Wordy

Improving my vocabulary,

I selected deft and chary,

Words unerring and unknown.

Writing to both friends and lovers,

This priggish pedant discovers,

It's best to use simple language if you want your message shown.

Mick McKellar
August 2026

Sunday Spring Dreaming

My  dream crawled through my mind's attic door,
timid and tremulous, fearing I would fall.
Would I misstep, kiss the dusty old floor,
and lie helpless, unable to rise at all? 

Alas, too weak to dance and prance 
among boxes, mirrors, trunks, and cases, 
I shuffled and tiptoed the tinnitus dance,
hissing and shushing, through piles of old places.

Baleful, my gaze raked shelves of old dreams --
packed with plans and roles and paintings unhung, 
empty pages, and poems, and unfinished reams 
of fierce stories untold and sweet songs unsung.

I wandered, I wobbled, and brushed a dark window,
Releasing a sunbeam that lanced through the dark.
I followed its beam through dolorous shadow,
It struck an old mirror with a rainbow spark.

I glanced in that glass and what did I see?
The face of my father scowled back at me!

I suddenly woke in my rocking chair, 
Warm from the sun and the afternoon air... 
And made plans for spring cleaning then and there.

Mick  McKellar

May 2026 

Winter Wind

Don’t let the winter white wind take my name.
Don’t let my voice be lost among the drafts
That sift my words until they sound the same,
And drive the cold through wall and window paths.
Don’t let the drifting dust of time deface,
Or hide the flashing twinkle in my eye,
The one that lights the wreckage of my face,
Or flares as the campfire’s last embers die.
Don’t let my warmth be wasted in the cold.
Hug me close and share what I can give.
When young, I shared too little -- now, I’m old,
And time grows short for me to share and live.
I want to share my love until my death,
Until the winter wind steals my last breath.

Mick McKellar
January 2026

Bridge In extremis

In my dreams I follow paths untrodden,
Leading me to places long forgotten,
Or hidden from the view of prying eyes
Beyond dark water, wind, and crying skies.
The strangest of my dream journeys it seems,
Are those that cross the Bridge of Broken Dreams.

It floats alone in mists of tattered night,
A glowing span of wood, shimmering white.
When the bridge appears, my dream paths merge.
My feelings and my need to touch it surge,
And as my hands and my bare feet arrive,
I know at once the white bridge is alive!

Sometimes I only stand there, connected
As my love and lifeforce is directed
With both amazing care and lightning speed,
To another suffering soul in need.
And rarely I am asked to cross the span,
To walk a living bridge as best I can.

Last night I felt an urgent call to walk
Upon that mighty span that cannot talk.
Walked a long way, until I was spying,
Fuzzy globes of men and women crying
For their loss of freedom, country, rights,
Seen in their broken dreams on fretful nights.

As shaken and disturbed I turned to leave,
The bridge had taken hold of my left sleeve.
Now, out beyond the confines of the bridge,
Were fractured nightmares of the privileged.
The winners of the contest for the world,
Lost sleep as fears of losing it unfurled.

I thought our journey ended in this place,
But now the bridge arched up toward outer space!
From there I saw the dreams of all mankind.
I saw the wonder, peace, and joy they find
When they release the worries of their days,
To visit Heaven in so many ways.

At last the simple message crossed my mind,
The truth the Bridge of Broken Dreams defined:
The cheating of the oligarchs might win,
And some of us will suffer and give in.
They’ll struggle to control their sad bounty,
But in our dreams each one of us is free!

Mick McKellar
September 2025

Squishy

Today is squishy.

Not wet and sloppy...

Quaggy, maybe, 

But not blooty or sticky.

A day to savor my recliner,

In the main room

Of a bouncy house,

And to snack on the crisp, cold air

Of an uncertain Spring.

In the shivery last touch

Of a Keweenaw Winter.

Mick McKellar

May 2025

Canyon Fall

On a hazy day in late upland spring,
I swam through clouds of noseeum bugs,
And balanced to walk on the razor's edge
of the rock wall that Canyon Falls hugs.

My old running shoes wiggled and wobbled,
They were teetering and to and fro.
To balance the extra baggage I bore,
On a frame only couches know.

The shifting stones made very little noise,
when they broke and separated.
I sensed no danger and shifted my weight,
To the foot whose redoubt had skated.

I felt myself go in motion so slow,
My legs shot out from under me.
I looked at the glistening rocks below,
Gritting my teeth for catastrophe.

