breaks my heart,

As the early light so wan yet pleasant,

Gives me the strength and the power, to start

Planning to make the most of my present.

For that precious present is all I need,

To fire my spirit and blood to rise,

So my tree of life, now a tiny seed,

In a single day can reach to the skies.

And if in that single day I can find,

Another soul in distress or in pain.

And in giving love and compassion, kind,

Offer solace sincere from stress and strain,

Without worry or doubt about short shrift,

I have given honor to God's great gift.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Faith, Love, Music

2011-05-16T21:47:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I wake in the wee hours of the morning, my mind churning away on a problem or trying to make sense of the daily nonsense of life. Last night, I was dream-pondering about the relationship between music, faith, and love. Do they exist apart, or are they so entwined with the human heart that to remove one weakens the others? Yes, one could write music with no faith or love in the title or song lyrics, but from where springs the creative spark?

Academically, one can separate them, as one separates egg whites from yolks. In my heart and my life experience, faith vibrates in my soul, love soars with the beauty and power of a symphony, and under, around, and within it all is the music of my life. Even this biological shell I inhabit vibrates with electrical discharges and maintains a magnet field of sorts, a wondrous electrochemical entity. The music of the universe, God's music lives in me.

Mick

Faith, Love, Music

Awake in the dark still hours of the night,
I listened to the music in my heart,
And wondered could it possibly be right:
Can faith, love, and music exist apart?
The essence of all that I am says, "No!"
For music is more than notes on a page.
The triumph of song lets my spirit go,
Beyond the borders of illness or age.
For when I love, my spirit simply sings,
Severed from fetters and free to take flight.
Faith touches my soul with warm golden strings,
That resonate with pure love day and night.
Each treasured prayer that I pray is a song;
It lives in my heart, it has all along.

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Eye to Eye

2011-05-15T22:54:00.003-04:00

I must check carefully in the mirror each morning, to look for signs of changes to report to my doctors. Each morning, I search and each morning I find one unreportable change. I swear there is a different me looking back from the bathroom mirror. Oh, the face changes a bit, brought on by treatment with certain medications, and there is a bit of new beard to remove. But, there is something deeper.

It is in my eyes. Each day my eyes are frighteningly different to me. Having survived another day, and finding that God has granted me yet another day to live, brings a wistfulness and joy simultaneously that somehow deepens the depths of those familiar brown orbs and maybe the light flickering in those depths burns a bit brighter. Maybe I just expect to find fear, anxiety, and deep sadness there, and I don't find them...just the knowledge that I have another day to live.

Mick

Eye to Eye

The image in my mirror keeps changing,

Each morning, I rise to face a new face.

It's not that the parts are rearranging,

Or this morning, my nose found a new place,

Like somewhere behind my left ear to hide...

And yet, they are shocking to realize,

When I focus on the place they reside.

Look past the bright bathroom lights and the glare,

When I stare into the depths of my eyes,

And shiver, for that's not me standing there;

Though he looks like me, the right shape, right size,

But the eyes focus much farther away,

Grown wistful, deeper, and darker each day.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Big Boned

2011-05-15T15:50:00.002-04:00

I've heard the phrase "big boned" since I was a lad, to describe most of the members of the paternal side of my family. Most of us (including me) started out skinny and tough as any kid on the block, but later added more than a few unwanted pounds. The whole big boned thing became the inside joke for an out-sized tragedy. We tend to be big people.

Still amazing to me is that I know of no paternal relative who has broken a bone. None. And that's not for lack of trying. I've fallen from icy roofs and off slippery ladders, and received only some nasty bruising. The question remains: Is it the bones or all that soft tissue padding that prevents breakage?

Mick

Big Boned

Wee Geordie, an ancestor must have been,

Or was somehow related to our clan,

For ev'ry male relative I have seen,

Has grown to be a large or burly man.

Skinny growing up, durable as hell --

I've never heard report of broken bone,

It's not we have not slipped or tripped, or fell

Or been dropped off a ladder like a stone.

There have been abrasions and cuts galore,

And nasty bruises when we hit the ground.

Perhaps those big bones let us carry more,

Of that wonderful soft-tissue padding around.

Or maybe that, pound-for-pound, ounce-for-ounce,

Big-boned people have a little more bounce.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

At the Edge

2011-05-14T21:58:00.003-04:00

I saw in the eyes of a fellow BMT patient, the shadow of a place I call the abyss. He is beginning the transplant process, and fearful, was seeking reassurance. We talked for a few minutes, and I told him of my own fears, and how I found living a day at a time, understanding that each new day is a gift from God, overcomes the fear.

It is a dangerous risk we take when we receive a blood and marrow transplant, but the alternative is death. I very nearly died on May 26, 2010 -- the day I was diagnosed with leukemia -- a fast approaching anniversary. For a time, I wandered in the abyss, afraid and feeling very alone. Family and friends gathered quickly around and I discovered I was not alone. Now I can stand at the edge of that abyss and know it is only fear down there, and I can walk away and get on with living each day.

Mick

At the Edge

The abyss is always nearby you know,
Some days I stand and look over the edge.
I peer at the swirling maelstrom below,
And I struggle with unwanted knowledge,
Of what terror that depth-less darkness hides.
For I have beheld with benighted eyes,
The shadowy horror which there resides,
And with hopeless voice my future scries.

It was there I first heard the mouth of fear,
The first soundless sound, just a breath of air,
The first nameless dread whispered in my ear,
First doubts and forebodings encountered there.
Then voice becomes voices, a gallery
Gathers to measure my every flaw,
Free-forming an image to frighten me,
From failures, regrets, and injuries raw.

My nightmare self-portrait subsumes the voices --
Now seated, the conversation must start
At a table filled with endless bad choices,
All interconnected, each breaks my heart.
My spirit, sickened, refuses to choose.
I search through my image's lifeless eyes,
To find only myriad ways to lose.
Only then to finally realize...

I'm facing a mirror within my mind.
The whispering voices are memories,
Of failures, regrets, and acts unkind,
That unlock my fear with self-hidden keys.
With faith and a mere speck of fortitude,
I turn from the table and walk away;
From the fear-soaked darkness and solitude,
To walk in the light, where fear has no sway.

Now I stand here staring at that dark hole.
I smile at the sun shining on my face.
I shiver, once at a chill in my soul,
Remembering still that gloomy, dark place.
I shake off the cold and gathering rime,
Its lure and pull have been made to cease.
For choosing to live one day at a time,
God's daily gift lets me live on in peace.

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Subtle Symphonies

2011-05-11T20:47:00.000-04:00

I've been known to shut my eyes when listening to beautiful music, the music that quickens the pulse but relaxes the spirit, the music that often brings tears to those closed eyes. From the rhythms of dancing Gypsies along a Romanian river to a waltz of flowers to the soothing sway of a nocturne, music can be subtle as a whisper or bring thunder from the heavens on Bald Mountain.

I've been known to shut my ears when the wondrous beauty of day and night dance with each other. I've watched the golden fire of the sun quenched in Lake Superior, only to see the silver ghost of the moon rise in response, plunging all into blue and indigo, flashing on the waves. Our own attempts at pushing back the night, stars shining up counterpoint the stars twinkling down, and the moving lights of vehicles become a river of stars. Morning sun plunging through the misty forest sings a mighty tune, and the subtle music of the heavens touches my soul. There is music all around to see and to hear, to taste and to smell, and to hold in the palm of your hand.

Mick

Subtle Symphonies

The music of the heavens calls to me,

Although, I'm certain, not to me alone.

Could day and night play such a symphony,

And leave unchanged all human minds but one?

Kaleidoscopic patterns in the night,

Send subtle, lifting, drifting, shifting hues,

In dancing shadowed, brilliant, flashing bright

Layers, all laced with deepest velvet blues.

Silver patinas grace the soft twilight,

As woodwinds, whispering of melodies

To come, infused with brilliant brass so bright.

A golden fanfare strumming through the trees,

Whose softly mellow chords that warm my eyes,

Build satin rhythms, blue and red to see,

The fiery tarantella of sunrise.

Else silver turns to pewter and the strain,

Becomes the rumbling, bumbling beat of drums,

The soaring strings in weeping of the rain,

Flash quicksilver in lightning's brilliant thrums.

The waltz begins, as fanfares clear the skies,

And rainbow chords play complex harmonies.

The sun and clouds weave music for the eyes,

And soothe my soul with subtle symphonies.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

My Twilight

2011-05-09T21:25:00.003-04:00

Over the past year, since my diagnosis with leukemia, I have begun to doubt that old phrase about "better living, through chemistry." (One of the major chemical companies used it as a slogan on radio and television many years ago.) In the last year, I've had drugs as innocuous as Tylenol and some that would burn a hole through a tile floor pumped into my bloodstream or popped down my pie-hole. A substantial number warn me that they may cause drowsiness, dizziness, stomach upset, sensitivity to sunlight, and a host of other wonderful side-effects.

At times, the compounded effects of these drugs, when hitched to my wagon alongside a healthy dose of fatigue, take me to a twilight state -- not quite awake and not quite asleep. I can hear you, distantly. I can respond to you, but slowly. This is not the comfortable warm fuzziness of day dreaming or the languorous swim back from a nap. This is swimming in Jello with my head below the surface. It is dim world, where I feel connected and detached at the same time. It is not intoxication, it's twilight.

Mick

My Twilight

You sound so yonder when you talk to me,

Your voice, as though descending from a cloud,

Touches my ear as would the distant sea:

Calling, singing, but never very loud.

Heard imperatives, bear no urgency,

Or penetrate my soft, fuzzy cocoon --

In my redoubt from all emergency,

Where nothing needs to happen "very soon."

So, I decide it's best a note to write,

But now my fingers feel so faraway,

And in this growing gloom, I'd need more light

To find a piece of paper anyway.

I will try to remember what you said,

At least, what has not leaked out of my head...

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Losing Hours

2011-05-07T20:46:00.003-04:00

When I was introduced to the finite nature of my residence on this Earth upon hearing the words "you have leukemia," my future collapsed from a panoramic scope to a tiny lens in an instant. On the ambulance ride to the medical center, I faced backwards. There on that gurney, I watched miles slipping by at high speed as though sliding into my past without a view ahead...a rapidly receding past and no future. As I grew up, leukemia was a death sentence, and though I knew it was no longer a certainty, I now had an expiration date.

That was May 26, 2010, an anniversary swiftly approaching, stirring within me both gratitude for God's gift of each new day and trepidation about losing or wasting a second of those precious hours. Despite my best efforts to just accept and fill that time with the best I have to give, I still harbor fear of missing the treasures of hours that somehow fly away. It is a wonder I can sleep at all, and when I wake in the wee hours, sometimes I feel those hours flying away, lost forever...

Mick

Losing Hours

The hours sometimes fail to touch my soul,

To sway aloft on silent silver wings,

Or drift in darkness on wings black as coal,

And abandoned, my earthbound spirit sings.

Slow measure and dark melody, forlorn

Hymns that echo emptiness in their cry,

From my most human breaking heart are torn;

The plainsong of my soul streams to the sky.

In answer, silent wings may swift comply,

To carry me through golden instants bright,

Or lifted on unseen currents to fly,

And leave my spirit stranded in the night.

Although more hours each gifted day contains,

My fear of losing precious time remains.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Erratic Attic

2011-05-06T19:31:00.002-04:00

In recent journal entries and e-letters, I have referenced my Erratic Attic. It is a weird and wonderful place, full of images, memoirs, and memories, and it can be difficult to describe. Therefore, I thought it would fun to describe a "first journey of discovery" to that exciting, yet dimly illuminated storage space.

