Christmas Gift

On day 308 after my blood and marrow stem cell transplant, still alive and loving it, I wandered outside to shovel a bit of snow and breathe the cold, crisp air of Christmas morning. It's such a simple thing, shoveling and scooping snow. Although most would consider it a bother and near drudgery to pile on the winter weather gear, dry boots, and warm gloves to lift and push a few inches of snow out of the driveway, from the walk, and off the porch; I revelled in feeling my muscles move, watching my breath fog the frosty air, and hearing the strong, warm beat of my heart as I worked.

I received my Christmas gift when my eyes opened this morning. Each day is a gift for anyone who has come face-to-face with his own mortality. To know how precious is life and to understand how fragile is our grasp on this mortal coil, troubles and all, makes the present my precious present, and today my most precious Christmas present. Sharing it with my family and my friends was pure delight and wonderful memories worthy of many pleasant dreams.

Merry Christmas,

Mick

Christmas Gift

I stood outside and watched it snow this morn,
And shivered, just a little, in the cold;
On Christmas day, the day that Christ was born,
And pondered when (or if) I would grow old.
Despite the trials of the year gone past,
And more than sixty-one years gone before,
The days have raced by me so very fast,
I need a calendar, just to keep score.
I looked up at the Christmas morning sky,
And said a prayerful "Thank You" just to be
Alive, and with freezing tear in my eye,
Gazed at the silent snowscape around me.
My heart, ablaze with joy, in its own way,
Unwrapped my precious gift, this Christmas day!

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Christmas Dreams

In the year past:

I have suffered changes, both great and small. 
Yet the change that eclipses them one and all,
The one that disturbs me, profound and deep,
Is my tendency to drift off to sleep...



A peaceful doze in my easy chair, bathed in the gentle aura of Christmas lights, drifting off to timeless tones of traditional Christmas music is a wonderful way to enjoy the peace of Christmas...at least until the sugarplums dance in my head and I wake up hungry for Christmas cookies and hot cocoa (with tiny marshmallows). Memories of Christmases past warm my heart and fill my dreams. May your Christmas dreams keep you warm and happy all year!

Mick

Christmas Dreams

As he sat in front of his Christmas tree,
The tired old man drifted off to sleep.
Its twinkling lights were the last he would see,
Before his soft slumber, profound and deep,
Ferried his soul to a wonderful place,
Where memories of Christmas past abide;
Where blessed somnolence and yuletide grace,
Led his spirit to wondrous joy betide.
As the bright Christmases of years long past,
Dwelt once again in his sleeping embrace,
Brilliant images danced, cascading fast,
As a rushing wind tags a downhill race.
He slept on in peace, with only a trace
Of a timeless smile on his ageless face.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Poet, of Course

I've been writing poetry since 1962, when I wrote my first poem for my mother...at age 12. Since then, I have written more than 1,000 poems (some pretty good, some pretty awful), a great many papers, articles, and reports. I have made thousands of journal entries, since I started "journaling" about the same time I started writing poems. Yet, despite several efforts, a best effort at the great American novel has eluded me.

Recently, I was asked why I have not authored a book...a novel. I was asked why I write so much poetry, when poetry seems to be so little valued and widely ignored in this age of blockbuster books, blustering blogs, and ever-present e-books. It has not been for lack of trying. I think perhaps my recent journey into shadow and re-emergence into the light may provide the impetus I need to start such a project once again. But, will my Muse grow restive, and interfere?

Mick

Poet, of Course

My best plans are often interrupted,
By the sudden appearance of my Muse.
Many a good night's sleep is disrupted,
When my poem suppressor pops a fuse.
Though I reason with logic empiric,
There's a part of my mind that thinks in rhyme --
Whenever I hear a good song lyric,
I try to re-write it, every time.
I work very hard, and fight a good fight
Against my Muse, and try to defeat her;
Yet when descriptive prose I try to write,
I comes out iambic pentameter!
If I write a novel, go make your bets...
It will be written in rhyming couplets.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Carol of the Stars

I went outside tonight, and it's 20 degrees, air clear as crystal and a velvet sky with millions of diamond bright stars and a moon so bright it dances on the snow. I went outside tonight, just to listen to the music of the stars, and to reach upward and touch the carol of the universe. Christmas is timeless in the northern climes, green and silver, gold and white, gray as shadow and brilliant bright. I went outside tonight, and I gazed to the East, secretly expecting to see a distant star, reaching across the years with the promise of joy and peace.

