Amazing Dreams: Fantasies of an Old Man

I stand on the brink of a waterfall.
My wings gleam white in the dawn’s golden light,
Showering sweetly on faces of all
Who gasp at the sudden death of the night.
Many who hide in the valley below,
Shield tender ears and avert fearful eyes --
Gravity lashes water to bellow
And to roar as the falling river cries.
None hear my aging voice cast on the air;
Comforting words never reach tender ears.
I pierce the abyss on wings white and fair;
The joy of my flight distracts from their fears.
Their cheers and hurrahs support my grand flight.
Their bright shining faces dispel the night.

Mick McKellar
September 2021

When folks are so afraid they cannot hear and cannot see, joy may break through to dispel the shadows and bring the light.

Mick

Canopy

All alone one day, in our big backyard,
I closed both my eyes with a great soft sigh,
Then I stood stock still without breathing hard,
And raised both my arms to the sunny sky.
I squared my shoulders and I locked my knees,
Standing straight and tall in the morning's glow,
I heard singing birds and felt a soft breeze,
Then I let my imagination grow...

Hungry roots plunged deep into rich brown earth.
I had thousands of leaves instead of hair.
My canopy of consciousness, gave birth
To awareness of trees everywhere.
I felt the Earth spinning beneath my feet.
I felt agony from forests ablaze.
I cried at the sacrifice and defeat,
Of each woods and forest we humans raze!
I shared in their green communion a while;
I felt the depth of their long, slow regard.
Then quick -- with a teary eye and a smile,
I stood all alone in my big backyard.

Mick McKellar
August 2021

Although this journey might be a fiction, there remains a possibility it is not.

Mick

Old Words, New Friends

His voice crackles from its frayed edges,
And from the surge of his sputtering dynamo --
Pushing and pleading, cajoling
Old and familiar words to carry more:
To hang longer in the dusty air,
To sizzle and pop and dance
With the urges and sins of youth --
Almost forgotten, except in dusty dreams.

Savory words, gone salty and rich
With harmonies of hue and hazy shadow,
Beckon your child mind to drift and dream,
Plunge, ever-so-slowly,
Through a honey-rich patina, polished
By ageless passage and care;
To find the youthful spirits and ageless wonders
Who linger there.

Mick McKellar
June 2021

Why do old men write poems? One question. One million answers.

Mick

The Crumbling of the Stoic’s Wall

Grey stones recall the passing rain and wind.
They rest reclined on mortar, brittle bound
To brethren burked, unable to rescind
The wit and wisdom sealed them to this ground.
Through quietude, the silence of the nights;
The warmth of sunlight, dappled on their flanks;
And press of winter’s snow and cold that bites;
Long silent stones find neither praise nor thanks.
But walls are built by man, though strong and just,
And all things age as seasons shuffle by.
Time leeches life and mortar turns to dust;
The stones themselves grow weathered, worn, and die.
For all things mortal temporary be,
Except for love, which lives eternally.

Mick McKellar
May 2021

I am, perhaps, feeling my mortality this fine sunny day and wondering about the durability of what I may leave behind when I depart.

Mick

Grandpa

I found him crumbled in his rump-sprung chair,
A wizened stump comprised mainly of bark.
Bright sunlight made a halo of his hair,
His eyes like jewels, twinkling in the dark,
Under the cliff his brow hung o'er his face.
It seemed impossible that he had shaved,
A face so seamed and craggy e'vry place,
One needed magic just to get it laved.
A rumble stirred within his ancient breast.
His tree-limb arm sprung forth and grabbed my hand.
The gnarly tree unfolded from its nest,
But didn't need my aid to help him stand.
He laughed, then whispered (as close as seemly),
"I'm so happy that you came to see me!"

Mick McKellar
May 2021

The important thing is to be there.

Mick

I Tasted This Morning

Morning, though sweet, needs some salt from the night:
Mellow, astringent, refreshing and new.
Lavender sunshine births savory light,
Softly caressed by reflections from dew.
Slowly, my benighted orbs are revealed --
Starving, voracious from nocturnal fast,
Beholding a feast which had been concealed;
My eyes devour this shining repast.
Dawn tastes like rich golden honey and cream;
Sunlight is richer and savory sweet,
Misty bright sunbeams are marshmallow dream,
Blended they spin to a gossamer treat.
Spoonful by spoonful of sweet delight,
I tasted this morning -- loved every bite!

Mick McKellar
April 2021

Just waking up can be the sweetest treat of your day.

Mick

Lost Card

Ancestral voices led me on a chase,
From comfy repose to a cold, lightless place,
On a moor so ancient that none could find ,
This abyss that sequestered in my mind.

Though certain the old ones would want me found,
Would make sure that saviors abounded around;
I felt abandoned, forgotten, and lost,
Perhaps a rescue had too high a cost.

I stumbled along on a gravel path,
Through a garden's neglected aftermath,
To a wrought iron gate, with a latch gone slack,
And a glass veranda dusty and black.

The gate squeaked just once, and not very much.
The place came alive at my slightest touch:
Dust sloughed away and the glass gleamed so bright,
I needed a moment to clear my sight.

A building, so beautiful and immense,
It overwhelmed me, and it made no sense.
It stretched right and left, far as I could see,
On the lintel it read "Grand Library."

I knew right away I'd been here before;
I entered through a revolving glass door.
A crystal ceiling, mahogany walls,
And travertine floors gleamed in thousand halls!

Elated, I ran to indulge myself.
I grabbed a book from a nearby shelf.
The cover said "Dune," a favorite book,
I opened the cover and took a look...

Nearly every word had gone away!
Some pages were white, and others were grey:
All books, scripts, or poems that I could see
Were gone, were just empty pages to me.

I wander the halls sometimes in my dreams.
I wonder if all is lost as it seems.
I visit my white room when pain is hard,
And pray I find my lost library card.

Mick McKellar
April 2021

The first time I revisited my grand library after the chemotherapies was a scary dream and a sad reckoning with human frailty.

Mick