I guess I never bought into the "Nurnberg Funnel" concept of the mind, even as a child I knew that it continued its business while I slept or worked on other things. When I began writing, I learned the value of "sleeping on" an idea, or a particularly tough prose nut to crack. The poem below is simply one little story about how I might have discovered a little darkness and a bit of magic in my Erratic Attic.

Mick

Erratic Attic

I went digging upstairs, in my attic,
Just thinking I might find some treasures rare.
After all, an attic must be static,
And what's put there ought to remain right there.
Yet, somehow my things have propagated;
And you cannot imagine my chagrin,
I found piles of stuff I thought I hated,
Right next to my good stuff, or all mixed in.
And somehow, my attic had grown larger,
I could no longer see its boundaries.
My flashlight was downstairs on the charger,
Yet in the murky gloom I saw with ease:
Boxes, trunks, and bags were cast and scattered,
Folders, files, and photos stacked in between,
And years of dust lay on things that mattered,
I don't know why I thought they would be clean...
Odd thing is, I had no trouble finding,
The things I knew I had recently stored.
As between those stacks my step was winding,
Were piles of dusty items tied with cord.
Was my attic now self-organizing?
And who was moving my old stuff around?
After all, who was I criticizing?
I must have put it all here, I'll be bound.

The first of many mirrors caught my eye,
It shimmered and it shone like liquid glass --
Couldn't touch the surface on my first try,
Somehow I missed on each successive pass.
I moved on to specula more stable,
To older mirrors, some of them with rime --
All reflected me, yet I was able,
To see the me was from another time.
Just beyond, some movement caught my vision,
Just in between the darkness and the light.
There, velvet on velvet, with precision,
Dark shadows danced at the edge of my sight.

I turned to run and stumbled in the gloom.
I fell and somehow landed on my bed.
I woke up from my nap in my bedroom,
And knew I had been visiting my head.
Perhaps the best description I can find:
My dark, erratic attic is my mind.

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Shadow Puddles

2011-05-05T21:19:00.002-04:00

I was just sitting on a stone pillar, atop Brockway Mountain (near Copper Harbor, MI) on a warm September day, with my camera set and ready to capture fall colors from the forest panorama -- much of it framed by the deep blue of Lake Superior. An artist's sky swung overhead -- brilliant blue with plenty of fluffy, puffy, white clouds moving rather rapidly before the wind. The sun was high, causing the clouds to cast shadows on the forest and on the surface of the big lake, shadows that chased each other through the valley and hills below.

I remember the incredible speed of the shadows, which seemed to change pace as they crossed the rugged terrain. Despite the chase, no two shadows connected. They just followed each other out of sight over the next ridge. Sometimes, it feels to me that I am chasing along behind one shadow and leading another, racing over rough terrain or blue water, and never quite connecting with any fellow shadows... leaving no trace of my passage...

Mick

Shadow Puddles

In open field, I sat upon a stone,
As scudding clouds drew shadow puddles, fast
Approaching where I chewed my thoughts alone,
I wondered if I'd feel them when they passed.
Touched cooler, yes, than full sun on my skin,
The shadow puddles played upon the field,
And rushed upon the wind, they raced their kin,
Though none could gain advantage, none would yield.
This playful trifle I might have ignored,
Yet, odd, there on my stone that I should find,
The passing puddles touched a deeper chord,
Played deep within the music in my mind --
A song whose message I could not rescind:
We're shadow puddles driven on the wind.

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Three Characters in Search of Me

2011-05-04T18:42:00.001-04:00

In recent months, I've spent a lot of time writing about change and about who I am becoming, both as a result of the blood and marrow transplant and meeting the emotional and spiritual challenges of grappling with Graft vs Host Disease, sudden changes in my condition, and learning to live one day at a time. Throughout those journals of my journey, I ponder and reflect upon that search.

I was put in mind of the three characters or faces of us all: The one we show others, our true character or face, and the one we believe is our true face. I wondered, if I am searching for the real me, which of these characters can help me in my search? It started out as a bit of fun, but brought me to a serious question: Should our three faces be in harmony with each other, and would that mean the face you see really be me?

Mick

Three Characters in Search of Me

Meticulously made, the mask you see,
It's pattern so familiar to my friends --
So difficult to tell where the mask ends,
And where begins the rest of the real me.
How can this character help me find me?

Beneath the public mask, my private face,
A visage carefully long set apart,
And dancing to the music of my heart,
Without concern for vanity or grace.
Can this character help me in my chase?

Behind them all, an aspect, I believe
Exists as one true face that plays no role,
The one that tells the story of my soul,
A face my soaring spirit would conceive.
What can this character help me retrieve?

I'm faced now with this trichotomy:
The countenances may be a disguise,
When viewed by a variety of eyes,
And yet if they were all in harmony --
Would not the face you see be the real me?

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Glances

2011-05-03T20:44:00.003-04:00

Beginning with the gift of life from my brother Kevin, I began sharing my journey through the blood and marrow transplant process. A mailing list given over to sharing my poems, suddenly became a daily journal of challenges, victories, set backs, and lots of memories rushing in to fill the long hours spent waiting, praying, fighting, crying, and shivering against a burning rash. It was not an easy decision to share so much, both because the content could not be more personal and because I feared none would care about such a personal journey into the past, mixed with the daily challenges of the BMT process.

Imagine my surprise when my friends and family asked me to continue! I nearly ran and hid away in my erratic attic -- my dusty, musty mind. However, poking about in there has proven both useful and surprising for me, and sharing some of what I have found has helped clarify my responses to daily challenges and changes. Viewed through the new eyes of a soul that takes each new day as a gift from God, each new breath as a gift from my brother, and each moment as a treasure to be shared -- those bags of dusty old memories and those many mirrors in my mind demand I consider sharing them. This poem, my first in many long months, describes my decision to share.

Mick

Glances

I ran among the mirrors in my mind,
And fearing any inadvertent glance
Would touch my eye, or else that I should find,
Another presence watching me by chance,
So suddenly suspicious and afraid,
Blind panic robbed my reason and my wit;
Until by dusty bags of thoughts delayed,
I chose a smaller one and sat on it...

While sitting on the bag, as still as stone,
I calmed myself down, as I knew I must.
I'd always felt as though I were alone,
When shuffling among cobwebs and dust,
When peeking into mirrors old and new,
When sorting through my musty memories,
When seeking shadows, hoping for a view
Down into why they grow like a disease.

I pondered in the hazy, silent gloom,
What caused me both to startle, and to run
Around within my ancient storage room:
The feeling that a new change had begun!
It happened when I opened up a door,
And shared the contents of my dusty bags.
Then opening some windows, I shared more,
By dusting off my mirrors with old rags.

As I discover memories long sought,
And search among them with a focus small,
Assessing if the recollections caught
Within them should be shared with one and all;
Then having shared so many recently,
Among my family and many friends,
I'll share whatever cleans up decently --
And hope and pray the sharing never ends.

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Rain World

2011-03-20T19:55:00.003-04:00

Funny how something as simple as rain can bring you out of yourself and refocus your view on the basic beauty of water in motion. I stared out my window at a gray. rainy, chilly afternoon and my first thought was: "Is the sky weeping for me?" Although I suppose one can be forgiven for some self-centeredness when ill, it really was a silly question. Then I remembered to remove my self-pity filters from my eye's lens, and focus on the beauty at hand.

Falling rain twists the world into fantastic shapes and changes the rhythm of everything it touches. It defies gravity and loves to dance on window panes. For a time, I simply stared, lost in the liquid grace of wind-driven rain, stepped out of time and away from my broken (but healing) self, to see and hear the wonder of an early spring rain.

Mick

Rain World

Is the sky weeping for death of winter,
Or is it weeping for me?
Must every gray slash of rainfall splinter,
Images I want to see?
Great gray gusts of rain-filled air twist and dance,
Lively on my window pane;
Then tiniest knife-edged rivulets prance,
Pirouette, and fall again.
Wind-driven sheets form to laugh and splatter,
Pixie drops that drip and splash,
Grandfather drops, with so much wet matter
They burst with a gasp and crash.
Past the glass, I see black tree limbs quiver,
Quicksilver in the wind's sway.
I swear I can see the tall trees shiver,
Wind-blown on a chilly day.
The road and sidewalks all shiny and wet,
Reflect each walker's quick tread.
The car and the truck lights shine bright, and yet
Streak and smear as past they sped.
Drowsy and silent I watched it unfurled,
Wind dance and liquid light.
My own whimsical, water-colored world --
Outside my window tonight.

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Rude Awakening

2011-03-19T23:59:00.002-04:00

Asthma is a simple seven-letter word which seems almost impossible to define. I looked it up on ten different sites and they all varied on its source, its diagnosis, its symptoms, and its meaning: Is it all physical, or is it partially psychosomatic? Does the fear of the attack make the attack worse? Does it really feel like drowning? Is there pain? Yes.

A recent treatment left my lungs irritated and me coughing more than usual. During that treatment I experienced an asthma attack. For me, the worst times were waking up at night when an attack was already underway. It is truly a living a nightmare. My poem tonight attempts to describe one of many such nightmares from my asthma days. Dark and shocking, I believe it introduces the shock of waking in the dark, unable to breathe. Why it surfaced now, is anyone's guess, perhaps merely an echo of a warning in the dark...

Mick

Rude Awakening

Footfalls falling faster, right behind me,
I race on piercing the night with my fear.
Pivot right, as heel digs deeply, madly
Twisting and slapping as dark limbs draw near.
Airborne, a ravine opens at my feet,
My arms and legs propeller through the air,
Till thrashing body and forest floor meet.
Hands and feet grasp for purchase with despair,
And scrabbling upward, clawing root and stone,
With muscles screaming, back arched, and in pain,
I demand more from mortal blood and bone --
I leap the rim and blindly run again.
Into an alder thicket, dense I breach --
To hang suspended, air just out of reach.

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Not Yet

2011-03-13T21:12:00.003-04:00

The Bible tells me all I must do is ask, and then, I will receive all that I need. I don't have to do an impossible task, and I don't have to accomplish an epic deed. No quest is necessary, merely a question or plea for a better world, a better life, a better me. As I pray through my list each night, and try to balance at least a few thank yous with all the pleading, I have to wonder if I truly follow up on my petitions, or try to listen for an answer other than: Did it happen, or did it not happen? Is it arrogance on my part to set the parameters for a response from the Almighty? Yup.

In recent months, the format of my prayers has changed from supplicant to Supplier of the Universe, to a child both telling happy and sad tales, and making requests of his Father. Sometimes, the answer is in my mind before I finish the plea, as I realize it is vain, or hurtful, or sublimely ridiculous (may I have the lottery numbers please?). Sometimes, especially when asking for guidance, a small voice, barely discernible unless I am truly listening, whispers a word or two of wisdom. Sometimes the power of prayer glows forth in blessings on those for whom I pray, and sometimes there is no glow. Mostly, I have learned to trust that an answer is coming, though it may not be the one I want, and that often as not, "No," means "Not yet."

Mick

Not Yet

My prayer list grows longer with each new day:
More questions and answers I want to know.
Though I feel better when I've had my say,
Tell me, what do I do, when God says, "No?"
He said He would always answer my questions,
Though it might take a while for me to know;
And I'm always filled with "good" suggestions,
Tell me, what do I do when God says, "No?"
Yet, I seldom ask for trivial things,
Money, possessions and things that I know
Would harm someone else from my requestings,
And yet, what do I do when God says, "No?"
I hold to one hope, for it's my best bet,
That His "No" may truly mean, "Not just yet."

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Extra Ordinary

2011-03-11T23:13:00.003-05:00

How does one describe a life? Is it a movie or a map? Is it a huge pile of accumulated goods and treasures, or simply an enormous ball of string? Is it a book or a bank account? For many long years, I considered my life to be like a book, with one page following another...perhaps a loose-leaf binder, with high hopes that I could always buy more filler paper on which to write. I think the whole binder/book thing may be what lead me to writing a daily journal...a journal that no one would ever read, un-indexed, sans-cross-references, and little or no annotations.