The piercing cold, the pearly snow, the precious touch of an icy breeze on a soft winter night made my heart sing and my soul soar to dance among the stars. Christmas is my favorite time of the year, especially when I feel the joy of the gift of life.

Mick

Carol of the Stars

Black velvet sky, with diamonds beyond price,
Soars soft above a field adrift with snow;
A masterwork of ebony and ice,
A-glimmer with a silver moonlit glow.
The tableau shifts before my wond'ring eyes,
As starlight sprinkles drifts with gems of light;
Clear crystal chimes cold-echo from the skies,
And pierce the subtle silence of the night.
Enchanting voices which caress the air,
And softly whisper Christmastime is nigh,
Swell suddenly to carol ev'rywhere:
Sweet voices of the stars fill all the sky.
The moonlight dims before the Eastern Star,
And love shines forth from long ago and far.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

A Face in the Crowd

I have not been writing much lately. Considering how much joy it gives me to put my virtual quill to electronic paper, I had to search for a reason. In that search, I discovered to my chagrin, that I may well have been hiding from the blunt and solid reality of living with my infirmity, my inability to make the final leap from terminally ill to terribly uncertain. Sometimes, I feel like the ancient oak: stolid and solid on the outside, yet silently rotting within. Little wonder, I guess, that I would seek to hide in plain sight, and become just A Face in the Crowd.


Mick




A Face in the Crowd


I've been hiding again,
Lost in the silent sight
Of those who know me.
I dwell as little more than a wraith,
Haunting the anonymous fog,
Creeping in from the shore-less sea --
Boundless waves of humanity,
Surging about all that is me,
Afloat, adrift in Eternity.


The soft caress of the mist,
Warms my cheek as though kissed,
Enfolds my weary shoulders,
In word-less, whispering embrace.
Dreaming, I see the sun pass --
From blazing dawn to blush at dusk,
While faces, distant and familiar,
Drift past in the golden haze:
Reaching, searching, yet not touching,
Never touching...


My memory holds close the rough,
The rocky reassurance of Earth,
Beneath my seeking feet, now numb
From treading on shadows and pain.
Mourning, I regret my flight,
From the edge of sorrow and fear,
To hide, a shade in penumbra near
The dark, and reside, a vestige,
An echo in search of a refuge.
And though I shout, both strident and loud,
I remain a mere sylph, a face in the crowd.


Mick McKellar
October 2011

Adjusting Sails

I was recently reminded of a quote from William Arthur Ward, who said: "The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails." I began wondering if my ongoing medical problems and the concomitant paranoia about germs, injury, and infections were driving me toward becoming that classical pessimist who simply curses the wind because he cannot change it.

I would like to think that, as seas become rough and my life-boat is tossed upon the foam, I will have the stamina and confidence to scale the mast and adjust the sails -- always keeping within sight of a lighthouse light and the safety of a home harbor.

Mick

Adjusting Sails

When wind shifts blow my little boat off stream,
And seas begin to toss me side-to-side,
I search horizons for a lighthouse gleam,
For there's nowhere on this ocean to hide.
The temper of the sea defines my path,
Swift changeable as clouds that sail the sky,
Unforgiving and fluid in its wrath,
And heeding neither need nor sailor's cry.
As long the westering sun seeks its bed,
Cleaving gray shadows with its brilliant rays,
I'll ride the tide, and bathed in blazing red,
Seek out the silent solace of home quays.
Then, when the last gleam of the sunset pales,
You'll find me on the spar, adjusting sails.

