Ozymandias With a Red Tie

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (AND MICK)
 

I met a traveller from an American land,
Who said—“Two golden, legless sneakers of stone
Stand on the East coast. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the tie of Red;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Donald Trump, bigly Dictator;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

The Dawn of Dreams

 

Twilight steals across the canal,
As the last red rays of day fade.
And night's curtain descends.
Soon is the dawn of dreams.

Whispers of Winter whirl about,
Our house glows under clouds of rose,
In skies of robin's egg blue, and
I snuggle for warmth with hot tea,
And the summer love of family.

The canal glimmers -- a silver ribbon,
Its surface rippling with secrets.
Memories of golden daffodils,
Flames to ignite the fading landscape.
Their petals flutter and dance,
A celebration of fleeting beauty.

Winter's wind, a mischievous spirit,
Weaves through ancient branches,
And carries the scent of pine and frost,
A promise of snow-kissed mornings.
Our home trembles, a ship at sea,
Its timbers creaking in harmony.

And there, by the fireside glow,
We gather—the heartbeats of kin.
Laughter ripples -- spilled sunlight,
Warming our souls against Winter's chill.
In this cozy haven, love blooms eternal,
A fragrant bloom in the garden of time.

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Enjoy Your Joy

What do you do when you're getting old,
When your blood is thin and your butt is cold?
What do you do when your left leg aches,
When you scratch an itch and a fingernail breaks ?
What do you do when your memory,
Is as slow as treacle but thin like tea?
What do you do when your new “trick” knee,
Turns “proud and elegant” to wobbly?
What do you do when your mellow voice,
Becomes a scratchy, wheezing noise?
The indignities of senior life,
The signs of wear and aging strife,
Cannot delete, cannot deprive,
Your joy because you’re still alive!

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Night gives way to gray

Night gives way to gray
Naked arms pierce white blanket
The Sun shines somewhere

 

Poem by Mick McKellar
Photo by Sandy Lapeer

Human Resources

It seems a lifetime ago I managed the benefits programs for Michigan Technological University. When I started there, the department was known as Employee Relations. The name had a friendly, personal tone that made one part of a relationship with employees - people. During my tenure there, the department came under new management, and with it came a name change to Human Resources. I fought against this name change, because it sounded impersonal and seemed to reduce employees from people to resources - essentially, numbers in a spreadsheet.

When people become resources, it facilitates the use of all those pretty equations MBAs learned in business college, and it makes it possible to analyze, prioritize, and finalize numbers to optimize, downsize, and right-size an organization by remote control...from the sterile and protected world of resource management. Enter the numbers into the spreadsheet, hit the Enter button, and Exit the world of employee relations.

Numbers, however, can lie -- just as pictures can lie -- lies of omission. It is simply not possible at our level of knowledge - of either technology or humanity - to distill all that a person brings to a job, to an organization, into a number. Organizations are living things, and the people who work there are organs - living parts of a living organization. Would you suggest scheduling surgery on a patient, based only on what one can glean from a spreadsheet? I would not. Yet organizations undergo radical employee-ectomies every day, often solely to balance a number on a spreadsheet. Think about it.

Mick

Human Resources

High on the mountain, the air's pretty thin -
The view is great, but everything's small.
The tiny people are pawns, spent to win,
And they hardly seem to matter at all.
That's why the HR Conversion takes place,
And people become human resources -
Just simple numbers that don't have a face,
A voice, a vote, or any recourses.
When tough decisions must be quickly made,
It becomes easier just to define
Them as just moves in a game to be played:
A game to be won at the bottom line.
But it's not a battle on a board game,
And to treat it as such would be a shame.

Mick McKellar
January 2008

Liberty

I love to breathe the fresh air of freedom,
To walk where I want, without any reason,
And to run when I feel a surge of joy;
Know that sharing joy is never treason.

Breathing free is a joy that fills my soul,
With gratitude for the wonder of life,
To climb countless stairs and not lose my voice,
Nor feel the edge of hypoxia's knife.

I want to walk without limits or bonds,
To feel adrenaline and dance with glee;
Have a healthy body and peaceful mind.
The liberty to be free to be me.

Mick McKellar
February 2024

Survivor Stands Strong

 

Winter storm was long

Wind and snow sing Evensong

Survivor stands strong

Poem by Mick McKellar

Photo by Sandy Lapeer