Look Back, Come Back

I walk a lot -- for my health, for stress release, and to enjoy good music or a good audiobook. Near my home, in Calumet Township, I must walk on the road near the curb, because we have no sidewalks. I usually walk against traffic, and in the winter must often move to the side, and on occasion climb a snow bank to avoid on-coming traffic. I have had several close calls in the winter months, but none in the spring or summer...until tonight.

Two kids on a off-road four wheeler very nearly ran me down on the highway at about 8:05 this evening. They came from behind me, the engine of their vehicle screaming, torqued to the red-line, and weaving in and out of the traffic lane as the driver struggled to control the machine. At the sound, I looked behind me and dove for the curb as they flashed past me. As I hit the pavement, I saw the passenger turn to look back and then turn away as they screamed over the crest of the hill toward Lake Linden, and out of my sight.

Getting back on my feet, embarrassed at my less-than-fluid fall, I looked about to waive off any help coming my way. There was none. It seemed my break dance on the blacktop went totally unnoticed, except perhaps by the pillion rider on the ORV. As I limped home on a twisted ankle and injured pride, I wondered what went through the mind of the 10-12 year old on the machine and if he felt anything at all about the near tragedy during their wild and undisciplined careen down the highway.

The following flashed through my mind in those seconds, therefore I wrote it as free verse.

Mick


Look Back, Come Back

I saw you look back at me.
Just as the concrete rose
To give my butt a gravelly kiss;
And once again remind me,
That gravity's rules rule absolutely -
That it is not the fall that hurts,
But the sudden stop at the end.

I wonder what you saw,
Twisting and dancing,
In and out of the traffic lane,
Astride a four-wheeled wasp -
Its heart screaming and buzzing,
As you flashed past the grey man
Silently pacing the curb.

I saw you turn away,
And wondered, did you see?
Did you see an old man fall,
And hit the pavement's concrete wall?
Did you see anything at all?
I saw you turn away,
As if to say goodbye.

I wonder what you feel...
Does it add to your renown,
To nearly run an old man down?
Is your focus so narrow and small,
That you feel not a thing at all?
I'll not know what you saw or felt -
You did not come back...

Mick McKellar
June 2009

Name That Tune

In his homily this morning, Father Wayne Marcotte talked about God's relationship with science, and that they are not always at odds. He talked about the theory that all things are, when reduced to their smallest component parts, merely energy. I believe he was talking about String Theory, which posits that all things are made up of vibrating strings of energy, which interact to become the building blocks of the universe...atomic particles and molecules that form all we recognize as matter.

I was put in mind of the creation story as written by J.R.R. Tolkien in The Silmarillion. In the first section of that great work, the Ainulindalë (The Music of the Ainur), Ilúvatar creates the Ainur (eternal spirits) whom he instructs to create great music and harmony from which the universe is created according to his great theme. Of course, one spirit (Melkor) creates his own music and great disharmony and dissonance. In his book, the titanic voices of the great spirits create the universe.

Is this an insight into how God may have created our own universe, or merely a beautifully interesting allegory? Alas it remains a mystery -- albeit a musical one...

Mick

Name That Tune

As the theory goes, at the heart of things,
Matter does not matter -- it's energy
That vibrates, in the form of tiny strings,
Which congregate to create you and me.
To this tired old mind, it seems apropos,
That deep in the heart of this universe -
When you get just as small as you can go,
That music would be there -- chapter and verse...
What an absolutely glorious thought -
Everything made from vibrating strings!
That all of the wonders the Lord has wrought,
Was created when the Creator sings.
That God sang me to life, makes me feel fine,
And to be made of music, most divine!

Mick McKellar
June 2009

Curious

Recently, I have had considerable time to think about what drives me through my everyday life. Why do I continue to read and question and explore and write? Why do I continue to write in my journal? Surely by now, after living 59 years, I should have run out of revelations and reasons to talk to myself. Yet, something fuels my need to ask questions, to look over the next hill, and to wonder about stuff...any stuff.

The fire in my soul and passion in my blood still warm these aging bones and jump start a mind that could easily have been left in neutral to idle until my reserves ran dry. Maybe it is the memory of so many souls I met while working with Social Security so many years ago, folks I helped to claim their golden years retirement -- only to quickly bore themselves to death. Perhaps they were able to suppress the instinct that keeps so many rising with the sun each day.

At the most basic level, I think I plunge into each day, headlong and hell-bent because I am curious...

Mick

Curious

The pilot light for the whole human race,
Burns silently in the back of our minds,
Waiting patiently through time and space,
Sparking life, as the adventure unwinds.
Though ineffable, we know that it's there,
Teasing us onward to make the next move,
Reaching beyond the dark hundred-yard stare,
Paths to open and restraints to remove.
It frees up our minds, and it lets us dance
With the wind, and with flights of fancy wild,
Fires the will and the urge to take a chance -
Embrace the unknown as a new-born child.
Our most human idiosyncrasy -
Our insatiable curiosity.

Mick McKellar
June 2009

Grey Interviews

I'm on unemployment benefits for the first time in my life, and I am competing with "kids" half my age for an unbelievably small number of jobs here in recession central -- the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. What is it like for a 59-year old to interview for jobs in this economy?

The experience is difficult to describe because -- in many cases -- it requires noting the shadows that pass over the faces of youngsters interviewing me, the sudden coolness in the air when they note the white hair, and even the delicately dismissive demeanor adopted by those old enough and professional enough not to scowl and glance side-long at each other when they finally notice that my work history spans more than 40 years...