Mick McKellar
August 2011

Wasp on the Ceiling

I guess it cannot be helped. Despite my best efforts, there are still dark hours and even dark days, when the weight of challenges simply overwhelms me, and despair finds a crack in the walls of my redoubt, flowing in and forcing hope to tread its black waters. Change always seems to bring at least one black bag among the luggage. Most of the time, I can simply put the black bag aside until I am ready to dispose of its contents. Occasionally, however, the contents spill across an hour or a day and darken everything for awhile.

I do not welcome these times, both for the pain they bring and the effort expended to illuminate the dark and drive the shadows from my life. Like discovering a wasp on the ceiling, I  cannot simply ignore the little beastie because it may decide to hurt me, and the longer I leave it alone, the more likely it is to attack. I simply have to step aside and deal with it.  


Mick 


Wasp on the Ceiling 

My thoughts pour black, as bitter as coffee,
To fill my derelict, bottomless cup.
Passions gone cold flow as slow as toffee,
When old, dissipated, and all used up.
My face, gone gray as late autumn morning,
Startles my mirror, and shatters my eyes;
Those shadowed orbs, which offer no warning
Or guidance to where inner darkness lies.
An empty vessel at an empty quay,
Silently, swiftly, after midnight moored,
When facing an equally empty day,
Rides high at anchor, it's cargo outpoured.
I find this terrible, hopeless feeling,
As welcome as a wasp on the ceiling...

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Etiolated

It does chafe the soul, hiding from the sun in an area that is not known for a lot of sunny days. I was never a sun worshiper, lying for hours in direct rays to tan my hide. Born with the "Celtic curse" of fair skin and a penchant for burning and peeling instead of turning brown, I have always taken some precautions. Yet I spent many a happy afternoon hiking, swimming, or just walking about on our rare and wonderful, sunny days.

Now, because of my skin's delicate condition and the effects sunlight has on my medications, I must avoid exposure to direct sunlight, whether natural or artificial. Because I used to have house plants, I know that most living things need some light to survive and stay healthy. People housed away from the sun develop a palor and even vitamin deficiencies. Will I turn pale and colorless away from the old haymaker? We shall see...

Mick


Etiolated

I've been told I must stay out of the sun;
A medicated mushroom in the dark.
The restriction makes sense, but it's not fun
To hide inside -- a Jubjub-hunted Snark.
I'll watch TV or a video disk,
And bathe in LCD/CRT light,
Or avoid the illumination risk,
By venturing outside only at night.
I wonder, will I simply disappear?
Will I vanish, once I've become too pale?
I could hide here, in perpetual fear,
A prisoner inside a light-less jail,
Or wear sunscreen as thick as molasses,
A broad-brimmed hat, a mask, and sunglasses.


Mick McKellar
June 2011

Gray Majesty

Sunset at Eagle River, MI

Nothing built by man will last forever. I have heard that phrase and with the possible exception of the Twinky, I agree. We are temporary residents in and on our world. In the long view, most of what we have built has been completed in a tiny fraction of the time our world has existed, and much of what we have built has become ruins, either by our own actions or the great relentless recycler: time. Yet, we expend extreme amounts of resources to build monuments to ourselves and our ideals.

The ruins of some of our strongest ancient redoubts, castles and towers built of huge blocks of stone, are now tourist attractions. Pyramids and temples slowly erode and will eventually become one with the soil on which they stand. Yet, compared to the span of our lives, they seem almost timeless and permanent. As living humans, we are ephemeral creations of the living God, our candles briefly burning to hold back the night. Little wonder we seek immortality in metal and stone. Once our soul has moved on, the ruins of our lives may endure a little longer, mute testimony to our ideas and ideals, pride and prejudices, values and vanity -- standing against the ravages of time with gray majesty.

Mick



Gray Majesty


Silent it stands at the edge of the sea,
Poised on a jut just above a sea cliff.
Once a great tower, providing a lee,
For sentries whose bones in the wind grew stiff.
Built from the limestone, the bones of that land,
Stoic, it stood there for two centuries.
Though weathered it endured and looking grand,
Survived until war brought it to its knees.
Explosives and bombs weakened its great wall,
And beaten by wartime technology,
Its wondrous battlements began to fall,
Collapsing inward almost silently.
Though time takes a toll so relentlessly,
The ruins stand firm with gray majesty.


