What It Means To Live

Why does a child with one cookie share,
Yet the guy with a box full does not?
Why do the poor always seem to care,
While the rich cling to all that they've got?

Does having more make you less of a man,
When a neighbor cries out in great need?
Is it so hard to offer a helping hand,
Or engage in a simple good deed?

Why does a man or a woman lie
In the face of an obvious truth?
Is it only to stir up hatred by
Targeting bias and youth?

Why do old men run the government,
When women have so much to share;
And bullies who think they are Heaven-sent,
Poison news, both in print and on air?

They want our children to see and hear,
Only part of our long history;
Stories of anger, hatred, and fear,
Based on their own bigotry.

Share with children the spice of our life;
The wonders the world has to give:
The light and the dark, the solace and strife,
And to know what it means just to live!

Mick McKellar
March 2023

Stingy old men want to hang on to what they've got, and are willing to sacrifice the futures of our children to take away the possibility that they would see through their lies.

 Mick

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

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

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

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

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

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 étude 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