Dream Bridge

I stood erect on an alien plain,
Gazing spellbound at a lavender sky,
As webs of stars knit from fiery skein,
Traced golden contrails of a firefly.
An azure forest was marching abreast,
In time with a thunderstorm's hue and cry;
Whilst a purple raven paced long, hard pressed
To shrewdly determine a reason why.
I shielded my eyes from the bluish sun,
Left the talking raven to chat alone...
I returned to where my dream had begun,
To walk once again into the unknown:
Climb a crystal bridge o'er a starry stream,
And follow that span to another dream.

Mick McKellar
April 2018

We can travel anywhere in the universe...in our dreams.

Mick

Starshine River

The silver of frost on the morning grass,
Brightly shines in the first light of the dawn;
Until golden sun burns silver to brass,
And to liquid diamonds on verdant lawn.
A radiant river of morning light,
Flows over rooftops and falls to the soil,
Chasing dark shadows with rapids so bright,
The glittering eddies dance with turmoil.
I long to swim in the River Starshine,
To bathe in effulgent, radiant peace;
To drink of the flashing torrent divine,
Liquid aurora of gold and cerise.
But I must remain in the dusky shade,
To watch from the banks, alone and afraid.

Mick McKellar
April 2018

I applaud the wonderful sunshine glowing outside, around our house and across the Keweenaw. Yet, once again, I am reminded by a skin cancer scar, that it’s not for me.

Mick

Nightbird's Call

In the regal silence of waking mind,
A lilting call of a nightbird unseen,
Echoes down hallways of cold Travertine,
Shocking out dust from ancient shelves behind.
Then stirring motes in air chill, still, and stale,
From alien statues tall and cold and pale,
And teasing flames of candles a'dancing.

The twilight veil is pierced afresh -- as Thought --
Afoot on slippers cracked from long disuse,
Wobbly, wizened, and wickedly obtuse,
Shuffles, stumbling from dark stacks all dusty,
Jouncing old tomes both mildewed and musty,
To blink rheumy eyes in the light gone fusty,
The source of the nightbird's call a’chancing

Thought is a codger abroad in my house.
He wanders the library halls alone,
And mutters -- his voice like cracking stone --
Talking to himself, just to gripe and grouse.
He once was quick, but crawls instead,
As though his battery was too dead,
To power this late nightbird romancing.

A nightbird’s strange call was heard once again,
Its echo alive in the dormant stacks,
Pulling old Thought from his ancient tracks,
Wincing and whining as though in great pain.
Suddenly, past him the nightbird did fly,
He followed its flight into the night sky,
Sending a new Thought skipping and prancing.

Mick McKellar
April 2018

It has been said that to know your own mind, you must spend time there. In my dreams I visit the grand library in my own mind. Since the chemo, it seems I've been more visitor than patron...

Mick

Echo from the Past

Does an echo love its beginning sound,
Brightest noise in the silence of the night?
What power can make it travel around,
Pushing air in waves over noiseless ground;
Reflecting, refracting, audible light:
Mirrored for ears with auricular sight,
Blinded by stillness dark, voiceless, profound...

Or speak a word, to a raucous abyss
So loud, it creates a silence intense
Enough to cover anything remiss;
Swallowing howls of self-important bliss,
And the constant drumming of common sense.
Does an echo have any real defense,
Or dissipate fast as an angel’s kiss?

Mick McKellar
April 2018

When I speak these days, I feel like an echo from the past, lost in the silence of weary ears.

Mick

When the Shadows Recede

Shadow's rule is ended at break of day:
A murky, misty curtain swept aside.
The death of sleep reversed, dark chased away;
What aurous fire reclaims, it cannot hide.
Morning: I live in a borrowed future.
I sense a goal, intense and yet unclear:
To spring from shadows, a caricature,
A piece of the sun, fiery starlight near.
Light flickers, spills across a grassy sea --
Its path, intent, not even I can guess.
Its golden fire, its music calls to me,
Bright beneath the waters of consciousness.
The light is life, encompassing desire:
I can't fear it; I must become the fire.

Mick McKellar
March 2018

Waking can be an incredible experience.

Mick

Drifted

I'd slept ten hours alone in my bed,
Motionless, silent, as though I were dead.
Words had no meaning and nothing was said;
My dreams were drifting around in my head.

Moments soared endlessly, timeless, pristine.
Sunlight streamed soundlessly, soft and serene.
Bright mountain snow fell on trees evergreen;
Slowly I drifted, detached and unseen.

People I knew well, who long since have passed,
Walked among gardens with flowers amassed.
I saw each one, just as I saw them last,
They didn't see me as I drifted past.

Things that I did long before I grew old:
In short, poignant movies, watched them unfold.
Some were warm blessings, others left me cold,
I could but drift as the stories were told.

Heartbreaking stories had caused me to cry,
Tears so profuse, the deluge drained me dry;
Others so happy, joy made me so high,
I drifted aloft in soft azure sky!

Softly, I woke at the birth of the day,
Quietly pondering, nothing to say.
I grabbed a pen to take notes as I lay,
Before the memories drifted away.

I caught their essence in this small sachet,
Before the story just drifted away...

Mick McKellar
February 2018

I sleep longer and deeper now than ever before in my life. Because I also dream more and longer, I spend more time writing them down. Some, I share...before they drift away.

Mick

Laugh in the Shadows

The silent snow falls heavily and white.
A red shed with green shutters watches me,
But never blinks in the dim, winter light;
And oddly, it stares nonjudgmentally.
The evergreen trees whisper together,
Swaying and laughing in Winter's cold breath,
Unconcerned with the inclement weather,
Dreaming of life after frozen sleep-death.
The nude sentinels who sway in the gale,
Stand stark and resolute against the sky;
Their long sleep begun, their frigid exhale
Laughs in the darkness -- they know they won't die.
"Winter comes to all," they silently sing,
"So laugh in the shadows and wait for Spring!"

Mick McKellar
January 2018

Though Winter comes to us all, we must hang on to the joy and wait for our Spring.

Mick