Mick McKellar
June 2011

Epic Dream

Did you ever dream an epic dream? You know, the stories where you and others are in mortal danger, and through long odds and even longer dark and deadly chases, you emerge victorious. I am a fan of fantasy and science fiction stories, so my epic dreams can range from space opera to mythic fantasy stories.

One such dream involves the defeat of dark and shadowy hounds by the application of secret knowledge and the power of light. The story is a complete fantasy, powered by the Ambien I took while being treated with high dose steroids. For some reason, Ambien dreams are in technicolor and surround sound. I hope you enjoy my epic fantasy, my epic dream...

Mick


Epic Dream

Soft forest bracken brushed me as I ran.
Twigs snapped, and leaves were crushed beneath my feet.
My heart was pounding, quick as my heart can,
As on I labored, neither fast nor fleet.
Dark and brooding shadows closely followed;
The swift and deadly darts of fear they cast,
Left their victims empty-eyed and hollowed.
So many fallen, now I was the last,
To face the hounds, and their evil battle,
With every fibre of my being;
And avenge the others, led like cattle,
To their deaths, unfeeling and unseeing.

Scraping, clawing, quickly up I scrabbled,
Now desperate to top the nearest tor.
Gathered there, the other's spirits babbled,
Clamoring for revenge and so much more.
As I breached the rim, I turned to measure,
The number of the hounds confronting me,
And determing if my precious treasure,
Could capture or destroy my enemy.
Silently, their darkness flowed toward me,
Dividing to surround my high redoubt;
Soon I'd be an island in a black sea,
Dark seething at the shore with no way out.

I put aside the fear, calmed my spirit,
And touched my inner core, where lies my strength.
Power surged so loud the hounds could hear it,
And paused their advance, watching me at length.
Down my spirit reached to touch the Earth's core,
And up my mind embraced the wan starlight.
I opened up my heart just a bit more,
Inviting other's spirits to the fight.
As a lens I focused all this power,
And flooding all below with brightest light, 
Watched the shadows vanish, the hounds cower,
And flee the battleground without a fight.

Silently the other's spirits left me,
And leaving only gratitude and peace.
One might think I'd lonely and bereft be,
And lost, when I felt all that power cease.
There upon the tor I stood and shivered,
And listened for the normal forest sounds,
Please about the judgement I delivered,
Without destroying any of the hounds.
Knowledge is the treasure that I carry,
So deep within the inner core of me,
Using it for good and also chary,
To cherish it and use it sparingly.

Contented that I would not end up dead,
I shifted and turned over in my bed...

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Green Dream

This poem is based on a recurring dream, wherein I become one with the forest and listen to their long slow song about life, death, and rebirth in the wonder of spring. I have dreamed of becoming a tree and reaching from the cool depths of forest soil to the majesty of the grand forest canopy. To live so long that seasons are like days and to remember when the world was young.


If the trees sing to each other of the memories of days past, they must feel sadness at the way they've been used and abused. The toxins in the air and water, the acid rains, the burning of less-filtered sunlight, and the loss of vast forests worldwide could destroy their spirit and silence even the whispers. Whispers I swear I still hear when I walk through a forest glade where ancient first growth trees still survive. Maybe it just my over-active imagination, but I want to believe that any life so long lived must be aware.


Mick


Green Dream


I dreamed I woke in a cathedral green,
And walked alone amidst the giant trees.
Whispers touched my ears from voices unseen;
The weight of their watching weakened my knees,
And I felt them considering my worth.


Sunlight, filtered to a yellow-green haze,
Flickered and danced on the soft forest floor.
Entranced, I stood for what may have been days,
But, was certainly an hour or more;
The most complete peace I've felt since my birth.


Suddenly, a great silence descended,
And the only sound was my beating heart.
The air was still and the whispers ended;
I felt my physical self come apart,
As I welcomed a joining with the earth.


