Please Tell Me Why the Media Are Mad

Please tell me why the media are mad!
Why do their crises often make no sense?
Stories that should scare me just make me sad,
Reading the news leaves me depressed and tense.

Presidents confront thousands of issues,
Yet all they talk about is two or three.
I can’t watch the news without my tissues,
Their talking points are now my allergies.

Daily come expensive, flashy mailers,
And each extols a candidate’s strong suits,
Or why some slightly bent ones need jailers,
For with the devil they are in cahoots.

Slowly, I’ve adapted to the clangor,
Although I think the waste of time is sad.
My response is neither hate nor anger,
Please tell me why the media are mad!

Mick McKellar
November 2024

A Whisper and a Song

Some lives become a shout of love to hear.
Some lives sing out with boundless joy and mirth.
Some lives cry out with pain, yet never fear,
For each and every life must leave the Earth.
In that leave-taking, dwells an emptiness,
Surrounded by aggrieved cacophony -
A wall of memories and loneliness,
Abyssal-deep and wide as any sea.
In all the shouts and songs and anguished cries,
In all the memories and stories old,
In all the tears and all the empty eyes -
A life, a whisper and a song, are told
In solemn prayers to Spirit, Father, Son.
A life, a song, a whisper, has passed on.

Mick McKellar
October 2024

I Listen to the Politicians Speak

I listen to the politicians speak,
And note each piecrust promise they reveal.
If representative,
Of places they all live,
Their words should have a more assuring feel.

But all the ancient platitudes they squeak,
And all the unkind stories that they tell,
(Another candidate
Is someone I should hate?)
Make me feel increasingly unwell.

I want each politician to bespeak,
How they will manage storms and stress and strife;
To keep us safe and sane,
Keep watch on guns and grain,
And maybe help us have a better life.

Mick McKellar
October 2024

Fairy Circle

I stood upon adventure's razor edge,
A chance to taste the spice of things long feared,
A chance to dance an ancient sacrilege,
For on my lawn a Fairy Ring appeared.

Tread lightly where unseen Sidhe shadows play,
In dawn's soft light or twilight's creeping gloom,
For though your footsteps feel so light and gay,
The Tuatha Dé Danann craft your doom.

Beware the ring where fairies dance and play,
For mortals who join in their sacred round,
In dawn's first light or twilight's shadowed sway,
May find themselves by fae enchantments bound.

I jumped right in and jumped back out again,
In hardly what you'd ever call a dance.
I felt a fool for fearing their domain,
But I was never going to take a chance.

Mick McKellar
September 2024
 

No Crisis

I walk about in my bag of ocean.
I carry the sea in My Water World.
Although it seems such a novel notion,
My main and my jib are both unfurled.
I sail swift currents in my inner sea,
Though it is tidal, at the Moon’s behest,
Whose slow and gentle force moves mightily
To alter and remake me without rest.
It’s easy to puncture my outer shell,
If you make a hole in me, I will leak.
Repairs are possible but hurt like hell,
And take longer if the bag’s an antique.
Yet denizens of my vast inner sea,
Claim no climate crisis inside of me.

Mick McKellar
September 2024

Intelligence

I worry that intelligence of the artificial type,
Will soon tax and filter everything I hear and see,
And fill my world with such incredible levels of hype,
I’ll wonder if my mirror reflects someone else, not me.
My computer tries to finish sentences I write,
And argues with my grammar and the words I tend to choose.
I feel it’s found me wanting, or maybe not too bright.
If we played a game of Chess it’s likely I would lose.
I understand that certain things are beyond my control,
Years of work and sharing online mean that I’m well known.
A.I. has full access to my life in a fishbowl,
But works through my computer, the terminal I own.
Let it judge me all it wants, let it laugh and scoff,
When I’m tired of arguing, I’ll simply shut it off.

Mick McKellar
September 2024

Incredibly Ancient Monkey

I looked at my deck,

And thought, what the heck

Is that pile of rags and wood?

Then my eyeballs popped,

And my breathing stopped,

When it moved like no junk pile should.

Slowly it rose,

On prehensile toes,

And quickly began to take shape.

Rags became clothes,

A face with a nose --

It looked like a 6 foot ape!

Out popped a tail,

That grabbed a side-rail,

And steadied him on his two feet.

Now I knew more,

As I opened the door,

T’was a monkey I was to meet.

“Hello,” I said brightly,

Smiling politely.

“Hello,” said a voice deep and mellow.

“Friends call me Mick.”

“IAM!” he said quick,

Extending a hand like a pillow.

“You are who?” I inquired.

He smiled, looking tired.

“My name is Iam (sounding spunky),

It’s a description

An abbreviation

For Incredibly Ancient Monkey…”

“I once was a tree,

And a vast prairie.

I lived as a whale and a shark.

I flew through the air,

Looked down from there,

And I rode on Noah’s crowded ark.”

“I sleep for a while,

As an old debris pile,

That nobody looks at twice.

But, when need is near,

That’s when I appear

To offer my aid and advice!”

“Remember this rule

Not to look the fool:

Nobody else can see me.

Nor can they hear,

When I am near.

So don’t introduce your new buddy.”

“I need to inquire,

Build my knowledge higher,

Until it burns blinding bright.”

With that, he’s gone.

I’m standing alone,

And shaking from sudden fright.

I turned around.

Went in, sat down.

I wondered if I’m a wreck.

I wracked my brain,

But can’t explain

The monkey fur on my deck…

Mick McKellar

August 2024