Monday, October 31, 2022

Heart of Halloween

I paused when the porch light flickered and died,
And "Trick or treat!" squeaked from my lips.
I searched about for a place to hide,
I feared prey in a horror flick trips.
The house didn't give a Halloween clue:
No pumpkins or orange and black lights,
No paper ghosts with their paper "Boo!"
No pointy-hat witches in tights.

My  moon shadow drifted on unmowed lawn,
As I turned to start running back,
When I felt and heard the small cavern yawn,
As the front door opened a crack.
There in the light of an All Hallows Eve,
Stood a child in a princess gown!
Her hand gestured from a jeweled sleeve,
She was tossing a bright trinket down.
She disappeared as the door snapped shut,
And a stillness filled the night air.
I tripped and fell on my frightened butt,
As I got up and ran from there...

I went back to look on All Saints day,
To see the place I got tricked.
The yard was fenced and full of hay,
And the house was derelict.
I can't explain what happened that night,
The questions are short and cruel:
For mixed in my candy, shining bright,
Was a ruby-red, heart-shaped jewel.

Mick McKellar
October 2022


Just a quick trip down a darkened lane.

Mick

Friday, September 09, 2022

My Mourning Cup

I dedicate my morning cup to thee.
Slightly astringent, the Earl Grey
In my glass mug teases my tongue,
And the heady warmth of distant oranges,
Sing mellow notes… a counterpoint,
For the earthy melody of my tea.

Mea cuppa is a small salute, a nod,
To an iron soul in a velvet glove;
Gone from the shores of the great lake,
Gone from the magic isle,
With the silent peace of a sovereign servant,
Whose life was duty, bound with joy.

Mick McKellar
September 2022


The gentle touch of empathy, laced with steel,
is gone from the UK ship of state.

Mick

Thursday, August 25, 2022

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

Friday, August 12, 2022

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

Thursday, August 11, 2022

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



Monday, June 20, 2022

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 ├ętude 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

Tuesday, April 05, 2022

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