My arms and my fingers stretched towards the sun;
My feet and toes reached down, into the soil;
My legs were now fused together as one,
And I felt all my hair stretch and uncoil,
As I reveled, I sensed a wave of mirth.


The laughter of trees, a sound to behold,
From voices so deep and cavernous fair,
Became a song both incredibly old,
And reverberated everywhere.
It felt as though it encircled the Earth.


It sang of memories of clean fresh air.
Of drinking deep waters both cold and pure.
Sunlight caressing its canopy fair,
Of winter and summer a cycle sure,
And adding new rings to increase its girth.


Then I felt the giants focus on me.
The shadow of their despair had grown strong;
Their voices grew sad and melancholy,
And then the song faltered, something was wrong --
For of all these things there was now a dearth.


Their ghostly images flooded my mind,
And sadness over vast forests now gone.
In my dream, I was again humankind,
But my heart was as heavy as a stone,
Despite my green communion and re-birth.


In the still quiet morning, shadows long,
I still walk though the forest damps and dews,
And I listen for the sad forest song;
Always wishing that I had better news,
To justify their judgement of my worth.


Mick McKellar
June 2011

Nap Storm

There I was, poised to tap away an hour or two, letting the ideas flow from mind to fingers to keyboard, when I blinked twice and discovered those two hours were already gone. I'd fallen asleep with my fingers on the keys of my ancient Dell Inspiron 2200, while the cursor on the screen, still patiently blinking, had not moved a pixel in any direction. My glass of ice water was tepid, and the fingers holding it were stiff. What happened?


I decided that, while opening up to day dreams, I got caught in a nap storm. This kind of napping is relatively new to me, and to tell the truth, I find it a bit frightening. The incredible speed with which I was gone and back again, although only my perception, was unnerving. That's why I call it a nap storm.


Mick




Nap Storm


I woke to find two hours had passed me by,
And I did not remember going to sleep.
I blinked to chase the drowsies from my eye,
And vowed to never spend time counting sheep.
My fingers were still resting on the keys
Of my old laptop, waiting patiently
Upon the lap desk, resting on my knees,
In a recliner, with the rest of me.
Though I like to fish in day dream river,
Angling for that slippery, shiny lore.
I waded in to capture a sliver,
But don't remember drifting from the shore...
And why was I afloat in slumber lake?
A sudden nap storm caught me in its wake.


Mick McKellar
June 2011

Banquet Without Price

I know people who try to live in the past. Whether their future appears too bleak or they are afraid and worried about what is to come, they merely relive "the old days" and forget to live today. Others live only in the future. Their lives are a long string of destinations and disappointments. They forget to live the journey from now to the next now, building sun castles in the sky. When the clouds come, and bring rain instead of blue skies, their castles fall and they despair that life is unfair. 

I know these people, because at various times in my own life, I was "these people." The gift of living one day at a time came with my diagnosis of leukemia. I am alive and intend to remain so as long as God grants me the gift of a new day, each day. The sure knowledge that each day could be my last is a strong motivation to pack as much living into each day as possible. Worrying about tomorrow or fretting about the past change nothing. Each new day is a banquet without price, and I plan to dig in and enjoy.

Mick

Banquet Without Price

I tried to live in the future, did I;

A wonderful and unlimited place,

Where sick people do not suddenly die,

And ev'ry competitor wins each race.

There is always enough to go around,

And no one ever gets angry or sad.

Laughter and happiness, the only sound

One can hear, for nothing ever goes bad.

And yet, like trying to live in the past,

A dead time, where nothing can ever change;

The fluid dreams of the future don't last,

And life there's impossible to arrange.

Feast on the past, add the future as spice,

For today is the banquet without price.

Mick McKellar

June 2011

Self-cleaning

Imagine you had the power to create worlds. You could design planets that were gardens, frozen spheres, furnaces, or even desolate rocks. The gardens would need tending, so you could hire or even create caretakers for your garden world. But should they fail to care for it, or worse exploit and poison the garden, would you not build in some sort of self-cleaning mechanism, a sort of re-start button?

