Angel Eyes

Angel Eyes

I’m sure I met an Angel once,
Or maybe it was twice.
Still, to let me know for certain,
Would have been very nice.

That seraphs walk among us here,
Is certainty for me.
I wonder if the secrecy,
Is how it has to be?

For many times I’ve felt their touch,
A cool hand on my hair,
That lifts the burden of my pain,
But, no one’s standing there.

A look, a smile, a tender word,
That lifts my spirit high;
Yet I cannot recall a face,
And I can’t explain why.

Long have I watched to find a way,
Angels to recognize;
I think the only way to know,
Is look into their eyes.

For though each face escapes my ken,
Their haunting eyes remain,
And I’ll remember to give thanks,
When I see one again.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

In December 2011, an Associated Press-GfK poll showed that 77 % of adult Americans believe in angels. It is nice to have company.

Mick

Serenity

Serenity

Sometimes the tears come softly in the night,
Silent sobs cannot my torment allay,
And although I may rise to fiercely fight,
Haunting, nameless fears never go away.
I try to still my shaking in the gloom,
To hide my weakness from my family,
Writhing all alone in my darkened room,
Hiding my shame so nobody will see.
Anger sustains my terror and despair,
Lurid companions on my somber quest,
To find no cancer lurking anywhere,
And grant my screaming heart a chance to rest.
Brief harmony my chagrin to assuage:
Serenity making peace with the rage.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Sometimes, when I am alone, I grow restive and angry with this body I no longer recognize or understand.

Mick

Plainsong

Plainsong

Deep within the early morning light,
Softly breaking silence of the night,
Drift sweet chants of simple melodies,
Whispered hymns of sun and summer breeze.

One needs only silence plaintive thoughts,
Center on the joy each morn allots,
Clear your mind, and open wide your heart:
Feel the music simple songs impart.

Countless voices chant across the years,
Sing of love and loss and tender tears.
Happy moments happening each day,
Soon forgotten, never go away.

Acts of kindness given without heed,
Resonate to comfort human need.
Heard in coldest snow and warmest rain:
Modest murmurs sung with mild refrain.

Softly canticles set souls alight,
Singing humble, joyous anthems bright,
Shining through the darkness of the night:
Plainsong in the early morning light.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

The simple joy of waking up each morning brings to mind the mystical beauty of morning prayer or Lauds, and chanting of hymns to welcome the new day. Be the dawn the gold of risen sun or the pewter glow of misty morn, music rides the light and brings joy to the day.

Mick

Dustbins and Brooms

Dustbins and Brooms

A blazing hearth alight within my mind,
Gives poignant memories passion and light,
In an inglenook difficult to find;
Leaving dread doubts and worries in the night.
My living spirit burns on the hearthstone,
Aglow with soul and vital consciousness.
My memories and I tarry alone,
Seeking sufficient time to coalesce.
My memory mansion has many rooms,
Most remain tightly sealed, locked, and shuttered.
Despite using mental dustbins and brooms,
Most rooms have become dusty and cluttered.
Nightly I sit near the hearth and obsess,
About the best way to clean up the mess.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Who knew my mind would need Spring cleaning?

Mick

Driving Lessons

Driving Lessons

Riding a bike with a bag on your head,
Driving backward with your head in a pail,
Jogging when covered by an old bedspread,
Downhill skiing with a dark canvas veil,
Playing baseball with a sack for a hat,
Running down the stairs with a kale blindfold,
Sprinting with your eyes smeared with bacon fat,
Skating with your head wrapped in scarves of gold,
Water skiing with a mask painted black,
Mowing the yard with your head in a box,
Diving with your head in an old backpack,
Climbing with your eyes wrapped with stinky socks;
You’d never try these things—to stay alive,
And yet, you text on your phone when you drive?

Mick McKellar
March 2015

Maybe common sense isn’t so common after all…

Mick

The Fury of My Dreams

The Fury of My Dreams

When Northern winds hurl epithets of snow,
Against the fragile ramparts of our walls;
And raucous howling with nowhere to go,
Makes lullabies of frozen banshee calls;
When the cold and brittle power of ice,
And the frigid, frozen arms of the storm,
Sweep away wishes, erased in a trice,
Of feats of daring I'll never perform;
The power of wonder with all its might,
Rises to challenge the grim sounds I hear,
Push back the ebony terror of night,
And illuminate the darkness I fear.
Though perilous power's in midnight screams,
It's no match for the fury of my dreams!

Mick McKellar
March 2015

The mysterious moans and screams of growling and howling winter storms can terrify the calmest mind during the murky depths of black frozen nights. Furious dreams must light the way.

Mick

Shouting Down the Well

Shouting Down the Well

I know it’s my voice, I heard it reflect,
In hollow echoes which cause me to smile.
It's a talent that I want to perfect,
So my thoughts might linger a little while.
Though the resonance makes my voice sound deep,
With overtones both sublime and mellow;
I never hear anything new, to keep
To myself, from that talkative fellow!
I talk to myself, and that may seem strange,
My solo, one-sided conversation;
But, I've never heard a reason to change,
Nor have entertained a reservation.
Though few remember the stories I tell,
I like how I sound, shouting down the well.

Mick McKellar
March 2015

Posting personal poetry online can feel like shouting down a well. I may like how it sounds, but mostly I'm merely talking to myself—sometimes loudly enough for others to hear.

Mick