Monday, September 20, 2021

Amazing Dreams: The Lost Soul's Price

The wind on the road in the lonely dark,
Sang a tune softly with warnings so stark,
I dared not ignore their timely advice;
Though I had no desire to disembark,
From my darkling path of the lost soul's price.

In grief, I embarked on this austere quest,
With only one other, my silent guest,
Whose attempt to befriend a misanthrope,
Who eschewed both companionship and rest,
Depleted his store of friendship and hope.

Alone now, astride an ancient draft horse,
Who alone seemed able to set a course,
We wandered forlorn in the dreary mist;
Pain in a saddle, a bag of remorse,
Cracked visage broken, and face Faery-kissed.

Sudden as thunder came warm, soothing light.
Gone were the shadows, the gloom, and the night;
Gone was the burden my old shoulders bore.
A kindly young man appeared on my right,
"Come down!" He commanded with great ardor.

"Why so dismal, my child, what troubles you?"
He asked. (His eyes said he already knew.)
"I caused a death, and I must pay the price!
Pay the lost soul's price is all I can do!"
My words were bitter as frozen blood ice.

His laughter was warm, with comfort and love,
"His soul is with God, in Heaven above!"
He shone like sunshine on newly formed ice.
"You were not at fault!" Said a wondrous dove,
"And He paid for every lost soul's price!"

Mick McKellar
September 2021


My dreams can sometimes wake me up.

Mick
 

Saturday, September 18, 2021

Amazing Dreams: The Old Man on the Hill

I stood on a hill overlooking the world,
And the world looked up at me,
In my raggedy jeans,
In my t-shirt covered with my dog's fur,
In my sagging socks,
In my wispy hair fluttering faintly,
In the sun.
And in my crusty, crackling whisper I said,
"I can not cry for you!"
For I had no tears to shed for them.

And they laughed...

Their bloated, bleary and bulging faces,
Shining with a ghoulish light of hilarity,
Bathed in self-indulgence,
Born in unfocused hunger,
Bred in fear and hate,
Glared in focused rictus --
Uttering a hideous growl of mirthless laughter
At the old man on the hill,
Who had no tears for them.

And they blamed...

Eight billion minds burned a hole in my chest.
Eight billion hearts poured their grief in my soul.
Eight billion voices cried my name in their rage.
And I threw my arms wide,
So none could miss.

My hand brushed the moon as I reached for stars;
My arms gathered light from ages past,
And wisdom from those who walked there.
My heart hummed with joy,
As I comforted all,
And I found the tears,
To shed for all humankind.

Mick McKellar
September 2021


Amazing what one can do in one's dreams.

Mick

Wednesday, September 15, 2021

Amazing Dreams: Fantasies of an Old Man

I stand on the brink of a waterfall.
My wings gleam white in the dawn’s golden light,
Showering sweetly on faces of all
Who gasp at the sudden death of the night.
Many who hide in the valley below,
Shield tender ears and avert fearful eyes --
Gravity lashes water to bellow
And to roar as the falling river cries.
None hear my aging voice cast on the air;
Comforting words never reach tender ears.
I pierce the abyss on wings white and fair;
The joy of my flight distracts from their fears.
Their cheers and hurrahs support my grand flight.
Their bright shining faces dispel the night.

Mick McKellar
September 2021


When folks are so afraid they cannot hear and cannot see, joy may break through to dispel the shadows and bring the light.

Mick

Thursday, August 05, 2021

Canopy

All alone one day, in our big backyard,
I closed both my eyes with a great soft sigh,
Then I stood stock still without breathing hard,
And raised both my arms to the sunny sky.
I squared my shoulders and I locked my knees,
Standing straight and tall in the morning's glow,
I heard singing birds and felt a soft breeze,
Then I let my imagination grow...

Hungry roots plunged deep into rich brown earth.
I had thousands of leaves instead of hair.
My canopy of consciousness, gave birth
To awareness of trees everywhere.
I felt the Earth spinning beneath my feet.
I felt agony from forests ablaze.
I cried at the sacrifice and defeat,
Of each woods and forest we humans raze!
I shared in their green communion a while;
I felt the depth of their long, slow regard.
Then quick -- with a teary eye and a smile,
I stood all alone in my big backyard.

Mick McKellar
August 2021


Although this journey might be a fiction, there remains a possibility it is not.

Mick

Wednesday, June 30, 2021

Old Words, New Friends

His voice crackles from its frayed edges,
And from the surge of his sputtering dynamo --
Pushing and pleading, cajoling
Old and familiar words to carry more:
To hang longer in the dusty air,
To sizzle and pop and dance
With the urges and sins of youth --
Almost forgotten, except in dusty dreams.

Savory words, gone salty and rich
With harmonies of hue and hazy shadow,
Beckon your child mind to drift and dream,
Plunge, ever-so-slowly,
Through a honey-rich patina, polished
By ageless passage and care;
To find the youthful spirits and ageless wonders
Who linger there.

Mick McKellar
June 2021


Why do old men write poems? One question. One million answers.

Mick

Tuesday, May 18, 2021

The Crumbling of the Stoic’s Wall

Grey stones recall the passing rain and wind.
They rest reclined on mortar, brittle bound
To brethren burked, unable to rescind
The wit and wisdom sealed them to this ground.
Through quietude, the silence of the nights;
The warmth of sunlight, dappled on their flanks;
And press of winter’s snow and cold that bites;
Long silent stones find neither praise nor thanks.
But walls are built by man, though strong and just,
And all things age as seasons shuffle by.
Time leeches life and mortar turns to dust;
The stones themselves grow weathered, worn, and die.
For all things mortal temporary be,
Except for love, which lives eternally.

Mick McKellar
May 2021


I am, perhaps, feeling my mortality this fine sunny day and wondering about the durability of what I may leave behind when I depart.

Mick

Tuesday, May 11, 2021

Grandpa

I found him crumbled in his rump-sprung chair,
A wizened stump comprised mainly of bark.
Bright sunlight made a halo of his hair,
His eyes like jewels, twinkling in the dark,
Under the cliff his brow hung o'er his face.
It seemed impossible that he had shaved,
A face so seamed and craggy e'vry place,
One needed magic just to get it laved.
A rumble stirred within his ancient breast.
His tree-limb arm sprung forth and grabbed my hand.
The gnarly tree unfolded from its nest,
But didn't need my aid to help him stand.
He laughed, then whispered (as close as seemly),
"I'm so happy that you came to see me!"

Mick McKellar
May 2021


The important thing is to be there.

Mick