I wondered, what if the self-cleaning mechanism for our world has been activated? Could all the storms and climate changes be our own world attempting to "reset" or "reboot?" Not being the Creator of our world, I could not comprehend His mind, but in my own limited fashion I present one possibility...

Mick

Self-cleaning

I stood upon a bridge that spanned the sky,

And surveyed all the world that turned below.

I cast my gaze from pole to pole, and I

Despaired that what I'd planted did not grow.

My garden wasn't simply choked with weeds,

Weeds had joined the trees and seas in dying.

My caretakers had filled only their needs,

The toxic mess they left had me crying.

The gift I gave them, a priceless treasure,

Needed only careful, loving tending.

Greedily they'd wasted the full measure,

Of resources now reaching their ending.

Reluctantly, I flipped a switch, meaning

I'd started the cycle of self-cleaning...

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Memorial Day 2011

Memorial Day was never just a day off work for my family, because so many members of my family were in the service...all but me, actually. Medical and health issues kept me from service, but never diminished the pride I feel for those who served.

This year, we're in Rochester, MN, at Mayo Clinic, and I cannot be with my family. We attended the Memorial Day ceremonies at Soldiers Field Veterans Memorial, and I found it moving and reassuring to see a community give honor and recognition to its veterans, both the living and the lost. The memorial is a beautiful structure of granite walls, etched with battle scenes from all major U.S. wars. The memorial was packed, so I stood outside, peering over a wall, with several hundred other visitors and veterans. Their solemnity and pride made this a special Memorial Day.

Mick

Memorial Day 2011

I watched them march, peering over the wall,

The proud veterans and their families.

They were gathered together, one and all,

For music, and singing, and homilies,

Recounting the valor and sacrifice,

And the giving of the last full measure,

By their sons and daughters, in the service

Of their country's freedom, timeless treasure

Requiring constant vigilance as cost.

Their faces, unsmiling, were filled with pride,

Through speeches focused on those that were lost,

In wars where their young neighbors fought and died.

I stood and I watched, an unremarked guest,

As they remembered their brightest and best.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Silent Smile

Did you ever watch someone read a letter and try guess the contents from the expression on his or her face? For some messages, the general nature of the contents is readily apparent -- especially strong emotions. Good news brings a grin, a chuckle, or a laugh. Bad news can show as anger or sadness. The one I like best, I call the silent smile.

Reading a letter from a friend that touches your heart and makes you feel warm and loved evokes a joy in your soul and an uplift to your spirit that softens the aspect of your face, and nearly always brings about a tender look in the eyes and uplift at the corners of the mouth...the silent smile.

Mick

Silent Smile

I watched her read a letter from a friend,

Her eyes moved back and forth at quickened pace.

I wondered if before she reached the end,

The contents could be read upon her face.

Sometimes her eyes would backtrack and re-read,

A word or passage slowly, carefully,

Or jump ahead with incredible speed,

To stop and gaze at something thoroughly.

Her face relaxed a little as she read,

And gentle tenderness filled her brown eyes,

To silently back what her soft smile said.

And though each fleeting aspect often hies,

A loving look will linger for awhile;

Knowing you're loved begets a silent smile.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

An Ordinary Day

I suppose everyone dreams of a utopia or a special place, where the wrongs of our own world either do not exist or can be resolved by magic or just by caring friends and family. Mine always seems to include images from my favorite books, especially the fantasy works of Tolkien, Lewis, and Brooks; all mixed up with peace and plenty for all.

The images of an "ordinary" day in that wonderful place, I keep in a corner of my mind, as a refuge or redoubt -- a retreat from some of life's harsh realities. It is my special place, where I go when a procedure is painful, or I need a few moments to collect the ragged end of my emotions, frayed by an unexpected challenge or grand disappointment. Fear and anxiety cannot exist there, and once free of that pair, I can think freely and put things in perspective -- and that is on an ordinary day...

