Shrapnel

The gift of life is my daily blessing -- the morning glory that brings joy as I open my eyes each day. Yet, I remember dark moments when both pain and weariness flooded the moor below my little redoubt upon the crag; what became an island in a sea of sorrows and shadows. In that cold, dark place, I heard only the whining of winter winds, felt only the icy touch of darkness, and saw only the blackest veil of the abyss.

This was momentarily my world: Until a tiny whisper in the darkness silenced the winds. Until the fiery touch of Heaven's grace warmed my soul. Until the darkling veil was shred by love's golden gift, shattering my dark study and showing me the path home across that sea of sorrows and shadows, to rest finally in healing hands, upon a bright and precious coast. It was the prayers, wishes, and good thoughts of friends, family, and more -- that brought me home to that happy shore.

Mick

Shrapnel

Chuffed at the gift of yet another day,
Unconcerned about the overmorrow,
I bask in the grace that showed me the way
Home, across a silent sea of sorrow.
We think we traverse our paths alone,
To search for solace in patches of sun.
And yet, when I stumble on root or stone,
Strong arms catch me, set me upright, to run;
Should my short, sweet life be torn asunder,
And shadows, the shrapnel of loss, be cast
Among those I love, a silent thunder --
Rending veil and valor -- present to past.
I grasp God's gift, hold it tight, never cease:
'Til my shrapnel be shards of light and peace.

Mick McKellar
January 2013

Stone Pillows

Sleep has become a major factor in my life. With apologies to the musical group, it may be part of my chemical romance with chemotherapy, high-dose steroids, and up to 24 medications per day. I've been slowly sorting through major tangles in my web of memories and searching about in dark spaces where shelved, codified, and indexed experiences ought to dwell in well dusted peace. Though fraught (as in the song, Sleep) with nightmares and even night terrors, my rest has wrought the wonder of recollection.

As I lay wrapped tightly in my blankets -- I keep my bedroom a bit chilly, to make breathing easier -- a night or two ago, I was beset with images earlier than any I previously remembered. I remembered being cold and cuddled, fed and fondled, and beset with grinning faces full of large teeth. I remembered the spastic agony and ecstasy of having my feet tickled -- a sensation I was to lose forever only a few months later. As I continue my search for lost or misplaced reels from the movie of my life, such gifts remind me to pay special attention to the unknown number of reels that remain.

Still, I love to watch reruns of my favorite memories, and sometimes to share them. I wonder, when I finally fall asleep, will I dream?

Mick

Stone Pillows

Images of my arrival on Earth,
Dance as they rise from my mind far beneath;
Flickering memories about my birth:
Cold, soft pillows, and faces...and teeth!
My experiences of days long past,
Among the few treasures I truly own,
Return to inhabit my dreams at last --
As my tally of days has quickly grown.
I treasure the gift I'm given each day:
My memoirs unfolding within my mind.
They comfort me in a most special way,
As the last reels of my movie unwind.
I'll leave the weeping to wind and willows,
And I'll fall asleep on cold, stone pillows.

Mick McKellar
January 2013

The Guardian

I believe in angels. A host of them must be hovering over Newtown, CT after the recent tragedy, seeking to aid and comfort the living who lost so much. The cry of anguish and grief must have shaken the Gates of Heaven as the nightmare unfolded. My thoughts immediately went to the side of the guardian angel assigned to watch over any or all of these children and I began to wonder what he would do, what he would feel, and how he would react to an atrocity of this magnitude.

What follows is what my mind's eye saw, as it followed that angel, as it watched The Guardian on that dreadful day.