However, recent events have given me a different perspective on life and how it should be described. I saw some very beautiful quilts that represented portions of a person's life -- perhaps a marriage or the birth and growth of a child. I thought, maybe my life is a quilt -- a crazy quilt of every design and color imaginable, to represent the fullness of a life, lived one day at a time -- each panel representing the violence or peace, sadness or happiness, anger or love, fear or solace in that day. Viewed from above one might take in the wholeness of a life, and yet see patterns that have dominated sections. In my own quilt, I want the fringe, the part yet to come to contain extra ordinary days, filled with warmth and sunshine, conversation and smiles, love and blessings.

Mick

Extra Ordinary

My life has grown into a massive quilt;
Stretched, a continental-sized mosaic.
Each day became a square from which it's built,
Designs from peculiar to prosaic.
Colors range from black to sunshine yellow,
But blues and deep browns tend to dominate.
Sections of the quilt are truly mellow,
And others clash and battle...filled with hate.
The areas of shadowed gray and brown,
Will often border plots of purest white.
With thread of gold each patch is tightly sown,
And silver buttons hold each junction tight.
As each new one is revealed, I chary,
Pray for patches extra ordinary.

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Ashes

2011-03-09T21:09:00.003-05:00

We have all seen it -- the towering cloud of smoke and ash that signal a major fire. A garage, a house, an apartment building, a business, or even a beloved forest or field is in flames. Whenever the crimson beast is unleashed, people’s lives change. Occasionally, they even end. Anyone who has been close to an uncontrolled fire knows that feeling that the fire is alive, insatiable, and unpredictable. A night fire is the scariest, with the billowing cloud lit from below, all crimson and shadow.

Up in that cloud fly tiny bits of oxidized matter, remnants of the buildings, personal effects, and even the once alive victims of the red beast. Ashes, of course, are the last bits of any such material and signify the death of that entity or the loss of a cherished possession. When they fall to Earth, the ashes become part of the Earth again, often bringing additional life to the soil. If enough ash falls from fire, the ground below will be covered a uniform gray, perhaps an appropriate tribute to loss.

Not all ash is from tragedy, some bonfires simply celebrate light and warmth on a cold night. Some ash is but residue from risky human behavior.Whatever its source, just remember that ash is always a sign of change, and a reminder (to me) that all things must pass.

Mick

Ashes
Bits of ash soar high upon the night air,
Expatriates of flame and hell on Earth;
Oblivious of just when or just where
Their fragile existence was given birth.
Though few will observe their delicate dance,
Violently driven to heights aloft,
Aglow with the crimson light of their chance,
And are borne on the cool night currents soft.
Soon crimson trim becomes black or dark gray,
Ephemeral shadows upon dark sky,
Driven by hot dark winds up and away,
Seek the Earth and a peaceful place to lie.
Soundlessly falling, this black snow or rain,
Silently screams of someone’s loss and pain.

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Family

2011-03-07T21:23:00.003-05:00

In recent months I learned new definitions for family. As my condition deteriorated and wonderful friends and neighbors drew in close to help us, it became clear that family means more than blood relations, tribes, networks, clans, and the occasional village. I have multiple families, many based on shared experiences rather than toothpaste, bathrooms, and the common cold.

My first experience with "family" outside the McKellar clan, came with my introduction to the Calumet Players, the amateur theater group in Calumet, Michigan which first stole my wife's heart and then mine. With each production I learned more about the core group of actors, directors, and those who labor behind the scenes. I spent large chunks of entire summers working side by side to bring a musical or other play to life. Shared purpose, love of theater, and a drive to succeed brought us together. We don't mean to get on each other's nerves. We don't even mean to become family. We just are.

In the last year, I have discovered many new families, lined up to "face the pyre" of my struggle. Applied to my own blood and relative family -- the image practically glows and the courage sings a song of joy, the song continues in my head, the love I feel for all my families grows daily. Here's to family!

Mick

Family

A band of accidental characters,
Arrayed upon a most imperfect stage,
None of us begin the tour as actors,
But sweet ones, and the nuts improve with age.
The old script is constantly re-written;
Directors come and go as time permits.
Someone's always claiming they've been bitten,
And drama queens roll on without limits.
We balance love's oil, which eases friction,
Against the swift cement of trial by fire;
Yet we all rebel against restriction,
And move as one to stand and face the pyre!
When unified brings harmony to birth,
A happy one is heaven come to Earth.

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Autograph

2011-03-03T22:36:00.003-05:00

I know that the majority of people on the Planet Earth say they believe in angels, yet look askance and anyone who claims to have seen one or interacted with them. TV shows and movies have searched the limits of human imagination to create an image we find pleasing and understandable. Guardian Angels are the glorious guardians that save us from falling and direct us away from dangers we cannot or will not see.

As one of those folks who has come face-to-face with the prospect of leaving Spaceship Earth the old-fashioned way, I am concerned not as much about leaving, as about leaving alone in the dark. Yet, were I to say that I saw an angel, I’m certain many would question my sanity or perhaps simply smile and say to themselves that delusions comfort old men with dangerous diseases, so let them have their dreams.

Did I see an angel peeking through our window? Maybe. Or maybe just an reminder by God that I am not alone and will not be left alone, and of course, a puzzle to keep my mind off of feeling sorry for myself.

Mick

Autograph

I think an angel outside my window,
Peeked through the glass to see I was alright.
I’m sure I caught a share of his shadow,
As his curly blond head ducked out of sight.
“Crazy,” you say, and not without reason;
For “seeing things” is considered quite strange.
If seeing angels is now in season,
Then, happy I am, and welcome the change!
Tonight I may sleep with one eye open,
So I can catch a glimpse of my new friend;
Half asleep, and the other half hopin’
With my attention a message to send:
“Just so my down-to-Earth friends do not laugh,
Could I have your angelic autograph?"

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Day 0

2011-02-22T22:55:00.002-05:00

An epic battle is underway in my body, and I am rooting for my home team to lose! When the process is complete, my blood DNA will be my brother's, yet my tissue will be my own or some admixture of the two. Crazy huh? It boggles the imagination that my brother, Kevin's gift is the only way left for me to survive beyond a few months. I grew up in a time when leukemia was a death sentence from which there was no parole, no pardon.

Well, yesterday was Day 0, the day my brother's stem cells and T-cells took up residence in my blood stream. As with most visits from relatives, the initial meeting was cordial and friendly. However, after the discovery that the visit is a permanent one, struggles over storage space, sleeping quarters, and who gets the remote were bound to begin. There will be conflicts with the neighbors, but mediators are being sent in to help keep conflict to appropriate levels. Eventually, it is hoped that all will become friends and learn to live together.

And as a nice side-effect, I get to live longer. Today is Day +1, what a grand thought and what a wonder to be grateful to one's own brother for!

Mick

Day 0

Imagine you hold a great gift of life,
Imagine that it is a part of you.
Though granting that gift cause you pain and strife,
Imagine that you do what you must do .
What love has a brother for another.
But simply to put his whole life on hold?
What love has another for a brother,
Who gives him his one chance at growing old?
Though ties of birth often weaken with years,
And distance creates a weakening span,
The family ties will bridge fears and tears,
And the younger man saves the elder man.
His sacrifice left us, most certainly,
Joined closely as brothers could ever be.

Mick McKellar
February 2011

Whispers of a Silent Fear

2011-02-19T00:38:00.002-05:00

Ultimately, I must stand alone and fight against an enemy born of my own body. Doctors can pump chemicals into my veins. Xrays and blood tests and electrical measurements map the progress of this insidious killer, as well as the small and costly victories in an internal war of attrition. Mercenary troops are recruited, and though ready to kill anything in sight, need strong guidance and training to attack only the enemy, not their new allies.

Each night, during the long dark hours when sleep seems unreachable, I stand alone on that inner battlefield, and search for the enemy. Yet, it does not show itself, sending only the broken and malformed victims of its dark, bloody alchemy. The chemical forces are fearfully strong, yet the enemy of my enemy is my friend, no matter how powerful and gruesome to behold.

I search for the enemy: It is found in the shadows and fights only in darkness. I fight. I fight with the power of my dark allies and with the light sent by my friends.

Mick

Whispers of a Silent Fear

There in the dark at the edge of my mind,
An indigo, black velvet, darkness looms,
Filling the verge and each crevice it finds,
Hallways and stairwells and dark, shuttered rooms.
Voices that tease the sheer fringe of my sense,
Whispering warnings that I cannot hear,
Force me to listen with no recompense,
Forging an aural-steel dragnet of fear.
Rivulets of restlessness drip in the gloom,
Shadows of foreboding form 'round each bend,
Trigger the shivers, that foretelling doom,
Signal a lonely and imminent end.
My friends help me win this dark, inner fight,
By sending me love and faith's brilliant light.

Mick McKellar
February 2011

Masques

2011-02-18T23:42:00.003-05:00

Why do I write so much about myself? First, I learned that you should write about something you know and mostly understand. Second, my friends taught me that it is OK to share. Finally, I get to "scoop" the gossips and tattletales.

I grew up as a grimly private little fellow, unwilling to communicate anything about myself or my family. Even while on the John Glenn High School Varsity Debate Team, I was something of an enigma...dynamic in an argument, but reticent...even silent...as a stone. At the time, I built elaborate fantasies about being the lone wolf, keeping anything about me intensely private. My hero? Mr. Spock on Star Trek.

Time spent on stage, wonderful hours spent with my friends in the Calumet Players, and advice from some friends and some artists in the Pine Mountain Music Festival, taught me that in the art-forms of the stage, sharing self can bring characters to life. Life experience also taught me the power of viral velocity and the power of information to grow with each telling of each tiny, titillating tidbit. Therefore, I share, but I write the script, I choreograph my steps, and I direct myself as I perform. My show is my own, and it is based on a true story...at least as I see it.

This, I learned, is the true value of autobiography over auto-grandiloqui

Mick

Masques

I'm dancing a desperate minuet,
My lines are a dimly-lit memory,
My steps are manic and frantic, and yet
The truths of my feelings are plain to see.
The costumes are exquisitely designed,
And clash with the coarse choreography;
Yet, I think the audience does not mind,
As long as I speak a soliloquy.
What starts out as an intermedio,
Can quickly become a pageant, full blown --
Much faster than TV or radio,
Has the velocity of gossip grown.
And so, my friends the true story will know,
Through my true, elaborate, one-man-show.

Mick McKellar
February 2011

Touching

2011-02-12T12:59:00.002-05:00

My online world is sight and sound. Words on a page or a screen are often touted to "touch" someone or "strike a chord." Though words can inspire, tire, even foster desire, there is nothing quite like a poke in the ribs to get your undivided attention. A hand laid gently on the shoulder connects two people immediately and forges a physical link impossible to duplicate with any word or whisper.

Our society has established many boundaries and rules for the proprieties of touching each other, because it is such a powerful sensation. Yet I know that nothing reassures a half-sedated and thoroughly-confused patient like the gentle touch of a nurse or the warm pressure of a loved one holding your hand. Nothing touches the heart like the feather touch of a grandchild's tiny hand on the venerable face of a doting grandfather, or the quiet peace of a grandbaby snuggled in your arms, content to dream in your embrace. Touch says: "I am here!" It says: "I am not alone!"

Mick

Touching

My soul must grow or wither away,
Every second, every day;
And both sight and sound must feel, to play
The harmonies of my living lay.

I touch the world and it touches me:
A partnership of necessity.
Without that most tactile reverie,
My song would falter and silent be.