Panic set in, then surprise and chagrin.
I uttered an animal sound.
I drifted, a leaf afloat on the wind,
Riding on drafts to the ground.

My drop was slow, as though falling through snow.
Until I lay on the river bank,
And though wet, I had no damage to show,
And the mystery of who I should thank.

I stood stock still on the slick river shore.
I pondered for a little time.
I wanted to thank someone, more and more,
As out I endeavored to climb.

To this day I still don't know who saved me,
Who slowed my fall through the air.
Though I'll never be sure who they might be,
I think that my Angel was there.

Mick McKellar
May 2025

Stinky Cheese

During the years I worked for Social Security, I spent many hours visiting clients in nursing homes and medical care facilities. There is an odor that permeates such facilities -- one I came to  think of as the smell of advanced age. As I advance, I fear developing that characteristic...

Stinky Cheese

The silent passing wind in our abode,
Leaves more than saintly treacle in its wake:
A distant dance of offal a la mode,
In league with moldy stockings -- baked in cake.
Like all creatures that venture forth to die,
Our species slowly ripens without cease.
Seasoned with sun and salted when we cry,
We age akin to wheels of stinky cheese.
Active in our youth, we mix with others,
Homogenous, we seek to be the same.
Time brings differences with sisters, brothers,
And others, as we all seek who to blame.
You may call it character, if you please,
But winds of change have made us stinky cheese.

Mick McKellar
January 2025

Stones

I stand knee deep in the lake of my days,
And gather a stone for each memory,
Some jagged and sharp in a hundred ways,
Some are worn smooth or are polished by me.

A few are so large they are hard to hold,
And the tiny ones slip through my fingers.
Moss covers many, having grown so old,
Though the weight of their impact still lingers.

Time and the waves push and roll in and out,
Smoothing sharp edges of sorrow and pain,
Helping me gather my stones all about,
To treasure each memory once again.

Mick McKellar
December 2024

Sky Music

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

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

Mick McKellar
November 2024

Please Tell Me Why the Media Are Mad

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

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

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

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

Mick McKellar
November 2024

A Whisper and a Song

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

Mick McKellar
October 2024

I Listen to the Politicians Speak

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

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

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

Mick McKellar
October 2024

Fairy Circle

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

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

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

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

Mick McKellar
September 2024
 

No Crisis

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

Mick McKellar
September 2024

Intelligence

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

Mick McKellar
September 2024

Incredibly Ancient Monkey

I looked at my deck,

And thought, what the heck

Is that pile of rags and wood?

Then my eyeballs popped,

And my breathing stopped,

When it moved like no junk pile should.

Slowly it rose,

On prehensile toes,

And quickly began to take shape.

Rags became clothes,

A face with a nose --

It looked like a 6 foot ape!

Out popped a tail,

That grabbed a side-rail,

And steadied him on his two feet.

Now I knew more,

As I opened the door,

T’was a monkey I was to meet.

“Hello,” I said brightly,

Smiling politely.

“Hello,” said a voice deep and mellow.

“Friends call me Mick.”

“IAM!” he said quick,

Extending a hand like a pillow.

“You are who?” I inquired.

He smiled, looking tired.

“My name is Iam (sounding spunky),

It’s a description

An abbreviation

For Incredibly Ancient Monkey…”

“I once was a tree,

And a vast prairie.

I lived as a whale and a shark.

I flew through the air,

Looked down from there,

And I rode on Noah’s crowded ark.”

“I sleep for a while,

As an old debris pile,

That nobody looks at twice.

But, when need is near,

That’s when I appear

To offer my aid and advice!”

“Remember this rule

Not to look the fool:

Nobody else can see me.

Nor can they hear,

When I am near.

So don’t introduce your new buddy.”

“I need to inquire,

Build my knowledge higher,

Until it burns blinding bright.”

With that, he’s gone.

I’m standing alone,

And shaking from sudden fright.

I turned around.

Went in, sat down.

I wondered if I’m a wreck.

I wracked my brain,

But can’t explain

The monkey fur on my deck…

Mick McKellar

August 2024

Shadows of Love

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

Mick McKellar
July 2024

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

Mick

Heliophobia

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

Mick McKellar
June 2024

Moonlight

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

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

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

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

Mick McKellar
June 2024

Making Do

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

Mick McKellar
June 2024