Shuttered

Do the freedom and "connectivity" of electronic communication have a dark side? Although the Internet revolution has done much to connect our minds across vast distances, it has done much to help dig deeper the abyssal separating us, soul from soul. The advertisements say to "reach out and touch someone." Maybe they're right, in a way -- it is possible to touch someone in a spiritual sense -- but not in the immediate, personal, frighteningly physical contact so much a part of what connects us to our lives and our reality.

Maybe it's the lack of this contact, this sharing of physical space, which cuts off so many of us from our humanity. Maybe it's the lack of presence that allows some of us to dispassionately harm those we cannot know as fellow travelers and companions on life's journey. Perhaps, it is the doom and bane of prophets, pariahs, and poets to always remain apart from the vision viewed distant and hazy through the veil. Perhaps what frees the spirit imprisons the soul.

Mick

Shuttered

A prophet sitting in darkness arrayed,
A denizen bathed in silence and gloom,
I foresee a bright future, but afraid
Of life, I cannot leave the shuttered room.
I've lived long alone in quiet despair,
Fear my companion, both frigid and fierce;
A knife in my heart with each look out there,
Dying a little with each poignant pierce.
I see you distant - a welcoming sight,
Shining like silver in deepest shadow,
A light blazing bright in the velvet night,
And painful, as only shuttered souls know.
I understand that you might give a damn,
But I cannot let you see who I am.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Inside the Silence

I have often wanted to ask others, "Where do you go, when you wake in the morning?" Oh, I'm sure the question would elicit blank stares and quizzical knotting of eyebrows at first, but it is a valid question. Upon waking from the world of dreams, we all must travel from that warm and protected realm to the challenging and even harsh realities of making a living and living a life. I wonder, however, how many travel instantly to the plastered, polluted, and polyestered planet on which we make our daily journey, and how many find a quieter path to the doorway to each day.

For me, I abhor sudden immersion in the work-a-day challenges and battles, the siren sounds and chaotic claxons, the negatives and negotiations of life among my fellow travelers. I get up early enough to ease past the transition by walking slowly inward, to revisit my silent redoubt, a day's dawn reminder that there is sweet peace to be found in the heart of my mind. The dawn's pledge to chase away the shadows of night, leaps to light in my morning sight, and I find the will to move ahead, waiting for me, inside the silence...

Mick

Inside the Silence

The chilly gray dawn and the morning air,
Cradle my waking in silence and peace.
The day's certain chaos is not yet there;
No payment yet due on sanity's lease.
As my eyes caress the still, silent dawn,
And consciousness willingly wanders out,
Pondering tiny footprints on the lawn -
Traced in the snow blanket scattered about.
It's then I open my heart to the day,
Accepting the pledge of new risen light,
That whatever problems may come my way,
I've a haven from the shadows of night:
The infinite world of peace that I find,
Inside the sweet, silent heart of my mind.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Touch of Frost

Gothic, monolithic, and gaunt - the stately old sandstone buildings of the Keweenaw stand resolute against spring's thaw, summer's sun, autumn's rain, and winter's chill. Harsh and violent, soft and deadly the elements seek to etch away the facade of each building - cracking ancient paint, chipping stone, splitting the strongest wood by action of wind and water. Stained stone joined to advanced craquelure and laced with lichen's fairy dance, the weathered and unbeaten faces of our buildings endure the scrutiny of passing travelers - faces at once handsome and austere, distinguished with just a touch of white...

Could they speak, what might they tell us of their fear, their future, and their fate?

Mick

Touch of Frost

My bones are tough as iron and hard as stone,
And I have weathered many winter gales
Both fierce and adamant; I stand alone
As chronicler of lonely winter tales.
Though sun and ice and rain my stone may etch,
And cause my very skin to flake away -
As sun and dark contract my bones, and stretch
My joints until they leave me ashen gray;
Though spring's upheavals shake me to my roots,
And I get burned by summer's fiery ball -
The autumn's windy hands my treasure loots,
And winter is the cruelest time of all:
Allergic to the faintest touch of frost,
I quietly endure, and count the cost...

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Frosting

Maybe it explains why I tend to gain weight in the winter. I looked out my window and groaned - white here, white there, white, white everywhere! The first snow of the season touches that tiny fear of winter's cold breath searching out every crack in my house and turning my floors into icy paths for bare morning feet. It is the season of the long, cold sleep and longer, colder, darker -- seemingly endless nights.