Could I not feel life's most tattered thrum,
While holding it twixt finger and thumb,
My soul would fade and my heart grow numb:
I know I would to despair succumb.

Yet the briefest touch or swift caress
(Even a slap in the face, I guess),
When human shell, under sweet duress,
Senses connection and tenderness --

It makes my world of shadows and stone,
Where a sense of "other" is unknown,
A tactual realm of blood and bone.
I know that I am not alone.

Mick McKellar
February 2011

Journey's End

2011-02-05T01:55:00.002-05:00

The doctors at Mayo Clinic certainly spend a great deal of their time pointing out the dangerous and risky nature of blood and marrow stem cell transplants. They are required to describe in detail all the things that can go wrong with the process, all the terrible outcomes that are statistically and distinctly possible. Much can go awry, they say, and then they add that I could die. As they do so, they look me right in the eyes, as if to probe my thoughts and find all those dark little shadows, the dim and shapeless fears dancing about behind my orbs.

I spent hours closeted with a psychologist and even a few minutes with a psychiatrist, as they measured my resolve and my coping skills. However, in my life I have seen death. I've witnessed it, smelled it, and even tasted it. I have danced with death more than once myself, most recently as I drifted, sleepily, near the brink during a blast crisis. I remember dancing a fiery dance with death when only 18 months old. And I remember the shivering dance and cold pain when my appendix nearly burst at age 14. I watched a friend die in a sudden, horrible accident, and stood the death watch as my mother slowly passed from this world. I held the lifeless body of a dear friend and tried to blow life back in...to no avail. Death and I, we are acquainted. My dreams of late have reviewed these meetings, and my prayers have sought solace and understanding.

William Hazlitt said: "To die is only to be as we were before we were born." Jesus said that life is everlasting...

Mick

Journey's End

There was a time there was no me.
Why should I worry to cease to be?
All those centuries I was not there,
Why should my absence cause much care?
I journeyed on Earth, some time to spend,
Yet ev'ry journey has an end;
Though my weary body down must lie,
My soul, my spirit does not die.
I feel no need to worry or cry,
We talked about it, God and I.
I will simply cease on Earth to roam,
Lie down, and sleep my way back home.
Because I lived, because I was me,
I do not fear to cease to be.

Mick McKellar
February 2011

Christmas Light

2010-12-22T19:28:00.001-05:00

I have walked abroad on Christmas night, and in the silence of the cold, felt the warmth of brilliant lights gleaming from windows and rooftops, as they twinkled on freshly fallen snow. Shuffling my boots through several inches of winter white made little or no noise and the sighing of a whispering breeze through pines and between houses took over, singing a carol that coldly caressed my face and hands. The touch of snowflakes on my face felt like the feather touch of Christmas lights reaching out to welcome my spirit and warm my soul. I felt I could fly, borne aloft on lights alone.

Alas, Christmas walkabout will remain only a memory this year, as we can't have old Mick tottering about in the snow after dark. Yet, were I to fly home, I would love that it be on a crisp, cold Christmas night and that I be carried home on the red and green and golden beams that break from a thousand gleaming windows on the eve of peace and love.

Mick

Christmas Light

Through all the piercing cold and precious chill,
And all a winter's night of silence beamed,
The wondrous warmth and distant twinkling thrill,
Of lights all red and green and gold, which gleamed
Upon the road ahead's unbroken white.
Snow softly silenced footsteps as he tread,
And gazed at icy darkness, pierced by light
That danced upon his path, as forward lead
He felt the ancient night of love embrace,
His heart and spirit dancing in his chest;
And with the Christmas lights upon his face,
He softly flew home to his blessed rest.

Mick McKellar
December 2010

Psychopomp

2010-10-01T21:31:00.003-04:00

When one is directly confronted with the simple fact that our stay among our friends and family is a finite visit, and especially when one is advised that the lease may be up sooner than expected, one must consider the method of eviction. We all live in rented houses, and when the time comes, we must vacate the premises, and journey home.

I always thought the idea of leaving would frighten me. Although the journey doesn't scare me, I do not relish the idea of traveling alone. I guess this must have been on many minds over the centuries, because so many cultures and so many religions have traditions of spirit guides, angels (like Azrael), and others who guide lost souls to the other side.

I suppose that, as time draws near, it is natural to imagine the nature of one's guide and to start looking into shadows or listening to whispers in the night, seeking evidence and reassurance.

Mick

Psychopomp

I search for him in twilight shadows long.
I pray he'll catch the corner of my eye.
I listen for his voice in evensong --
The wintry clouds create as they scud by.
Some day, I'll feel his touch upon my arm.
Some day, he'll whisper gently in my ear.
Some day, he'll lead me far away from harm,
And to a realm devoid of hate and fear.
His arm will give me strength to step beyond.
His voice will grant me solace on the way.
His presence will establish such a bond,
That joyfully, I'll step upon that quay,
And climb aboard the ship upon the foam.
I'll peacefully, at last, set sail for home.

Mick McKellar
October 2010

Pavor Nocturnus

2010-09-12T22:04:00.002-04:00

Hello. It has been a long time since I last posted a poem. During the interlude, I’ve been searching for answers to some pretty basic questions, and the resultant shifts in perspective have led me to some rather dark places—journeys about which I am, as yet, unable to write. However, I want to share a recent visit from an old acquaintance.

Although we all have experienced dark dreams and nightmares, some souls (mine included) are introduced to the king of nightmares, the granddaddy of dark dreams: Pavor Nocturnus. Here is a brief glimpse into the world of pavor nocturnus...the night terror.

Mick

Pavor Nocturnus

A sometime acquaintance, harbinger, fright,
So suddenly visited me last night,
That I could no preparations have made,
To welcome such a most-unwelcome shade.
A dark brother, spawned in a shadow world,
His sinister, indigo wings unfurled,
Silently glided, an amorphous cloud --
And wove me a torpid, somnolent shroud.

It settled, as mist on a midnight strand;
Silently stealing ashore, the cold hand
Of fell intelligence, seeking to spread
A cloak of fear, a chill blanket of dread
Where I walked, a wraith on the path of dreams,
Where nothing is ever quite what it seems.
The eerie mantle, formidable, sheer
As the wind, ferried a black, formless fear.

I fled when I felt dismay in that place.
I led the fell cloud on a frantic chase.
I felt trepidation at each quick turn.
I sped through the nightmare, to safety earn.
Though I was quicksilver, the mist, more swift,
Caught me up, and cast me, trembling adrift.
My timorous, tremulous, terror scream,
Silently shattered my direful dream.

As the shards of my reverie dispersed,
I pondered again: Was I blessed or cursed?
Was my chimera a mere spectral snare,
A cursed apparition my soul must bear;
Or a phantom favored to save its nape,
A revenant blessed to always escape?
Favored or not, I dismissed the dark dread,
And sought the soft, warm redoubt of my bed...

Mick McKellar
September 2010

Journey to Light

2010-05-19T21:42:00.003-04:00

Way back in 1991, the old Midnight Poet joined a group of other Michigan Technological University staff and faculty members to tackle a weight-loss challenge. In 13 weeks the group lost a total of 748 pounds. Many of us were justifiably proud of losing to win.

Of course, I had a meeting with my Muse and a poem was the result. Our local newspaper, the Daily Mining Gazette, was covering the story. I submitted my poem to them and they published it on May 17, 1991, sharing the page with their article on the project. Journey to Light explores the nature of carbohydrate addiction and reflects on the saddest fact of all: When food is your addiction, you cannot go cold turkey -- unless it is on a Kaiser roll with Swiss, lettuce, and mayo...

Mick

Journey to Light

I harken back to days of blubber,
When food was king and flesh was rubber:
When bulges formed on both my sides,
In time with daily lunar tides,
And often was my day complete,
When I caught glimpses of my feet.

I pondered, as I filled each chair,
The tensile strength of underwear,
And tried its textile might to guess,
When placed under extreme duress.
I dreaded times when I bent over,
And thought that I had "broken cover."

I miss the junk food most of all.
The chips and candy, large and small
Servings of such sweet confections,
(My insulin went all directions)
Were central to my very life,
Exceeding job, children, or wife.

Addicted? Yes, and also, sadly,
Dying well while living badly.
Days spent thinking thoughts so dark,
That life retained so little spark,
As to extinguish all desire
to rise, and just let life expire.

I now look back, and laud the day,
I said I could not live that way
Any longer, and I began to shed,
The pounds that tried to make me dead.
I'm proud of what I've done you see,
But still have work to do on me.

Anyone got a Butterfinger?

Mick McKellar
May 1991

Papa Bear Still Dreams

2010-05-12T22:21:00.003-04:00

In one of my favorite movies, Three Men and a Baby, Tom Selleck's character is the decision-maker and leader of a trio of bachelors, two of whom are middle-aged adolescents. Near the end of the movie, he despairs of solving his romantic problems because of all the responsibilities he bears, and one of the other characters, in a flash of insight, says: "It's not easy being Papa Bear..."

The long and winding path of life often takes you places you did not intend. Papa Bear has to make his family’s journey a safe one. He is charged with responsibility, and occasionally, in the quiet times, dreams of the day his family takes over -- and is he is only responsible to be himself.

In today's world, however, Papa Bear's journey never seems to end. Only on the dream path does he meet his younger self. Only there are all his friends and ancestors still alive. Only there can he watch himself, as he was when the rush of youth was upon him.

This poem walks the dream path -- where the hopes and dreams of youth still play and dance, despite the insidious limitations brought on by an aging shell.

Mick

Papa Bear Still Dreams

The sadness in his eyes betrays,
With subtle shades of trepidation,
The tiny smile his mouth displays,
So fraught with grim determination.

The waltz he danced in younger days,
With feet both swift and daring, eager;
Now tires his frame in unkind ways,
And drains his passion, thinner...meager.

His fire, now burning bitter herbs,
His massive frame once straight, is bending.
His basket full of action verbs,
Once vast, now all relate to ending.

His friends are dying, one-by-one.
He feels his comrades, all deserting
His love, which once burned like the Sun.
Now wounded, it lies abed, hurting.

An ancient soul, long bound in chains,
Striving without hope against his yokes,
He unrepentantly remains
The struggling butt of so many jokes...

His golden years have turned to lead,
Even though his alchemy was sound.
Yet, his sweet dreams are not quite dead,
Cherished reveries are still around.

And in his bed, still as stone -
Near motionless on home-bound gurney,
He watches them, and walks alone,
On dream-lit paths through night's long journey.

Mick McKellar
May 2010

40-Love, and it Went Over the Net

2010-04-25T00:14:00.002-04:00

I was digging through my ancient files today, looking for an old program, and I happened across an even older e-mail I printed out in 1992. I had posted a quick poem for some friends about the new concept of electronic mail, and what might happen when love letters entered the Web fray. An on-line friend posted the poem to a discussion list and it was circulated as “A sorrowful ditty by one of our local e-poets.”

It does point out the dangers of communicating using the undependable resources of new Web server technology during its infancy. It also points out the dangers of romance on the cutting edge of technology. It’s a look back through 17-plus years of history to a time before browsers, when ASCII art was king, and I wrote nearly all my e-mail and documents on a dumb terminal linked to a university mainframe.

Mick

40-Love, and it Went Over the Net

I lost my one and only love,
When writing went on-line.
I simply mailed my love to her,
And she replied to mine.

Passion flamed on terminals,
And hearts were linked by wire.
Emotions, raw, were keyed, white-hot,
And set the Net on fire.

Alas, our correspondence died,
A victim of travail.
Although she thinks I cut her off,
Her server nuked my mail!