Mick

An Ordinary Day

I dreamed that I was in a wondrous land,

Where wizards cured diseases with a spell,

Or healers might, with a touch of their hand,

And a secret draught, make anyone well.

The rulers of the land were fair and wise;

The people were content and lived in peace.

The countryside was easy on the eyes,

And errant knights were the only police.

I moved from place to place with just a thought:

From room to room, or far as I could see.

Folks said it was a myth that wars were fought,

And none had ever heard of cruelty.

We celebrated life in ev'ry way,

And that was just an ordinary day...

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Dream Canvas

I was blessed with the heart of an artist and the hands of a farmer with arthritis and a rusty bucket in which I cannot carry a tune. Entire symphonies, layered and deep intrude upon my musings and my sleep, but I have not the talent or training to write them down, nor the voice to bring them to life.

However, the world of words, not sundered from my life by any physical limitations, becomes the brush in my unsteady hand, the myriad colors upon my palette, the orchestra in my mind, and the chorus of my dream choir. I treasure the moments I am allowed to walk in that dream world, and find the mysteries waiting there for eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to embrace.

Mick

Dream Canvas

If I could write the music in my head,

And paint my words until they light the way,

Then dance unfettered, touching sky instead

Of letting all that beauty wash away.

If I could gather all the love I see,

I'd pour its essence deep upon the page,

So that the words alive inside of me,

Would live forever on the paper stage.

If I could sing an aria, profound

Enough to open all the wounded hearts

And souls, and share its loving healing sound,

I'd mend each broken spirit's fractured parts.

And though, my palette has but words, it seems

I'll paint upon that canvas in my dreams.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Train

How often I have heard folks tell me that, life is a journey and I should enjoy the ride. I suppose, like most Type A's early on, I was just like the people who built the expressways and superhighways across America. My focus was on the destination, not on the journey to the destination. Then, I got my first motorcycle and I learned quickly two very important lessons. First I learned that I did not like riding a small motorcycle on the expressway. Second, that it is important to enjoy the ride.

I no longer ride a motorcycle, but I have learned to enjoy the ride. All of life is a journey and I want my life to be that journey, punctuated with the spice and bitters of destinations along the way. If my life were just about destinations, more than half of it would be missing. Life is a journey. Enjoy the ride.

Mick

Train

I slept, and dreamt that I was on a train.

The coach in which I rode had no window.

I could not tell the weather, sun or rain,

Had no idea where the train would go.

The coach was larger, ever than I thought,

And it held more people than I could see.

All held tickets just like the one I bought,

Some were short, some were long, and none like me.

Folks got on and got off, I know not where,

And so, to pass the time, I made some friends,

Yet, when I turned around, they were not there.

So, I often asked when the journey ends.

They said I'd know, I'd feel it, deep inside,

In the meantime, I should enjoy the ride.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Blossom

Blossoms in the wind, dancing and dodging, wobbling about with every little gust, seem so delicate and frail they should simply break apart and scatter their petals upon the gale. Yet, they bend with the pressure, bending and shaking, nearly breaking, and rebound to display their beauty. Rooted firmly in good soil and lovingly cared for, it offers the joy of its presence and the reassurance of the tenacity of life.

Planting and cultivating a friendship, especially one that will be tried and tested again and again by life's stormy gales, requires a loving hand, careful watering and tending, and occasionally a little manure -- applied judiciously and spread very thinly. For those lucky spirits upon this ancient planet, who in the course of their lives have known true friends, I grant you may be the richest souls alive.

Mick

Blossom

A flower, pale, bright, dancing in the wind,

Chancing its petals upon whirling air,

An offer of beauty it can't rescind,

From root, it endures, bravely standing there.

Its life delicately touches my eye.

Its sweet, simple promise touches my soul.

Its honest spirit makes me want to try,

To capture its essence, to keep it whole.

A treasure because it’s so very rare.

Its seed so tiny it defies eyesight,

And cultivating it requires such care,

That few of us manage to do it right.