But for some reason, it also stirs images of frosted cakes and gingerbread houses covered in white icing, whipped cream drifts, and soft powdered sugar. Who would have thought Jack Frost had a sweet-tooth?

Mick

Frosting

Marshmallow drifts softly melted on stones,
Slowly cover grass, wherever they can.
Blanketed cars become white-dusted scones,
Parked near buildings bright-trimmed in marzipan.
Dancing trees shake thick white frosting from limbs,
Sweetening layers of ice cream below;
Shimmering winds singing soft winter hymns,
Scatter the translucent, crystalline snow.
Though reds and golds are now covered with white,
And chilly wind fingers are so unkind,
I'm wondering why the cold wintry sight,
Brings such sweet confections springing to mind -
Once the warm caramel winds of July,
Blow confectioners sugar from the sky.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Timelord: Unstuck

I'm only guessing, but I believe that we all, from time to time, think of ourselves as masters of our domains and lords of our time. In that secret place of mirrored walls, soft shadows, and rose-washed illumination; that private redoubt of personal power wherein we feel both large and in-charge; we each rule supreme and stand alone, arms akimbo and locks flowing in the winds of self-assurance. There each can feel free and able to reach out from the center of that personal universe to guarantee peace, truth, justice, and the American way...

Truth be told, none of us stands completely alone. We all work for someone, or answer to some higher authority for our actions or inactions. Our connection to others is what holds us in place and keeps us so fortunately stuck in time...

Mick

Timelord: Unstuck

I like to believe I'm Lord of my time,
And that I hold sway over what I do.
Yet, I wouldn't earn a dollar or dime,
Should I others' needs and orders eschew.
"We all work for someone," a wise one said.
Even the richest man in the world,
Depends on others to help earn his bread.
Without them, his flag cannot be unfurled,
And he remains quite unknown and alone...
A leader sans followers cannot lead -
Like a muscle without tendon or bone -
Cannot achieve what he may want or need:
A timelord who's disconnected, unstuck;
Out of time, out of power, out of luck.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Downloaded...

At one time or another, we all live vicariously. Sometimes, it's just a flight of fancy, or identification with the hero in a favorite movie. Sometimes, it's watching children and grandchildren experience the rigors and wonders of growing and learning about life. But I wonder about the possibility of getting lost in a virtual world.

I work in an office, sometimes. I work at home, sometimes. However, I spend the majority of my working hours immersed in the flickering light of a computer screen, my thoughts traveling at incredible speeds across a network unimaginable when I was growing up. I dawned on me, as I was waiting for my e-mail to download, that I spend a lot of time waiting for information to download to my screen and then (sometimes longer) for it to download to my brain. Often it's as though I were afloat on an ocean of information (often only an inch deep) in a paper boat full of matches. At other times, however, I ponder getting lost out there, left behind in a dark place, waiting because I lost the connection to my life...

Mick


Downloaded

In the daily online commuter race,
I'm often the first one out of the gate.
If I don't win, I at least show, or place,
Unless an unforeseen crash makes me late.
But is this a life, this online struggle?
Am I living, here on the Internet?
Is there a warm place out here to snuggle?
Or will I finish angry and upset,
Found stranded alone in the online night -
On an isolated unmarked byway;
A block and a half, just past the stoplight,
Off the information superhighway?
I feel I'm stuck at the side of the road,
While I'm waiting for my life to download.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

The Secret of Snow

Soon, there will be layers of white wool covering the hills and filling the valleys of the Keweenaw. The sharp angles of the land and the complex tangle of the forest will soften, perhaps even disappear under a deep blanket of silent white. Winter's bite is sharp and her teeth are long and cold. Her touch can be death to those who walk warm in the sun - a frightening thought for all save those who know that the little death of winter is the wellspring of summer's riot of life.

The soft, white secret of snow's place in the passionate cycle of life is a silent shadow in the dark thoughts of those who live in warmer climes. A poet's soul, touched by the cold fingers of winter's white hand, instinctively senses the secret garden of life, sleeping under the season's silent white blanket...

Mick

The Secret of Snow

A northern winter's a season of death,
For those blinded by an unseeing heart;
Feeling only the north wind's icy breath,
As the warm colors of Autumn depart.
Gray clouds scud past when November winds blow,
Gathering moisture when crossing the lake;
Carrying water of life, and below -
Leaving white petals afloat in their wake.
Soft falling snow has a silent power,
Whispering white of the seeds of green spring.
It accumulates hour by quiet hour,
Wherein distant echoes of summer sing;
In a private place only poets know -
A secret garden of life in the snow.

Mick McKellar
November 2007