Mick McKellar
November 1992

Crimson Rage

2010-04-16T12:28:00.004-04:00

Rage is defined as violent, explosive anger, with furious intensity, as of a storm or disease. Despite the fury inherent in the meaning of rage, we often use the word to describe acts of simple anger and unthinking cruelty. I dreamt about rage last night, about the terrible tempest inside us, when the crimson tide rises and our darkest urges are unleashed. What happens inside, and how do we ever regain control?

The images racing through my dreamscape startled me awake in the cool darkness of our bedroom and I lay awake, pondering the rampaging storm that filled my mind. Although I have never acted upon such an impulse, I have witnessed the aftermath of unfettered rage, and seen the dark storm in the eyes of another. And I wonder, what might it take to unleash the crimson tide within me? God grant I never discover it.

Mick

Crimson Rage

The torn sky weeps its blood upon the lands.
Blinded, fury pleads with wild raised hands.
Tears stream hot on flushed and bloody cheeks,
To gasp and groan, upon a tide that reeks
Of death and darkness — heaped upon a world
On which a wily serpent lies uncurled.

Wind dancers caper searching for redoubt,
Adrift on loathsome drafts the tide spills out,
Keen a sharp and bright demand for aid.
One by one their brief lives are unmade,
As swiftly comes a deadly, angry shark,
That breaks itself upon a looming ark.

Glowering, the serpent spies the craft,
Strikes to rend and break it fore to aft;
Yet eyes, unsleeping spy the darting worm,
And turn the ark to slide into the storm.
The serpent misses, falls into the tide,
And flounders as its target turns to hide.

Though crimson darkness seeks to hold its prey,
The wily serpent swiftly breaks away,
And satisfies its hunger for the ark,
By feasting on the still and broken shark.
It, slow and sated, crawls back on the world —
To sleep and wait, dark, silent, and uncurled.

The ark, careening through the crimson gale,
Screams as bones and tendons nearly fail.
Straining mightily, the craft at last breaks free,
Onto a calm and sunlit, silent sea.
There to rest and whisper once, "Amen."
Until the crimson rage erupts again.

Mick McKellar
April 2010

No Home in Success

2010-04-13T00:33:00.002-04:00

Odd isn't it, that so many who contend with life's vicissitudes and challenges, somehow manage to be both depressed and arrogant? I was very recently reminded that defensive pride can lead to chagrin and that proverbial egg on the face feeling.

Perhaps it is merely a natural reaction to rejection and loss, that the inner eye loses perspective and one builds an overblown image of self. Perhaps the redoubt of arrogance is a natural defense, and like the body's histamine reaction defense against irritants and allergies, it is not only effective, but also nasty, painful, and messy.

Small successes should build confidence and self-image, yet unwarranted pride and arrogance simply have no place in that picture. Their home remains on the pages of one's journal, to cast their glimmer between the lines of one's memoirs.

Mick

No Home in Success

The wheel of life takes you for a spin,
Testing you in word and deed.
Challenges offer a chance to win,
Yet nothing is guaranteed.
Sometimes the brass ring is reachable,
Most times it's out of your reach:
Life's lessons become most teachable,
When life has something to teach.
Winning and learning are not the same,
Though many never see why
They can't always win at ev'ry game:
Viewed with a self-centered eye.
Arrogance born of adversity,
Is arrogance, nonetheless;
Despite travail and catastrophe,
Pride has no home in success.

Mick McKellar
April 2010

Silent Curtain

2010-03-11T00:06:00.003-05:00

It is March, and in the Keweenaw that usually means cold mornings, snow storms, and generally miserable weather. Here, March traditionally comes in like a lion, and then roars for the rest of the month. Yet, when I walked out on my deck tonight, I felt the gentle, and very wet touch of softly falling rain. No wind was howling and banging the shutters. No blasts of cold Canadian air arrived, laden with moisture from the ample supply of Lake Superior. No snowflakes were seeking every opening in my clothing, prying with icy fingers for a chance to send shivers throughout my frame.

It is not really warm out there. We still have far too much accumulated snow to chill whatever air moves over its icy surface. Yet, the rain feels like a promise of changes to come, a momentary awakening from the long winter sleep: Its cold and shadowy dream disturbed by unrefrigerated air and unfrozen tears from low brooding clouds.

I felt its touch and heard its promise. What a joy it would be, if there were only a little thunder...

Mick

Silent Curtain

A silent curtain of gentle spring rain
Descends, ghostly piercing the darkling night.
Its touch awakens my longing again,
For crisp early mornings, touched with spring light.
I dream of the ending of winter's grip
On life, hibernating in soundless hope;
To hear snow and ice banks that melt and slip,
Sliding toward summer's slippery slope --
And the shining caress of warm sunshine,
When bright tendrils softly caress the earth,
Bringing forth new green and the insects' whine,
That signals the up-coming summer's birth.
Though caught in winter's dream, I am certain
I feel the touch of that silent curtain.

Mick McKellar
March 2010

Legacy of Kindness

2010-03-05T11:10:00.003-05:00

William Wordsworth once penned:
"That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love."

I feel that, although the facts of the acts may remain unremembered by those who received the kindness or by the benefactor, any act of unrequited kindness lives on, dancing endlessly in the night, adding to the warmth, the flickering illumination of the soul of the human race. When I see a small token, or note, or image that reminds me of any act of kindness done for me, even though I cannot remember who or what or where or when, a warm happiness steals over my soul. Perhaps a small smile will light my face, just for an instant, and the tiny life of that kindness flares forth to lift my spirit and light my path.

As humans, we are blessed with the capacity to recall past moments, viscerally reliving the feelings, joys, fears, and pains of the past. When put into words and shared, the flame splits, is rekindled, divided and yet grows brighter with the sharing. In this way, even the smallest act of kindness lives on, grows, and becomes a silent, living legacy.

Those "random acts of kindness" truly have a life of their own.

Mick

Legacy of Kindness

As night's dark blanket shelters one and all,
And little, nameless, unrequited acts
Are done for others, whether big or small,
These kindnesses survive beyond the facts.
Cold facts, that flicker quickly and disperse,
Swift disappearing softly in the night,
Dance incidental, fleeting, and diverse,
Then vanish, tracelessly from mortal sight.
And yet somehow, I sense that there remain,
Small kindled flames of life I cannot see,
That warmly, endlessly endure, and fain
Grant me this one consoling memory:
The kindly acts I do live after me,
A silent, unremembered legacy.

Mick McKellar
March 2010

Island of Tears

2010-01-23T01:22:00.002-05:00

Island of Tears

My heart cries out for the island of tears,
Writhing in agony before my eyes:
Portrait in pain of my own deepest fears,
Opera noir dark with desperate cries.
My Earth left her children nowhere to hide,
As her once teaming ocean of life shoals,
When the angel of death spread dark wings wide,
And swiftly gathered a river of souls.
The vision of bodies draped in the streets,
The buildings collapsed and fallen apart,
Made the rhythm of my life skip a beat,
As the eyes of the children pierced my heart.
My dreams remain haunted, as nights flow by,
For I know, but for God's grace there go I.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Shadow Hunters

2010-01-13T16:26:00.002-05:00

Developing an idea or creating a concept is often a game of gathering shadows in the light. True feelings and emotions are often too painful to view directly, so we must rely upon the shadows they cast. For these thoughts, these shadows are simple projections, outlines that we can grasp and meld with other shadows, creating vast, cool pools of shade in which we can reside...or hide.

Far too often, I will be playing with thoughts and concepts on the brilliantly illuminated field of a grand idea, only to have one or more of those shadows vaporize in the light, escaping into the long night of lost memories. I cannot relate how rigorous and stressful have been some of my journeys down dimly lit and dusty pathways in my mind — all in search of a stray shadow, a fleeting memory, a truant thought. The wretchedly frustrating search for a lost thought truly is a bane of young and old, and is, perhaps, the driving force behind my need to keep a journal.

Think back and consider how many such journeys you have made — in search of an errant idea or wandering word — a devious shadow which suddenly, unexpectedly, and inexplicably melted into the recesses of your mind. It is at times like these we all become shadow hunters...

Mick

Shadow Hunters

Our thoughts are shadows that our feelings cast,
Upon the silky surface of our days.
So, is it any wonder they don't last,
And they can fade away so many ways?
When swiftly they depart a conscious mind,
In "shifting smoke and empty mirrors" style,
They never leave a remnant we can find —
Except for deep frustration and denial.
Knowledge is the sum of captured shadows:
We catch them dancing on our mental walls,
Then store them where our tree of knowledge grows,
And where the ripe fruit of remembrance falls.
Our thoughts, once lost, are wretched to recall,
And make us shadow hunters, one and all!

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Choices

2010-01-12T22:13:00.003-05:00

What would life be like without choices? Although I've heard so many friends and acquaintances lament the multitude of choices they must make each day, praying for some time to just drift, accepting what comes along without decisions, I have to wonder how long they could live with no choices, no decisions, and no responsibilities . It seems the hard part about making choices is not the act of choosing, but the knowledge that one accepts responsibility for the consequences of that choice. I remember the adolescent right of passage involving solving that most terrible inner dialog:

If I take A, then I cannot have B.
And yet, I am responsible to me,
So therefore, should I choose A over B?
But if I choose B, A is lost to me.
I don't want that responsibility;
And yet, I don't want you to choose for me!

Viktor Frankl once said: "I recommend that the Statue of Liberty be supplemented by a Statue of Responsibility on the west coast." He understood that freedom and responsibility are opposite sides of the same coin -- for one to exist without the other puts the universe out of balance, and drives parents absolutely crazy!

Mick

Choices

It seems the distant crossroads heckle me,
As soon as I but step outside my door;
Though decisions await, I cannot see,
Their siren summons beckons all the more.
As wave on wave, the silent calls invite
The wanderer who lurks within my shell,
The crossroads lie in wait with still delight,
Anticipating one they know so well.
They wait because they know I hear their voice:
The silent, whispered summons that they sent.
They wait for me, to come and make a choice,
To choose among the options they present.
For without choices, life is but a trail,
Which leads us through a long and narrow jail.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Losing Face

2010-01-12T01:48:00.002-05:00

How sad it is that we so seldom, if ever celebrate noble failures. It seems the winner's circle is the only location where laurels are placed on the fair heads of leaders and heroes. Yet, the truth is that none of us is born speaking our mother tongue; none of us is born feeding ourselves; none of us is born ready to stride upon our own Earth. We learn even the most basic skills for communication and survival by trial and error. We mimic sounds until we connect them with meanings and talk. We get more food on our outsides than our insides until we discover how to eat. We wriggle, wobble, and fall until we perambulate on our own. We learn by failing and correcting our mistakes.

Somewhere along the journey from childhood, we lose the facility to lose and take it in stride as a learning experience. Winning becomes the only acceptable outcome, and making a mistake becomes a crime punishable by the self-destruction of our self-image and self-worth. Humility is lost in the arrogance of the winner and our total focus on the downside. Fear of losing face overrides any accomplishments, and the silver medal becomes a millstone about the neck, instead of recognition of one's achievement. No failure is truly a total loss if we learn from it, and practice the noble art of losing face.

Mick

Losing Face

For anyone as arrogant as me,
A failure was a cataclysmic fall —
An object lesson in humility,
A sad, heartbreaking, final curtain call.
That is, until the day I really failed,
And silently prepared to weep hot tears;
To grieve about my shining pride, impaled
Upon the lance of failure and of fears.
Twas then I learned a truth I can't deny:
Despite embarrassment, I still was me;
Despite chagrin and pain, I did not die.
I stumbled on a strange reality:
My greatest fear of all was losing face,
Until I learned to fail with humble grace.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Guardian

2010-01-08T00:23:00.003-05:00

As readers of my poems over the years are well aware, I believe in angels. I believe they whisper in our dreams and our musings, gently nudging us toward the path less traveled, for down the easy road lie shadows and troubles. Attuned to the sudden and awful needs of the human heart, our guardian angels watch and whisper and weep, as their gentle ministrations often have little or no effect against the power of our darkest emotions.

