Wordy

Improving my vocabulary,

I selected deft and chary,

Words unerring and unknown.

Writing to both friends and lovers,

This priggish pedant discovers,

It's best to use simple language if you want your message shown.

Mick McKellar
August 2026

Sunday Spring Dreaming

My  dream crawled through my mind's attic door,
timid and tremulous, fearing I would fall.
Would I misstep, kiss the dusty old floor,
and lie helpless, unable to rise at all? 

Alas, too weak to dance and prance 
among boxes, mirrors, trunks, and cases, 
I shuffled and tiptoed the tinnitus dance,
hissing and shushing, through piles of old places.

Baleful, my gaze raked shelves of old dreams --
packed with plans and roles and paintings unhung, 
empty pages, and poems, and unfinished reams 
of fierce stories untold and sweet songs unsung.

I wandered, I wobbled, and brushed a dark window,
Releasing a sunbeam that lanced through the dark.
I followed its beam through dolorous shadow,
It struck an old mirror with a rainbow spark.

I glanced in that glass and what did I see?
The face of my father scowled back at me!

I suddenly woke in my rocking chair, 
Warm from the sun and the afternoon air... 
And made plans for spring cleaning then and there.

Mick  McKellar

May 2026 

Winter Wind

Don’t let the winter white wind take my name.
Don’t let my voice be lost among the drafts
That sift my words until they sound the same,
And drive the cold through wall and window paths.
Don’t let the drifting dust of time deface,
Or hide the flashing twinkle in my eye,
The one that lights the wreckage of my face,
Or flares as the campfire’s last embers die.
Don’t let my warmth be wasted in the cold.
Hug me close and share what I can give.
When young, I shared too little -- now, I’m old,
And time grows short for me to share and live.
I want to share my love until my death,
Until the winter wind steals my last breath.

Mick McKellar
January 2026

Bridge In extremis

In my dreams I follow paths untrodden,
Leading me to places long forgotten,
Or hidden from the view of prying eyes
Beyond dark water, wind, and crying skies.
The strangest of my dream journeys it seems,
Are those that cross the Bridge of Broken Dreams.

It floats alone in mists of tattered night,
A glowing span of wood, shimmering white.
When the bridge appears, my dream paths merge.
My feelings and my need to touch it surge,
And as my hands and my bare feet arrive,
I know at once the white bridge is alive!

Sometimes I only stand there, connected
As my love and lifeforce is directed
With both amazing care and lightning speed,
To another suffering soul in need.
And rarely I am asked to cross the span,
To walk a living bridge as best I can.

Last night I felt an urgent call to walk
Upon that mighty span that cannot talk.
Walked a long way, until I was spying,
Fuzzy globes of men and women crying
For their loss of freedom, country, rights,
Seen in their broken dreams on fretful nights.

As shaken and disturbed I turned to leave,
The bridge had taken hold of my left sleeve.
Now, out beyond the confines of the bridge,
Were fractured nightmares of the privileged.
The winners of the contest for the world,
Lost sleep as fears of losing it unfurled.

I thought our journey ended in this place,
But now the bridge arched up toward outer space!
From there I saw the dreams of all mankind.
I saw the wonder, peace, and joy they find
When they release the worries of their days,
To visit Heaven in so many ways.

At last the simple message crossed my mind,
The truth the Bridge of Broken Dreams defined:
The cheating of the oligarchs might win,
And some of us will suffer and give in.
They’ll struggle to control their sad bounty,
But in our dreams each one of us is free!

Mick McKellar
September 2025

Squishy

Today is squishy.

Not wet and sloppy...

Quaggy, maybe, 

But not blooty or sticky.

A day to savor my recliner,

In the main room

Of a bouncy house,

And to snack on the crisp, cold air

Of an uncertain Spring.

In the shivery last touch

Of a Keweenaw Winter.

Mick McKellar

May 2025

Canyon Fall

On a hazy day in late upland spring,
I swam through clouds of noseeum bugs,
And balanced to walk on the razor's edge
of the rock wall that Canyon Falls hugs.

My old running shoes wiggled and wobbled,
They were teetering and to and fro.
To balance the extra baggage I bore,
On a frame only couches know.

The shifting stones made very little noise,
when they broke and separated.
I sensed no danger and shifted my weight,
To the foot whose redoubt had skated.

I felt myself go in motion so slow,
My legs shot out from under me.
I looked at the glistening rocks below,
Gritting my teeth for catastrophe.

Panic set in, then surprise and chagrin.
I uttered an animal sound.
I drifted, a leaf afloat on the wind,
Riding on drafts to the ground.

My drop was slow, as though falling through snow.
Until I lay on the river bank,
And though wet, I had no damage to show,
And the mystery of who I should thank.

I stood stock still on the slick river shore.
I pondered for a little time.
I wanted to thank someone, more and more,
As out I endeavored to climb.

To this day I still don't know who saved me,
Who slowed my fall through the air.
Though I'll never be sure who they might be,
I think that my Angel was there.

Mick McKellar
May 2025

Stinky Cheese

During the years I worked for Social Security, I spent many hours visiting clients in nursing homes and medical care facilities. There is an odor that permeates such facilities -- one I came to  think of as the smell of advanced age. As I advance, I fear developing that characteristic...

Stinky Cheese

The silent passing wind in our abode,
Leaves more than saintly treacle in its wake:
A distant dance of offal a la mode,
In league with moldy stockings -- baked in cake.
Like all creatures that venture forth to die,
Our species slowly ripens without cease.
Seasoned with sun and salted when we cry,
We age akin to wheels of stinky cheese.
Active in our youth, we mix with others,
Homogenous, we seek to be the same.
Time brings differences with sisters, brothers,
And others, as we all seek who to blame.
You may call it character, if you please,
But winds of change have made us stinky cheese.

Mick McKellar
January 2025