Touching

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

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

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

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

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

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

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