Mick

The Guardian

The guardian stood, silently weeping,
His glorious wings were shaking and furled ,
For children he'd watched over while sleeping,
Were suddenly ripped away from their world.
He'd seen the young man with guns attacking,
An ice pick of violence in his mind;
Felt the shell of young innocence cracking,
The eyes of childhood gone suddenly blind.
In an instant twenty young souls went home,
Their safety was no longer in his care.
His mission had now instantly become,
To comfort and aid the survivors there.
He gave solace to all who would listen,
His golden whisper down deep in their ears.
His face was intent, his eyes a-glisten,
As he raced to calm their grief and their fears.
He soothed their minds and he touched hearts and souls;
Some too young to understand tragedy,
And older hearts recognizing the holes,
So suddenly torn in their family.
And as they buried their broken treasures,
He prayed they could also bury their grief,
And find the quiet, the peace and pleasures,
Of family love and certain belief:
That their loved ones live, in a better place,
Secure and contented in God's embrace.

The guardian stood, and a silent smile,
Touched his face, so recently streaked by tears,
For those he could help, in a little while,
Would forgive and live on, though it took years.
Yet, many tiny ones would still remain,
Seeking and searching for any relief,
From the darkness and unrelenting pain,
Of innocence lost and brittle-sharp grief.
Fast as any thought, the guardian sped --
To save the living from grief for the dead.

Mick McKellar
December 2012

Candles in the Snow

I loved my Christmas walkabouts, touring our snow-covered roads and dodging drowsy drivers, a tottering shadow on the snow with a flashlight and an instant readiness to dive for the snowbank, where a sidewalk should have been. I was an enormous shade, cloaked in a great grey parka, and I drifted down the snowy lanes of Calumet and Laurium, making little or no sound, as I searched the cold December skies (when the clouds and the snow permitted) to wonder at the majesty of distant suns. When frustrated by winter's glowering curtain, I lowered my eyes to marvel at our colorfully courageous attempt to capture that twinkling glory in myriad displays of Christmas lights.

When snow fell, as it so often does here, the piercing beauty of the lights flickered and dimmed as it shone through the dancing and swirling flakes. Sounds were muted and softened, distant and muffled, replaced by the soft sussurations of the snow, murmuring and whispering as it fell and drifted toward its earthly rest. When I stopped for a moment, a sense of solitude and peace settled upon my shoulders, along with the ever-present snow.

I treasure those memories, especially the night I was captivated by three Christmas candles in a neighbor's window -- flickering brightly and dancing their warm golden light into the silent, snowy night. They seemed a thousand miles away and yet, they filled my heart with warmth.

Mick

Candles in the Snow

I love to walk abroad December nights,
Search Cimmerian skies for Christmas stars;
In liquid dome of distant twinkling lights,
Prevailing over glare from passing cars,
And street light's radiance lambent on the snow --
A softly folded blanket, sheer and white.
I pause and spy them easily, they show
Their yuletide incandescence to my sight:
From far-off fire, the twinkling cosmic flame,
Sends forth a gift of splendor for my eyes.
Snow softly whispers of a Child, whose Name
Recalls the songs of angels from the skies.
My heart fills with a blithe and merry glow,
Of candles shining warmly in the snow.

Mick McKellar
December 2012

It comes as a shock each year, when those first icy tendrils, the frosty fingers of chilly old-man winter, reach down and touch me. My first reaction is to cover up with as much flannel and fleece as I can find, burrow into my favorite chair, grasp a full mug of hot tea, and dare the frosty one to find me. He always does, of course.

Although it makes great sense to cover exposed skin in cold weather, and insulation helps tremendously, true relief from the cold comes from the fires within.

Mick

Touch of Winter

The dark and cold of night persist,
Til later in each day;
The ice and snow even resist,
The morning sun's bright ray.

The probing frozen-fingered draft,
Finds each nook and cranny;
Its chill touch felt, both fore and aft,
Nose to toes to fanny...

Although accustomed to the chill,
aptly barricaded
By fleece and down, it reaches still;
Swiftly, though unaided.

Short wintry days and long cold nights,
Are spent seeking redoubt,
From frozen sting and icy bite,
And keeping Winter out.

But best defense comes from within,
To reach your cozy quest:
Let clothing insulate your skin,
Your heart will warm the rest.

