No Step

I usually think I know where I am going. But, I've discovered that it can be an illusion brought on by staring too closely at the rungs of life's ladder and not looking down or up to see what is above and below.

When folks talk about hitting the bottom, it's not the bottom of a pit with no way out. It's the bottom of your ladder. Sometimes, I'm climing my ladder to get a better look over the top of the wall, and sometimes, I slide down that ladder to get out of the cold winter wind howling across the top of that very tall wall. It can be sunny and warm sitting on top of the wall, but the weather changes. I've been to the bottom of my ladder a few times, and in my journeys down into the darkness, I found that the solid ground that supposedly awaits the descender is a myth. The ladder just ends and then you fall.

I believe most people are somewhere on their ladders, descending, climbing, or just hanging on for dear life. Watch your step...

Mick

No Step

You ever feel that life's a long ladder
And you're standing on the very last rung?
The dirge of your days is even sadder
And your song isn't even half-way sung?
Look down and see where you wanted to go:
It's a summer place, once filled with warm day;
But the weather's changed, it's covered with snow,
And it seems a very long way away.
Then you wonder how you'll get out of there;
The bottom's a windy, cold, lonely place
Where you hang suspended in frigid air.
The short answer slaps you right in the face -
Cold as the snow, with exquisite timing -
The only way up is to start climbing...

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Early to Bed

Sometimes, I feel like the green plant in the winter window. Outside, the season is all wrong. It’s gray and white, not sunny and bright green – yet I struggle to show my summer best greenery in full view of winter’s fury and within ear-shot of its frozen roar. I want to sleep, because most plants want to sleep the long sleep of winter’s cold dream, but the touch of warmth and the occasional summer sun encourages life, if not growth. The stress of seasonal change will sometimes produce just stress and sometimes will cause one to bloom – much as the persistent prompting of my muse will prop my eyelids open and force another verse or two to bloom in the dark and the snow…

Here I am, abed – but not asleep – and this is my poem…

Mick

Early to Bed

Because my mind was in a sorry state,
I thought that I would go to bed early -
Instead of staying up so very late,
And writing introspective poetry.
I considered the coming of the dawn,
But I didn’t want to get off the track.
Instead, I pondered darkness with a yawn,
I stretched a mile, and I had to walk back
Till I found my way to our quiet room -
With fuzzy eyes and blurry, tired sight -
And I could not avoid the poet's doom…
I'm destined to write, even late at night.
I got the new poem out of my head,
But I had to write poetry…abed.


Mick McKellar
November 2007

Turkey Coma

It was a long weekend, and I spent it in close proximity with far too much far too good food. I've been fighting the battle of the bulge for nearly a year now, and have had some minor success, but Thanksgiving is a tough holiday for those watching closely what passes the portal of the palate.

There is a hidden danger in all that pleasing provender, causing a silent, slumberous somnolence leading one down the drowsy path, toward unconscious eating and carbohydrate addiction to steal the soul of the most dedicated calorie counter. Beware the bane of the bird! Beware the dreaded turkey coma!

Mick

Turkey Coma

Longing for goodies I haven't tasted
In nearly a year could drive me crazy,
So I spent the weekend getting wasted
On so many foods, my memory's hazy
About all the treats that by-passed by lips.
Remote-controlled, gut-bomb, high-fat missiles,
To torture my tummy, inflate my hips -
As saccharin-laced as love epistles,
The love-starved, lonely, lost heart indulges.
I fed my face with rich gravy and pies,
Until I remembered last year's bulges,
And started telling myself the old lies.
But did my psycho damage my soma?
It's hard to tell in a turkey coma...

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Winter Rose

Some call them pretty poison and others just the Christmas flower. An urban legend tells of a two-year old child dying in agony after eating a single Poinsettia leaf. There are also tales of its status as a death blossom for pets and other animals. In truth, it's not really good for you, and can make you very ill if you have an allergy to latex, but it is not deadly poison. They grow wild in the tropical forests of Mexico, and like so many people I know, who live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, they don't do well when the temperature drops below 50 degrees...

According to legend, a little Mexican girl called Pepita assembled a bouquet of common roadside weeds and offered them at her church's nativity scene, because she had been told that even the most humble gift, given in love, is acceptable in God's eyes. When she placed the weed bouquet at the foot of the nativity scene, it instantly blossomed into brilliant red flowers. The astonished witnesses called them Flores de Noche Buena, or Flowers of the Holy Night. The were Poinsettias, the most popular Christmas flower, sometimes known as the Winter Rose...