It comforts me to believe that guidance and might, though blocked from my sight, hover a mere heartbeat away, to hold me up on my darkest day. Some have brushed it off as wishful thinking, or simple stories told when I was a child. Rational minds and mysteries are not good neighbors, for upon each meeting battle must ensue. And yet, the mysteries persist, and it is within this grand persistence that my belief makes its home.

It is here that wonder and whispers relate the grim and joyless tales of guardians torn by the rending of human lives in the name of religion, ideology, or greed. I have pondered what depths of grief are possible for beings whose joy can soar beyond the stars...

Mick

Guardian

He soared freely over a snowy field,
His hair a living torch of golden thread;
Powerful, so even the sun must yield,
Yet, dimmed because upon his heart was dread --
An apprehension felt quick as a wink,
And from afar he'd sensed much was amiss,
For human souls were balanced on the brink,
The razor edge of the deepest abyss.
A man with sacrifice upon his mind,
Would end his life to steal more precious souls.
The guardian whispered words peaceful and kind,
But could not sway the martyr from his goals.
As bomber and his victims swiftly died,
The angel bowed his golden head and cried.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Strange

2009-12-22T23:36:00.003-05:00

My favorite time during the Christmas season is the silent afterglow — the quiet interlude after the Christmas Eve gathering, after the children (and grandchildren) have gone to bed in search of sugarplums and sweet Christmas dreams. Christmas Eve Mass is over, the pork pie and the homemade treats have been consumed, the television is off, and the fire has burned low, casting deep crimson shadows over the room — giving the softly glowing decorations and twinkling lights a new vibrancy and depth.

I gaze out the front window, and see the lights from our window reflected on the snow. Lights from neighbor's homes gleam through the dark and I know others are sharing the strange peace of late Christmas night.

My recliner beckons and I settle back to breathe in the subtle joy and silent peace of this holy night. My thoughts take flight and soar abroad on the winds of the night, under a canopy of stars above and lights below, adrift and borne aloft upon the peaceful silence of Christmas night.

Mick

Strange

Strange how my heart beats,

In time with twinkling Christmas lights.

Soft falling snow meets,

With brilliant beams in darkest nights.

Strange how my soul flies,

Abroad on wings of Christmas love.

Rapt as my heart cries,

Aloud to distant stars above.

Aloft on wings of gossamer and lace,

I fly in search of Christmas love and grace.

Strange how my thoughts fly,

Away on silver gilded wings -

Drift in the night sky,

To find His peace above all things.

As silently I plead with God above,

To shower us with Heaven's joyous love.

Strange how my tears glow,

And shine in joy with inner light,

For those I love now,

Asleep in peace on Christmas night.

Mick McKellar

November 2009

Bleak and Blue

2009-12-15T10:22:00.004-05:00

Frozen feet stomp through the drifting waves of winter's bounty. Frigid fingers vainly try to grasp the slippery handle of a familiar old shovel or scuffed and battered snow scoop. Gloves or mittens inside choppers (leather mittens) make deft hands clumsy and uncertain. Parkas or heavy coats restrict movement of arms and shoulders, making simple work more difficult. Hoods and hats keep the snow and wind from freezing your face and ears, but muffle sounds and create a kind of tunnel vision. It is like dancing in a sleeping bag.

And how does only six inches of fluffy white stuff become so heavy? There are days that I swear the snow propagates after falling on the ground. Wind drifts of white appear over night, filling in all the paths I cleared yesterday, or even a few hours ago. The snow plow opens our street by pushing the snow from the road into yards and driveways, creating new drifts of hard-packed and heavy detritus which must be moved or we will be sealed into our wintry redoubt. Thus begins the daily dance of the bleak and blue warriors, greeting the snowy morn with shovel in hand, battling the icy white breath of winter's curse, and dreaming of warm socks and hot coffee.

Mick

Bleak and Blue

Dark wintry silence pierced by screams of rage:
The roar of mountain lions stomped by cows,
Or snarling sounds produced by those my age,
Who find their driveways filled-in by snow plows!
There in the bleakest hour of early morn,
Though muffled by the falling flakes of white,
The sounds of aging tendons being torn,
Rip through the ragged remnants of the night.
Dark shadows armed with shovels flail about,
Though dimly viewed though curtains pale and cold,
Move countless tons of frozen rainfall out
Of paths and driveways, as we watch unfold
The deep midwinter icy action show,
All bleak and blue and buried in the snow.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Flawed, too

2009-12-08T13:49:00.003-05:00

When I wrote the poem Flawed, a reader remarked that the story seemed incomplete and wondered how it ended. I thought about it, and pondered on the complex interaction between those we view as "perfect" and the ardent fans that help create that myth of perfection. Is there a price to be paid for profiting from that perfection myth?

Although we have been told that those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it, again and again, we build castles for those we consider perfect, and then we evict them when they prove to be just as human as the rest of us. There is, of course, a price to be paid, an often steep and unpleasant price for riding high on the expectations of fans and those who worship at the image of perfection. The higher one climbs the further one has to fall.

It's more than Marley's chains, for he did not understand until after he was buried by old Scrooge. The meteoric rise and sometimes cataclysmic crash and burn of so many celebrities, should teach us something about perfection: It is a marvelous motivator and a grand goal, but anyone who thinks he has achieved it is a fool; an anyone who trades on his perfection is merely polishing his fool's gold.

Mick

Flawed, too

When a perfect man, on a perfect day,
Discovered his life had a tiny flaw,
He greeted the flaw in his perfect way,
Inviting his friends to see what he saw.
He capered about in a perfect dance,
And sang a glad song in his perfect voice.
He sang: “At last, I have a perfect chance,
To make a perfectly wonderful choice!”
He placed the small flaw on his mantelpiece,
In perfect balance with his grand decor.
“And, at last I shall know the perfect peace —
With joy I have never known before!”
For, although he could talk, cry, sing and shout,
He’d had nothing at all to talk about…

His attitude changed when his friends came by,
And they saw his tiny flaw on display.
Some screamed in outrage, and others did cry:
"Oh, how can you disappoint us this way?"
"You were our idol, our role-model king;
We held you up for our daughters and sons,
And now you display this imperfect thing —
A thing from which any perfect man runs!"
Some media pundits made it a joke,
And others called it a conspiracy.
Some assumed he must be perfectly broke,
And badly needed the publicity.
He looked sad at how his flaw was received,
But secretly, was perfectly relieved.

When that perfect man, on that perfect day,
Put his flaw on display for all to see,
He knew there were legends he would betray,
And myths he'd destroy almost perfectly.
Though the myths were not his, he'd let them grow,
And profited from perfection for sale;
But now he had let his ardent fans know,
Of the tiny flaw in his perfect tale.
Rich, lonely, and tired, he had given in
To impulse, and shared the truth of his lie;
For he had discovered to his chagrin,
That perfection's price, was simply too high
To run away from, though he traveled far...
For the gravy train has a baggage car.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Flawed

2009-12-07T01:13:00.003-05:00

No one on this planet is perfect. However some of us think we are or want to give the impression we are, and do not want to hear that we've made a mistake. Just imagine if one were perfect, flawless, peerless...what on Earth could one have a conversation about?

Ask any author about his best or most popular characters. Are they perfect in every way? Nah. They would be so boring, the readers would leave in droves. The best heroes are the flawed heroes. What challenge is there when the protagonist has all the best tools, the best breaks, and never makes a mistake? What does he or she have to overcome? How can I possibly relate to a character too perfect to be human? Even the most alien characters in science fiction or fantasy literature have human characteristics, mostly human flaws. It is what allows us to relate, to understand, and to feel for them. The same is true for parents, bosses, and leaders of all sorts.

Mick

Flawed

When a perfect man, on a perfect day,
Discovered his life had a tiny flaw,
He greeted the flaw in his perfect way,
Inviting his friends to see what he saw.
He capered about in a perfect dance,
And sang a glad song in his perfect voice.
He sang: "At last, I have a perfect chance,
To make a perfectly wonderful choice!"
He placed the small flaw on his mantelpiece,
In perfect balance with his grand decor.
"And, at last I shall know the perfect peace —
With joy I have never known before!"
For, although he could talk, cry, sing and shout,
He'd had nothing at all to talk about...

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Tools

2009-12-05T01:32:00.004-05:00

Two native Americans were talking as they passed through a forest glade. The older fellow stopped his young companion and told him a story about two white men who met on a street in town. One white man asked. "Are you hungry?" The other white man looked at his watch.

The two native Americans laughed until they were too weak to walk.

Henry David Thoreau said: "Men have become the tools of their tools." In many ways, those were prophetic words. It seems nearly every aspect of our daily lives is regulated, timed, assisted, or controlled by one or more of a myriad collection of technological tools. I remember starting my work day by turning on an office copier and placing my document in the feeder. I pressed the "Go" button. The machine beeped an incredibly irritating beep, and on the small LCD screen the words, "Not Ready" appeared. An image sprang to mind of tiny workers, inside the photocopier, on coffee break and saying, "Not Ready!"

How often, when my alarm goes off in the dark winter morning, I have wanted to just roll over and say, "Not Ready!" I've lost count. Now, excuse me, for I have to post to Twitter and Facebook, that I've written another poem...

Mick

Tools

How many times do I eat by the clock,
Or stand by the door to wait for my mail;
Or sit with patience of weathered old rock,
And wait for release from my e-mail jail?
Obediently, I watch TV news,
Ensconced in my chair at the proper hour.
When did I give up my personal views,
And grant to the media such power?
My car tells me it needs water and oil,
And the microwave, that dinner is through.
My alarm clock wakes me, in time to toil,
And my calendar tells me what to do.
Perhaps, our technology makes us fools,
For we have become the tools of our tools.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Dark Side

2009-12-03T13:29:00.003-05:00

Mark Twain said: "Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." Like the dust we sweep beneath our carpets, the junk food snacks we hold behind our backs, and the tales we tell ourselves when we're alone—we keep our guilty pleasures and self-indulgent treasures locked away in shadow, alongside the unfounded myths and unfriendly monsters we all must master or hide from view.

Throughout our lives, we move among others, orbiting some and capturing others in our own gravity wells. Attracted and repelled, spinning in the midst of myriad points of light, we match rotation with each orbit and show only the one face—the friendly and familiar, or fierce and stormy face we carefully cultivate and swiftly sculpt for each encounter. The shades that lurk among the penumbral confines of our hidden hemispheres dance alone in perpetual midnight, a cursed cotillion rarely shared and shamefully concealed. And yet, within that dark dance are diamonds—crystalline thoughts and clear, starlit gems which, once shared, might save a soul or enlighten a life. Light, even reflected and refracted, can dispel shadows and illuminate the darkest path.

Mick

Dark Side

Within our spheres of influence we spin,
In orbits tracing subtle paths since birth,
And hiding secret memories, within
The shadows that we cast upon the Earth.
As with our queen, afloat in starlit sky,
Rotation-matched, we show but one bright face;
And never think to ask or seek to spy,
What monsters dwell in that dark, hidden place.
Or are there treasures lurking far from sight,
Beyond the bright horizon of your orb?
Perhaps a truth too large to grasp aright,
Or far too many secrets to absorb.
I ask you grant me one unearthly boon:
To let me glimpse the dark side of your moon.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Against the Gale

2009-11-16T11:49:00.003-05:00

Bertrand Russell said, "In the part of this universe that we know there is great injustice, and often the good suffer, and often the wicked prosper, and one hardly knows which of those is the more annoying." Having the courage to stand up and take action against this grand annoyance is the hallmark of those who have a deep sense of self, and who treasure authenticity and integrity.