Mick McKellar
November 2012

The Jag

I was thinking about my breathing limitations while writing this, and wondered if I could describe the intense distress and fear that come with having to fight your body to gulp a mouthful of air and ease the agony and the ache as first the periphery (hands, feet) feel the loss, then the major muscles and the core take note, and finally confusion and darkening of vision arrive. It is like drowning or being smothered. It is perhaps less intense and distressing for me, because I've lived with bronchial asthma since I was five years old, but the fear and the pain are real.

When I showed this to Marian, she was against sharing so much detail about the experience — that people don't want to know what it feels like, even slightly, to be me. However, let me be clear on one point...I am one extremely lucky guy! In my discussion with my doctors, it became clear that all experiences with blood and marrow transplant and the ensuing Graft vs. Host disease (GvHD) are different. The vast majority do not make it this far, and most are not in nearly as good health as me.

The Lord must be powerful to have carried me so far already!


Mick

The Jag

Slumped within his swivel chair, he ponders
Rheumy eyes half-closed and breathing shallow;
Dining on his life, and other wonders:
Pain and fear to chew, and pills to swallow.

Half through his thought, begins a coughing jag,
Enough to make his mighty muscles squeeze,
From murmurs in the dark in his air bag,
To whooping barks sprung from a tiny wheeze.
The hacking links together, to form chains,
Until their massive weight triggers despair;
As every muscle in his body strains,
Til he near passes out from lack of air.
Coughing leaves him shattered, dizzy, gasping,
A quaking pile of clothing in his chair.
His mellow voice is breathy and rasping,
Gulping what little zephyr remains there.

Stairways are not friends, walking is not fun,
Washing dishes leaves him weak as jello.
Ev'ry one knows, it's difficult to run,
When it feels you're breathing through a pillow

Mick McKellar
November 2012

Grey Soliloquy

Sometimes it's just the smallest thing, a coin on a counter, a smile on a friend's face, a tear in a child's eye — that can be the catalyst and the seed for a glorious mind journey to places new or long forgotten. Such a thing happened this afternoon. I opened my front door to check on today's deposit by the blue bird of business and purveyor of solicitations, my friend, the postman. Rounding the door to approach the mail box, a stray beam of intense golden sunlight touched my eyes. After my cataract surgery (October 23, 2012), my eyes have been extremely sensitive to bright light. Hiding in the dark recesses of my home to avoid contact and potential exchanges of germs, viruses, and assorted bacteria, has done little but weaken my eyes further. So the touch was agony. It also got my attention.

When I could see again — it took a few minutes — I received a gift. The cerulean sky was stirred by froth and wisp of high clouds, and frosted by gentle, puffy giants under their sway. The air no longer held the crisp, sharp edge of early morning and offered the cool, soft caress of a bright fall afternoon. The sword of light pricked my lugubrious balloon, full of the coughing and gasping and lack of sleep from the previous night, and alloyed with the cabalistic contents, converting night into grey. This is not the dull, leaden grey of dungeon dirt light, but the bright golden grey of the morning's first light as it warms the dawn mists away.

It lifted my soul and set my spirit to flight. I share my thoughts in this grey soliloquy.

Mick

Grey Soliloquy

The sun, a dagger in my eye,
Does pierce my study, grey.
That golden orb, a gilded scythe,
Cuts through my mental drey.

By searing touch of golden fire,
My tangled thoughts are kissed,
And foggy, dark, and dense as mire,
They dissipate as mist.

I cannot dwell upon my fate,
Or where my dangers lie;
When high clouds use the wind to bait,
A bright November sky.

They tease me with the power to think,
And though my reason raves,
I’ll leap from intuition's brink,
And wallow in its waves.

I lose my worry — black and white;
The glorious day dissolves,
The stain of dark and endless night,
Through which my world revolves.

The tangle loosed, the edges keen,
Grow soft in glowing day;
The darkling world I've always seen,
Is fuzzy, and it's grey.

And though grey seems cold victory,
Against the throes of night,
It glows with friendly warmth for me,
And glorious is the sight!

Mick McKellar
November 2012