The fear is always there -- that they see -- not the years of valuable experience, not the years of training and skill-building, and not the years of loyal service -- but just the years...

Mick

Grey Interviews

Though passionate, active, and bold,
And just fifty-nine winters old;
The snow on my roof,
Seemed absolute proof,
The furnace downstairs had gone cold.

So, after I danced till I bled,
And all the right answers were said,
I still felt I must,
Shed layers of rust,
And struggled to prove I'm not dead...

Mick McKellar
June 2009

Critic's Cry

A writer's private nightmare: sharing your soul, only to have critics dine on it. Truly creative writers cannot help but share slices of self in their work. The writer's spark gives life to the words.

I can step outside myself to type words, but until I touch the words with a little bit of Mick, the words have no life -- they are a catalog, not an essay; they are a collection, not a story; they are a pile, not a poem. As I write, the rhyme and the rhythm of the text on the page mimic the measure of my mind and the beating of my heart -- to be shared with you -- my friend of the moment, my companion upon the river of my thoughts.

It is the terrible secret of the creative writer -- my words and my works are the children of my mind. Mock them and you mock my soul. Change them and you are killing my babies. It is why the critic's cry cuts so deeply, and why so many potential writers never let their work see the light of day, and why, when I write, I pour out the dark red blood of my need...

Mick


Critic's Cry

I climbed from the depths to stand in the sun;
An effort for me, and for anyone
Who, in their personal, internal world,
Celebrates silently, with banners furled.
No band fanfare for my personal pride:
An accomplishment felt deep down inside.
And then I thought, well, perhaps I could share,
With family, friends...with people who care!
I poured out the dark red blood of my need.
I decanted the sweet wine of my deed.
I awaited an appreciative sigh,
But instead heard laughter -- the critic's cry.
In response to such cold and heartless pain,
I swore on my soul I'd not share again.

Mick McKellar
April 2009

Trans-Light

How does it feel to write a poem? I am not certain that "write" is the operative word. I try to capture the essence of images that often burst past my inner eye in an eternal instant -- the images are always there, but my capacity to focus on just one is so limited, so ephemeral, it can be agony to grasp it long enough to describe what I see and feel and hear. The ideas are so fluid and their expression is so dynamic, that capturing them is akin to juggling Jello.

Occasionally, I can capture a moment, an idea, an image and the rush is incredible. The images wash over me and trigger thoughts that soar on luminous wings, plummet to depths unimaginable, or instantaneously illuminate the darkest corners of my mind and my soul. When my spirit takes flight, I can only hang on for the ride and try to take notes. Creating, observing, describing, painting what I see, feel, and hear with words...is addicting beyond belief...a magnificent addiction!

Mick

Trans-Light

Leap from the Earth, oh pellucid rapture!
Beyond the sky, past gravity's capture,
A poet's thoughts fly on mystical wings.
Ancient Muse plays my heart's translucent strings:
Seeking my soul's pure light to unfetter,
Singing my spiritual love letter,
Illuminating with shimmering hue,
Teaching the sun of my soul to shine through.
Column of sun-glory spikes through the sky -
White hot as lightning and makes the clouds cry,
Pushing the shadows and darkness away,
Pulsing with powerful, true light of day.
Music that shatters my mind's iron bars,
Poetry transports my soul to the stars.

Mick McKellar
April 2009

I was watching the news last night, when they broadcast a story about a participant in Britain's Got Talent, a British relative of American Idol. The story was newsworthy because of the contestant, one Susan Boyle -- a 47-year-old church volunteer from a small Scottish village. Her appearance wrought chuckles, sneers, and snickers from the audience, who roared in laughter when she said she wanted to be a professional singer. No one could have looked less like a professional singer in her modest dress and most plain features.

When she sang, however, the whole dowdy image dropped away and the clarity and beauty of her voice rang out across the auditorium. Laughing smiles became looks of startlement and shock, and then warmed into genuine smiles of enjoyment and appreciation. Those whose expectations were based the usual package for a professional singer were flabergasted and for a few moments the inner beauty and talent of the woman glowed on that stage.

It made me ashamed of how I tend to package folks, based on their appearance. And, considering the humility I learn each morning in the mirror, I can understand the courage it must have taken to take that step and reach for the dream. Bravo, Susan Boyle, Bravo!

Mick

Package Deal

A woman walked out to sing to a crowd,
And they snickered and smiled and laughed out loud.
To their eyes she was a dowdy old dame,
Whose appearance was drab and bland and lame.
She was awkward and moved willy-nilly;
When she gestured and danced she looked silly.
Then the crowd guffawed at her next zinger,
She said she wanted to be a singer!

They all thought her reputation was dead,
But the judges told her to go ahead.

She gestured off stage, for music to start,
And we waited, for her to break her heart
When she started to sing, but we were wrong.
The world shifted when she started that song...
Her voice was golden and clear, and it rang
Like a silver bell, as she blithely sang,
And accomplishing her most cherished goal -
Touched each and every listening soul.

Away fell the image of dowdy old age;
Away fell the wrappings on the package,
And to our wondering eyes did appear,
A glorious soul, with a talent clear
And abundant, with a beautiful sound
That had soared and echoed and danced around,
Till the shadow of prejudice grew thin:
At last we could see the beauty within.

Mick McKellar
April 2008