Discovery of self is a mantra — one of those "tools of power" so often at the center of self-improvement schemes. Yet, I believe we spend a large part of our lives hiding from ourselves, because we cannot or will not face the truth of the evils which live in the shadows around us. It is a perfect storm of suffering which threatens to inundate us all, a tsunami crashing upon us from the ocean of tears we, ourselves, created. Perhaps, in standing against that storm, we can discover who we are and what we are. Perhaps, by standing on the shoals near the dark shore, we can face down the terrible storm and find the beauty of the world.

Dr. Seuss saw the truth of the matter: "Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."

Mick

Against the Gale

The beauty of the world is testament,
That suffering cannot be at the core.
Yet although evil is not heaven-sent,
Mankind hides in its shadows all the more:
Seeking to deny the truth in caring,
And hiding from compassion in their souls,
Focusing on self, and never daring
To face the tear-filled ocean from its shoals;
These victims of impatience and ennui,
Will seek out those who stand and face the storm —
Who understand the challenges they see,
And seek to deviate far from the norm!
Although their feet may rest on shifting sand,
Against the gale they have courage to stand.

Mick McKellar
November 2009

Voices in the Noise

2009-11-12T00:09:00.003-05:00

Tinnitus is the most constant of companions. Though I can ignore it when louder noises penetrate the shimmering curtain of white noise, the hissing—reminiscent of static on old amplifiers and tube radio sets—is always there to fill any void left by those moments of complete and utter silence I dreaded as child. Now they seem a treasure beyond reach, a shadowed memory of the times before noise.

My family tires of televisions and radios set to high volume, so that I can separate the dialog from the music score on movies and television shows, or pick out the lyrics on a favorite song. Mostly, I miss singing reliably, for the notes playing in my head are usually not the ones I am supposed to deliver. It can be confusing.

Sometimes, as I try to sleep, I think I can hear distant voices in the hissing veil of sound, like radio stations just out of reach. They might be there, but I am not certain. Like watching the snow on the television when the cable goes out, ghost images and spectral sounds are created in the overloaded senses by a imaginative mind. I wonder if I could dream about silence?

Mick

Voices in the Noise

The scale of the problem's beyond belief;
The hissing and ringing are far too great.
The realm of dreams is my only relief,
In the true redoubt of unconscious state.
Awake, I embrace life's deafening roar;
Grieving for quiet, so long departed
That I doubt I would know it any more—
For silence left town when this stuff started.
Though sopranos may soar, up to the sky,
With altos swift following, on the trail,
And tenors are wailing, wondering why
The basses have dropped off the bottom scale;
I can no longer join in the singing:
I have to answer—my ear is ringing!

Mick McKellar
November 2009

Some Things Never Change

2009-11-10T01:58:00.002-05:00

Foot-sore Fox and Ribald Rabbit are back. My old friends materialized out the dust of forgotten roads and the seldom traveled pathways in my mind. I have not visited with them since 2005, perhaps because I have not needed their council and their peculiar points of view...until now.

Although careworn and ragged, the pair seemed in good spirits and came bearing the gifts of friendship, knowledge, wisdom, and most importantly, donuts. The years and the layers of dust melted away with the flavors of the dark, rich, and bitter coffee and the sweet glazed goodness of fresh donuts. It may have been the breakfast of champions, but it was the bitter-sweet reunion of old souls on their journey.

Mick

Some Things Never Change

The Foot-sore Fox had been hanging around,
And watching me work in my living room;
Just as long as he did not make a sound,
My anger would not encompass his doom.

When he and the Ribald Rabbit came back,
To haunt my house and my breakfast table,
I decided to cut them both some slack,
And help them out, as long as I'm able.

Still, at morning coffee, twas strange to see,
Midst hustle and bustle at start of day,
The small, friendly faces, grinning at me
In their down-home, frazzled, uncertain way...

They'd been on the road, their clothes still dusty;
The Rabbit's old dark sunglasses were smudged,
And the Fox's walking stick was rusty --
So, the pair had seen better days, I'd judged.

For sake of friendship and memories shared,
I welcomed the travelers to my home;
And they seemed surprised that I had still cared,
Because of dark places they'd had to roam.

This morning, they seemed energetic, spry,
Casting conspiratorial glances
At each other, making me wondered why,
And so I asked them, taking my chances.

Incredibly each one started to grin,
Laughing, giggling, and smirking brightly;
Fox reached for a bag that he had brought in,
And brought out a box, which he gave to me.

I thanked them, and said, at the very least,
To survive had taken a lot of guts.
I made coffee, and then we had a feast.
But the two of them ate the most donuts...

Mick McKellar
November 2009

I'd Love To...

2009-11-04T12:14:00.002-05:00

I remember looking out the back door, early on a summer's morning, when the sun's daybreak fire gleamed and sparkled from millions of dew drops on the grass. The desire to run barefoot through that shimmering sea of light tore at my heart, as I was forbidden to dance in the diamond light and soak my clothes or get my feet wet in the chilly dawn. The rules were clear and enforced. An adventure walking in cold rain led to pneumonia and a hospital stay. I learned.

There are so many things that, in my heart, I would love to do, to experience, to drink in. Yet, there is this small voice in the back of my mind, which warns me about letting go, about releasing preconceived notions about the world which exist to filter and buffer and protect. Nurture suppressing nature, I hesitate, and a moment is lost forever. Oh, I know there are a thousand urges and desires to fulfill, and a million wonders to experience — most of which are illegal, immoral, or fattening. Although my good sense and training restrains me from just letting go — the fact remains — I'd love to...

Mick

I'd Love To...

I'd love to play on the lawn,
But the grass is wet from morning dew:
Bright nervous tears shed at dawn,
By angels crying for me and you.

I'd love to stand in the rain,
But mother said I will catch a cold:
From teardrops falling in pain —
The sky depressed about growing old.

I'd love to jump in the snow,
But my boots will fill up with the stuff:
Memories frozen, to sow
Cloud-borne secrets grown heavy enough.

I'd love to walk with the wind,
But it's fingers will push me along:
Barristers sent, to rescind
Whispers voiced by its quicksilver song.

I'd love to lie in the sun,
But its hot touch will redden my skin:
Rivers of light swiftly run,
Softly warming where eddies sink in.

I'd love to shuffle through leaves,
But the wind will just blow them around:
Summer departs, Autumn grieves,
And their thick blanket covers the sound.

I'd love to listen to stars,
But the darkness calls to my spirit:
Music of the heavens jars
Loose the souls of all those who hear it.

I'd love to simply let go,
But I must surrender completely:
Allow my nature to show,
But my nurture simply won't let me.

Mick McKellar
November 2009

In Praise of Curmudgeons

2009-11-04T00:51:00.003-05:00

Well, someone has to speak up for us old curmudgeons. Were it not for the groaning and growling, the moaning and howling of noisy old curmudgeons, who would bother to consider that anything at all was wrong? Someone must step up to mention that the latest teen heart throb seems to have the IQ of a turnip. Someone has to point out that the latest fashions are designed for skeletons and stick people. Someone has to tell everyone that the cup is half empty because there is a hole in the bottom.

I have been called a curmudgeon by some folks. Maybe.

Webster defines a curmudgeon as: a crusty, ill-tempered, and usually old man. Other definitions include:

An ill-tempered person full of resentment and stubborn notions
A surly or miserly person
A crusty, irascible, cantankerous, old person full of stubborn ideas

Yeah, that's me -- although I prefer the adjectives sensitive, candid, and truthful. I guess it's all a matter of perceptions.

Mick

In Praise of Curmudgeons

I live in a world that may limit me,
Whether by custom, by fear, or by law,
If I don't try to be curmudgeonly -
Push others till their tempers are raw.
Although celebrity suffers a fool,
As long as charisma can pave the way
To the far, shallow end of the gene pool -
That swimmer has but a short time to stay.
For eventually that world will swell,
Past the darkling veil of hyperbole,
To touch the place where old curmudgeons dwell -
Who love beauty and creativity;
Who exhibit the wondrous quality,
Blending candor with great integrity.

Mick McKellar
November 2009

The Story of JOB

2009-11-03T00:27:00.003-05:00

It is perhaps the most common story in our country now. For me, it was the loss of a companion who traveled with me more than 41 years. We met when I was but 15 years old, and we traveled together with but two interruptions: a one-month forced separation in 2004 and a brutally sudden separation in January 2009, enforced by economic woes and geographic challenges.

Since then, I have contacted and visited with many friends and acquaintances who tell me that, although they have searched, they cannot help me find my friend JOB. I am now attempting to meet and work with new friends, so that I can help them with their needs and they can help me get along without my old friend JOB. Still, I search for him, at least three times each week...

Mick

The Story of JOB

Twas mystical times in the distant past,
In the dark, shadowed winter of my life,
When my old friend, JOB breathed his very last
Breath, and his loss pierced like a hunting knife.
More than mere friends, we were compatriots,
Inseparable during waking hours;
Sharing so much time, folks thought I was nuts,
And soon, I would be pushing up flowers.

But dear old friends soon came to my rescue,
And they helped make my old friend disappear.
They showed me the door, and what I should do,
So the door didn't hit me in the rear!
Yet, within a month, I missed my old friend,
For he made me feel both strong and alive;
And I grieved that our friendship had to end,
For without his support, I could not thrive.

I vowed to search and to find him again,
But he is elusive, so hard to find
That my other friends grow embarrassed when,
My questing words bring his absence to mind.
They know that I miss him, it's in their eyes -
A deep shadow in the dark of the moon;
And I hear it so clearly in their sighs:
They all hope that I find JOB very soon!

Mick McKellar
November 2009

Something out of Nothing

2009-10-30T15:24:00.002-04:00

Why are art and literature important to us and our growth as human beings? When we sculpt, when we paint, when we compose, when we sing, when we write a story, a lyric, or a poem — we create something out of nothing. What I love most about writing is reaching into the shadows in my mind and drawing forth an image to be described, a feeling to be shared, or a story to be told.

Best when shared for the first time and new to those who receive them, or better yet, are new to me as well — they seem to spring from deep inside — from places I have not visited or have no memory of visiting. They are creations: Children of my mind that spring from the only things I truly own: my thoughts, my memories, my feelings, and my imagination.

They can be triggered by the slightest thing, from a whisper to a shout, from the faintest touch to a slap upside the head — springing forth with the explosive energy of a sun gone nova or uncovered only by the patient efforts of a true believer — piece by piece and layer by layer. Is it just arrogance to believe then, that perhaps far within this process lies the gentle hands of a powerful partner — that the creator of the universe still inspires creation among his creations?

The rational mind says there is no proof that God's touch moves within and among us. Reason allows no belief where there is no hard evidence. Yet neither can reason allow for the spark of creation within the human mind, for there is no evidence of its source. There is no rationale for something out of nothing. And yet we create, we write, we sing, we paint, and we sculpt. There is joy in the gift of creativity, whatever its source.

I take solace and find both joy and peace in my arrogance, in creating something out of nothing.

Mick

Something out of Nothing

The faintest spark of light in blackest night,
A glimmer in the shadowed dusk of thought,
The merest feather touch of deep insight,
The dearest treasure that cannot be bought,
A movement in the corner of your eye,
A raindrop in an ancient silent pool,
A tiny speck of life high in the sky,
The sudden rise of wisdom from a fool,
The first time childish innocence asks why,
A single snowflake on a winter's eve,
A silent word that rises in the mind,
A story that your heart says to believe,
And you believe, in what you cannot find:
The touch of God, swiftly and silently
Inspires human creativity.

Mick McKellar
October 2009

Golden Light

2009-10-28T23:17:00.004-04:00

A day like today is a gem in the autumn coronet of the year. Soft and warm after a cool and foggy overture, it soaks like warm water into the chilled and frosty soil. The brilliant sunlight sets the golden foliage ablaze and lends a softly orange and brown patina to drifting and falling leaves.