Mick


Winter Rose

Although the Aztecs called it purity,
A symbol that the ancients highly prized,
The rumor of its great toxicity
Has grown through time, and lingers super-sized.
And yet, unless you have an allergy,
It's safe to eat a leaf, not that you should -
For though it might just upset your tummy,
I've heard that it does not taste very good!
The legend says a child, humble and poor,
Picked weeds to bring to church on Christmas Eve.
They blossomed when she brought them through the door:
A Christmas miracle, they all believe.
A wild Poinsettia was what she chose,
The Christmas Star, the velvet Winter Rose.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Pleasant Moments

I was considering how often I say, "Happy Thanksgiving!" without considering what I'm thankful for. Like "Good Morning," "Good Night," and "How are you?" -- the words just roll past my lips without careful consideration of what I'm saying or asking. If you think this is not the case, the next time someone asks how you are, tell them. Give them the litany of your day's travails and blessings. They won't be expecting it, for their words are automatic, part of a standard greeting. They may never ask again...

Put to the test, I wonder how many folks can say what the Thanksgiving holiday celebrates? As an American, I have so many blessings, they are impossible to count, and Thanksgiving makes me think of freedom, family, friends, football, and food. For me, it's a quiet day, filled with precious memories and pleasant moments.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Mick


Pleasant Moments

Can we in conscience, silently conspire
To let a festive holiday slide past,
Without a little spark, a little fire
Of passionate desire to break the fast?
And though we often travel many miles,
Arriving tired, rump-sore, and quite spent,
Familiar faces bring forth quiet smiles,
And make us very thankful that we went.
We leave behind the bustle and the stress,
Journey through the winter's advent weather,
And while we all try to forget the mess,
Spend a little pleasant time together.
For after all there's nothing quite as good,
As moments spent with fam'ly, friends, and food.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Ice in My Veins

I know that, when I got up this morning, I had hands and feet. Yet, I swear they had an out-of-body experience several times today, for although I could see them on the ends of my arms and legs, I could not feel their usual steadfast, functional presence. There just seems to be something about November weather that penetrates the best defenses, searching so deep, I swear ice forms on the bones from Carpals and Tarsals to Phalanges at all points of the human compass.

I’ve heard that fear can make your “blood run cold,” but does slush have to form in the plasma? When I was a young man, I went most of the winter without gloves. Now, I need choppers to look for ice cream in the freezer. If only I could have saved up that miserable heat from the dog days of summer, so that I could raid the account for the dark days of early winter. If I seem to be moving slowly today, it’s not sand in my shoes, it’s ice in my veins…

Mick

Ice in My Veins

I cannot say that it’s cold this morning,
However, not because it isn’t cold;
Perhaps the goose bumps are early warning,
Perhaps they’re just a sign of getting old.
Though I complained about the summer’s heat,
Disgruntled, with sweat running down my back,
Now that I cannot even feel my feet,
I wish I had a little of it back!
I know there is heat, somewhere deep inside,
That never reaches my extremities.
I don’t understand, why it has to hide
Above my elbows and north of my knees.
I cannot blame it on my aches and pains,
If my blood’s sluggish, there’s ice in my veins…


Mick McKellar
November 2007

Corner of My Eye

Maybe it’s too much coffee. Maybe it’s too many years hanging around academics. Maybe my scalp is too tight. Whatever the cause, when I put digits to keyboard tonight, the first paragraph that came out is the following…

“Poets often become platitudinarians of the highest order -- proselytizing primitive proverbs and antediluvian anecdotes until the cows come home. Avoiding these timeworn traps and venerable, antiquated aphorisms and adages is the daily trial of those who seek to tell a story without mumbling maxims and mouthing mottos.”

AAARRGHHH! Eschew Obfuscation indeed! I looked in a mirror, grimaced (as usual), and asked myself, “What can I do…what is the solution to this alliterative, yet cloyingly troublesome claptrap?

Answer: Write about small stuff and ordinary occurrences, everyday episodes, and funny phenomena, because it’s hard to wax pompous about pot-roast and even harder to be haughty about hamburgers, hangnails, and hairy knuckles. And, so, I write about sofas and shadows, funny friends and imaginary fantasy folk (like Footsore Fox and Ribald Rabbit), light and dark, love and loss, and things seen only in the Corner of My Eye…

Mick

Corner of My Eye

I looked out my window,
In the yard I saw a shadow fly.
Why then, I do not know,
But this time they caught my eye.

Creatures tiny and swift,
Often scamper over rocks and leaves.
Bandits crossed a snow drift:
Teeny-weeny, furtive thieves!

Burglars taking at need,
Things that they store in an old wood pile;
Robbers at hyper-speed,
Whose antics can make me smile...

Chipmunks, gophers, and mice,
Are considered pests and hence, destroyed.
And it's hard to be nice,
When their pranks leave me annoyed.

Long as they stay outside,
And live their lives under open sky,
They can run, live, and hide -
In the corner of my eye.

Mick McKellar
November 2007