Wambles and Griffonage

I toured the country of my life,
From jadeite forests, crystal green,
Near pristine rivers indigo, lavender,
And mirrored sky all white and blue.
But, such are will-o’-the-wish dreams
And happy thoughts from daytime naps.
Such tours are short for stumps,
And sad, old oaks with too much bark
And no bite.

The whispered shadow of afternoon sun
Breached the window’s dusty pane,
To brush its fire on vellum battlefield,
Where liquid thought begets griffonage;
Where wheezing bellows stoke
The Muse’s ancient flames.
Yet naught is heard but sips and wambles.
And rarely.
Oh! So rarely,
The blessed words come.

Mick McKellar
August 2022

It's been a while since I wrote about writing, and the battle to coax the words forth and aid them in telling their story.

Mick

Sustenance

When first I see the light of day,
Joy in my bones aches to reach out
For a hug, and for a moment, to play:
To wriggle and giggle and shout,
To laugh, and wonder what life's about.

Awake, onside life's dusty road,
I break my fast on shadow's bane:
The languid, liquid, light that flowed
Upon my face, and will again,
To long my love of life sustain.

Mick McKellar
August 2022

When I saw Sandy's photo, I immediately thought of how I greet the first rays of sunlight each day. Each day is a gift and that light can be so welcome, it can elicit a giggle or a gap-toothed smile.

Mick

Good morning, Lord!

The shades of night were in retreat,
The shadows fleeing from the light,
And from the welcome, lively heat
That warms my heart and stirs my sight.

The Sun's sweet music touched a chord
Within my soul, and filled with glee,
I loudly called: "Good morning, Lord!"
And I could swear He smiled at me.

Mick McKellar
August 2022

Surprised and happy to wake up each day, I often say, "Good morning, Lord." I'd like to think God smiles a little when He hears my call. (Photo below was taken by my sister, Sandy Lapeer)

Mick

Aeolian Harp

Mystical music of Internet’s breath,
As driven before the fire of despair,
Self-styled harbinger of imminent death
And judge of opinions everywhere;
Swift master of joy in meter and prose,
Does a mortal hand your étude design?
The dark harmonies your Muses compose,
Hint at a purpose not fully benign.
Sometimes, my soul seeks to dance to your song.
Sometimes, your dirge drips both venom and vice.
Is there a symphony of right and wrong,
Composed by humans, both naughty and nice?
Is the swift passing breath of countless posts,
An eerie wind harp played by trolls and ghosts?

Mick McKellar
June 2022

Often, when I am surfing the waters of social media -- near shore to facilitate a quick exit should that be necessary -- I sense a strange music permeating the prose or drifting among the bits and pieces of what passes for prose these days. Captivated by the music, I wonder if there is a purpose or a mind behind its eerie presence, or if it is a wind harp tuned to the passing of gas on the Internet.

Mick

The Dogfight

One sparklin' Saturday, soft and sighing,
I decided that I would go flying.
So, I launched my Spitfire into the air;
My soul was aloft, without a care.

I saw my girlfriend and her brother, Heinz,
And their matched pair of BF 109s,
Both climbing rapidly, ever higher,
To fly with my solitary Spitfire.

Patty and I often flew together,
Spitfire and Messerschmidt in good weather.
Though Heinz often said he didn't like me,
I didn't think an attack was likely.

Then Heinz pushed his 109 really hard,
Missed clipping my left wing by half a yard,
Then rolled away quick as any I've seen,
To come again at my Supermarine.

I rolled my craft and I dropped for the deck,
Heinz dove and followed, thus courting a wreck,
For Spitfire's famous elliptical wing,
So much like a bird -- it could almost sing.

I broke from my dive mere feet from the ground,
The crash of his plane made an awful sound.
I heard Patty's plane diving from above,
And her scream of vengeance didn't say "love."

Her plane nearly hit me, such was her ire,
So I pushed my small craft ever higher.
As expected, her 109 followed;
The bait was taken, the worm was swallowed.

My Spitfire dropped in a full-power dive,
Her Messerschmidt came, fast as it could strive.
The Spitfire looped, an accomplished fact,
Done before the 109 could react.

My Spitfire's landing gear punched both her wings,
And she couldn't hope to dislodge those things.
So she had to land her disabled dray,
With mine riding it like a bird of prey.

As my model I silently retrieved,
I walked away saddened, and yet relieved.
Heinz yelled at Patty, and she her brother,
In the future, they could fight each other...

Mick McKellar
April 2022

I have no clue why I was dreaming about model airplanes, the Battle of Britain, and faithless girlfriends, but this crazy poem formed in my sleep. I only had to write it out and edit. What fun!

Mick

Acrimony

Rage and grief are second cousins
Once removed perhaps,
But relatives in blood and bone.

History, though written on the page
By conquerors and politicians,
Is savagely grafted upon the bones
Of survivors,
And burned upon the minds
Of blood witnesses,
And upon the souls of children.

Childhood ripped from the innocent,
Festers and grows
Among the weeds of savage gardens.
Bright memories of freedoms stolen,
Tarnish and darken.
The patina of acrimony,
And the verdigris of vengeance
Wait, in silence, clenched among the shadows...

Beneath your bed, Putin.

Mick McKellar
March 2022

Cultural memory can be a long-suffering and potent enemy. Putin's progress may produce his doom. He thinks he can rewrite history, but doesn't credit everywhere it will be written.

Mick

The Song of Another Monday

Gray Monday, scion of the week,
Wintry cold and tolerant
Of whispered plans and planned technique;
Please rescue me with wonderment.

Cold font of possibilities,
And frigid cornucopia,
I cried last week, upon my knees,
For rescue from dystopia.

I sing the song of chill Monday,
And as the dread weight I eschew,
Stretch forth my hand to grasp the day,
And gladly reach to start anew!

Mick McKellar
March 2022

I never understood the dread with which so many approach Mondays. It's a chance to begin again, to start a new week and discharge the detritus of the week before.

Mick