Autumn's chill touch has spread the earthly slumber of cold nights across the land, but must retreat from the fiery gaze of the sun as its rays churn across the fields. Its tendrils tease the sleeping land to rouse, to once again feel life in trunk and limb and blade and stem. And though I know it will last but a few thousand heartbeats, I cannot help but feel hope for the surging life of spring, after the long sleep of winter. Here, on the very threshold of bitter cold and long dark nights, summer dances its last dance for 2009.

Mick

Golden Light

I love these sunny autumn days so much,
For in their brilliant afterglow, it seems
They reawaken thoughts of summer's touch,
Upon my slumbering and dormant dreams.
That here on winter's threshold, I can chance
Upon a splendid shining sunlit day;
When chilly winds turn wicked warm, and dance
Among the drifting leaves they blow away.
My heart goes forth, where I don't think it should.
I wish these halcyon hours could endure,
And that an ardent mystic artist, could
Paint them in memory both swift and sure:
Breezy, soft, and solemnly sylvan bright -
October's glowing days of golden light.

Mick McKellar
October 2009

Island

2009-10-23T21:52:00.004-04:00

I'm not entirely certain why John Donne's meditation popped up in my head tonight. I think it may have more to do with newspapers than nuanced pondering. We have been bludgeoned by bad economic news, frustrated by lack of solutions, and infuriated by political infighting for so long that some of us may feel the need to just drift away, across that sea of doubt and dismay, to a place insulated from the noise and (at least) seemingly under our control.

Hemingway's Islands in the Stream paints problematic pictures of those who seek idyllic isolation. Then the popular song lyrics sculpt an ideal landscape: Islands in the stream that is what we are. / No one's in between how can we be wrong? / Sail away with me to another world.

Simon and Garfunkel's I Am a Rock resonates with Keweenaw residents: A winters day / In a deep and dark December; / I am alone, / Gazing from my window to the streets below / On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow. / I am a rock, / I am an island.

Perhaps the final words of their song strike closest to home for writers like me: I have my books / And my poetry to protect me; / I am shielded in my armor, / Hiding in my room, safe within my womb. / I touch no one and no one touches me. . . . And a rock feels no pain; / And an island never cries. In the Keweenaw, especially in the winter, it is easy to feel isolated from the rest of the planet -- despite the invasive news broadcasts and the constant links by Internet, phone, and cable. The sheer physical immensity of the snow, the cold, and the winds make you feel small and sealed away beyond a ocean of doubt -- in a frozen, white redoubt.

I guess it is the conundrum of human nature -- to seek isolation and yet be connected to one another -- "because I am involved in mankind." Tonight, I write from my island in the snow.

Mick

Island

I'm an island in an ocean of doubt,
My own little kingdom, where I'm the boss.
There are bridges in, and some bridges out;
I decide who's allowed to come across.
I also decide who's allowed to stay,
To visit, or take up their residence --
Until I tell them to just go away,
Or I let them stay, but behind a fence.
I dug the channel that keeps us apart,
For more control and to keep things cooler.
That ocean of doubt helps protect my heart,
For I used to be so peninsular.
"No man is an island," said old John Donne,
But I know better because I am one...

Mick McKellar
October 2009

John Donne
Meditation XVII: No man is an island...

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

Dirt Clods and White Sound

2009-10-14T01:45:00.003-04:00

Memories are quicksilver, tricky and shiny and always coming and going. I know not where they reside when they're not visiting me, and I'm not certain I want to go visit them. While daydreaming this afternoon, I was suddenly transported to the bedroom I shared with my three brothers on Crown Street in Westland, MI. It was the end of a long summer day and the last trailing flickers of green and golden twilight were tracing lines on the blue walls of the room.

I was on my side, my head aching and my hearing temporarily replaced by a hissing noise, a white noise that blocked the other sounds of our house. My brothers and I had been waging a dirt-bomb war with a group of neighborhood kids. Near our house was a gravel pit that also had large hills of clay soil -- sun-baked and crumbling into pieces just big enough to throw at each other. They would explode when they hit an object like a rock, a tree, a back, a leg, or a head.

I caught a high-arching clay grenade in the right ear and went down like a felled tree. I was about ten years old, and a casualty of the Cady Street Clay Wars. I walked home, but was sent to bed because my ear was full of dirt and I couldn't hear very well. Mom always cleaned our cuts, scrapes, and various and sundry wounds with hydrogen peroxide, which would foam and help cleanse them. With cuts and abrasions, this usually hurt like the dickens. How was I to know it wouldn't hurt to float dirt clods out of my ear?

Mick

Dirt Clods and White Sound

Long green shadows of twilight on the wall,
Flickered as the sun and clouds collided.
I felt Mom's footsteps -- heard nothing at all;
Nothing but hissing white sound, provided
By a clay-bomb smashing into my head,
And packing my right ear with dusty dirt.
Cool fingers probed my ear, swollen and red,
And I moaned to let her know that it hurt.
She turned me over and smiled in my eyes,
But I saw the brown peroxide bottle,
And the room filled up with my frightened cries,
As my siren roared up to full throttle.
While I squirmed, and I tried to get away
From the foaming touch of peroxide's sting,
She pinned my head on the pillow to stay
Put, and poured cold liquid into the thing.
I stiffened, preparing my shrieks and cries,
As I felt the foam and bubbles billow,
But pain never came, and before my eyes,
The dirt clods fell right out on my pillow.

Mick McKellar
October 2009

A Hole in the Sky

2009-09-28T01:01:00.003-04:00

I'll admit it: I am spoiled. The warmth of this September has lulled my winter warning system to sleep, with promises of warm and colorful days, followed by cool and comfortable nights. Open windows have permitted sleep with the whisper of mid-summer's blessings in harmony with the first harvest songs of summer's end. Bright, sunny days tell tall tales of long warm nights that now linger only in memory and seem to promise abundance they cannot deliver.

Twilight shadows come to visit earlier each evening, but carry only cool winds and billions of brilliant stars. That was the dream, drowned in the gray dampness of the first true fall morn, the shadowy billows of moisture laden clouds adrift upon a river of Canadian air. The low gray brows of the scowling sky frown down upon my up-raised eye, and a tiny prayer escapes upon a whispered cry...Lord, let the sun shine through a hole in the sky...

Mick

A Hole in the Sky

On a dreary Sunday, cold-pizza dawn,
An iron gray sunrise slaps the window,
Makes steely mud of the dew on the lawn,
And drives the rain like a wind-blown shadow;
To pierce window pane, and chill my old heart
With darkling thoughts of old man winter's song.
Though Autumn's paintbrush has had a fair start,
The icy-blue rain light makes it look wrong.
The air feels heavy as chilled, soggy sand,
Or cold, wet laundry piled high on my chest —
This is not the morning that I had planned:
The warm, sunny start to my day of rest.
Lord, please warm my heart and brighten my eye,
Let the sun shine through a hole in the sky!

Mick McKellar
September 2009

Time and Tradition

2009-09-21T12:41:00.003-04:00

Understanding the need to reign in the ingrained desires to strike out when livelihood and survival are in jeopardy, does little to assuage the deeply-felt drives to provide and protect that are such a part of the human, and especially the male ego. Many men, myself included, were raised in the traditional system that taught us to judge our worth by how well we provide for our families and how well we can protect them from the elements, from attack, and from oblivion.

Knowing that collaboration, cooperation, and communication are fundamental attributes of the successful person in our current society does little to remove the urges arising from all those hours spent as a child learning and preparing to do battle with a hostile and uncertain world. Change is needed and it will happen, but it will take time to change, especially in a world that still holds dangers that may yet require us to test our mettle against aggression. It will take time to contain the drive to meet economic threats and even deprivation with that cold steel core which cries out to fight back with fists held high -- fueled by anger and fear.

Reason calls for its day in the sun and I hope we are all strong enough to grant its ascendancy.

Mick

Time and Tradition

My mind says I should talk.
My gut says I should fight.
But can I walk the walk
On paths I know are right?
The games I played in youth:
Always rough and tumbled -
Taught winning was the truth.
That losers will be humbled
On the sporting battlefield -
Where young men must excel,
And only weaklings yield;
And winners get to tell
The world that they are best!
Traditions long in-bred,
Are difficult to wrest,
From out the heart and head.

And now my world has changed,
My world-view modified;
My mind-set rearranged;
My prejudice denied.
But, I will need some space,
Some time, and yes, some slack.
For, though change runs apace,
My training holds me back:
I still need to provide;
I still need to protect.
Deep feelings I can't hide,
I'm certain to project.
I understand the needs,
To join the revolution,
But change will come at speeds
Of human evolution...

Mick McKellar
September 2009

Swim

2009-09-14T00:15:00.004-04:00

I wondered what a dolphin must think of the frenetic advance of man upon the planet we share. Are they intelligent enough to make a judgment about us? Is their intelligence so much lower, or simply too alien for us to understand? Science is certain we are smarter, but science was also certain that there were canals on Mars and that nothing smaller than atomic particles could exist. Yet, we stand now on a higher soap box, and can see further over the wall. We talk of terraforming Martian landscapes we have seen through the cameras of probes we sent to investigate and of matter constructed of vibrating strings of energy.

Douglas Adams said, "Humans think they are smarter than dolphins because we build cars and buildings and start wars etc., and all that dolphins do is swim in the water, eat fish and play around. Dolphins believe that they are smarter for exactly the same reasons." Is there perhaps a grain of soggy truth in his whimsy? Do we need to examine our actions, our efforts, our lives with the liquid lens of the minds of aquatic mammals we find so amusing?

Perhaps the world would be a better place if we took time to eat more fish, play around more, and swim...

Mick

Swim

I swim free and answer to none at all.
I spring from depth and dance above the waves.
I greet the sun while spinning in free-fall,
And dive to frolic in deep green sea caves.
You pound the Earth with feet covered in dust.
You build your structures, reaching to the sky.
You drive machines that quickly turn to rust,
And then devour each treasure that you pry
From deep within the mother's mantle fair.
While you rend her dear heart and scar her face,
You foul the water and pollute the air,
Dancing the dark dance of death without grace.
While you make war, believing you must fight,
I swim down deep and fear you may be right...

Mick McKellar
September 2009

Water

2009-09-01T01:39:00.004-04:00

It has been the wonder of my life that I am allowed to savor the liqueur, the small things, the daily cordial distilled from the mighty rush that inundates my mind. For it is in the details, in the tiny flecks of light that dance on the floor when summer morning light shimmers through the leaves and touches the dew on the window pane, and in the small sounds a loved one makes as her nightly dreams come to their sweet closure...in these and in the thousand thousand other whispers in the wind that I find the savory spice of my life.

Tonight, my throat parched and raw from a raucous rehearsal -- I filled a glass with simple, cool water and let the beautifully bland brandy of the sky slowly roll across my tongue and down my damaged throat. The feeling was exquisite -- Milton's luscious liquor in the raw -- aqua vitae for my tired and sleepy mind. Simple water -- simply wonderful!

Mick

Water

I sipped some ice-cold silver from my glass,
And let the lively liquid touch my tongue.
Its fragrance told me tales of wind-blown grass,
After the summer's storm song has been sung.
I tasted sky from which the fluid fell --
The flavor of the summer sun shined through,
A cloud-borne precious gift from Heaven's well,
That sparkled like the sunlight morning dew.
I slowly savored sips of nature's draught,
That flowed and floated, flooded, fell, and froze...
I thought of all this silliness and laughed,
Which forced my liquid treasure out my nose!
I loved it, though I choked, near fit to drown,
Because it tasted so good going down.

Mick McKellar
September 2009