Yet, with hard work and lots of love to spend,

We can blossom, and become a true friend.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Fun Park

When the evening shadows grow long, and the day has worked its frustrations and challenges out on my brain, I relax and let my mind drift a little on the evening breeze, a single seed from from a old maple tree -- spinning away -- a helicopter without purpose, drifting on the winds of twilight.

Ideas, dreams, visions, and images all spin away as quickly as they surface. Imperfect, partially formed, hazy, and indistinct, they dash away to play among the facts and realities of the world, until they come home to dance and relax, mix and mingle, in the 24/7 fun park of my subconscious mind. Sometimes, they come out and play, and a poem is born...

Mick

Fun Park

The westering sun left me in its wake,

Adrift in the cool blue ocean of sky,

An evening breeze then gave me a shake,

And let slip my thoughts to randomly fly;

Darting and dashing a firefly's track,

Among those creatures that live in the air,

So quickly, as though they're not coming back,

But they always come home, sometime, same where.

When the sky grows indigo, velvet dark,

And the air is pierced with diamond starlight,

My thoughts gather swiftly at the fun park,

To dance, and to sing, and cavort all night.

The park where my thoughts come home to unwind,

Is open all night: my subconscious mind.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Dozer

Falling asleep in an easy chair sounds like an every day occurrence, but this has not always been so for me. I rarely napped, and while taking steroid medications in the last month and a half, I required chemical help just to get my eyes closed at night. Today, for some reason, I need help propping up my eyelids.

"Catching up on lost sleep," seems a favorite reason for snoozers worldwide to explain extra hours spent in bed or a long afternoon nap on a comfortable sofa. I don't know if I can catch up on over sixty years of sleeping only four to five hours a night, but I do know that I'd rather not start just now.

Mick

Dozer

I thought that sleep lost, was lost forever,

A leaf on the river gone to the sea.

That doesn't stop my body, however,

From trying to find the slumber for me.

Despite my best efforts to stay awake,

Though snugly ensconced in my easy chair,

I then come back to myself with a shake,

And realize I have been snoozing there.

At first this left me annoyed and upset,

Nodding right off, at the drop of a hat.

It seems, I need all the sleep I can get;

I guess I'll just have to get used to that.

The body has simple wisdom to share:

When tired, find rest, any time, anywhere.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Cloudburst

I truly enjoy listening to rain tapping on the roof, especially when I don't have to go out into the wet weather. Walking along in the rain, when there is no wind, and you have an umbrella, can be an enjoyable experience -- but how often does that happen? At home, in the Keweenaw, I most often see rain moving sideways, being driven by a storm wind, and fighting an umbrella under those circumstances adds frustration to the whole soggy experience.

Today started with a slow, but steady rain, and I decided to try driving my car for the first time since January. All was fine until the return trip to the Gift of Life Transplant House, when the sky opened up and let loose a torrent which made vision near impossible in downtown Rochester traffic. However, I passed the test. Five minutes after I parked the car, the rain stopped and the sun came out. I like rain, I really do...but it can be overdone.

Mick

Cloudburst

I love to quietly listen to rain,

Tapping softly on our roof when falling.

The natural rhythms sky tears sustain,

To the music in my heart is calling.

And when in sync, the flow is powerful,

To make a pewter-gray day a jewel;

Instead of the dreary, drab, and hour-full,

Tests of patience so many find cruel.

To walk in a light rain is a pleasure,

If there's no wind, and you've an umbrella.

A bubble of dryness is a treasure,

To a slightly damp, but happy fella;

Not because the other walkers are damp,

From each dripping head to each soggy shoe,

As through falling sky-dew they're forced to tramp.

But then again, I smile -- maybe that's true...

Still there are times I find rain abhorrent,

Especially when I am caught outside,

And unzipped clouds pour forth in a torrent:

A deluge leaving me no place to hide!

I trudge along, taking a cold shower

In my clothes, but that may not be the worst;

Try driving a car, through traffic's power,

When near blinded by a sudden cloudburst.

In other words, I really love the rain;

But when overdone, it can be a pain.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Senescence

I've been thinking about growing older, a subject not in vogue for most of the last year, considering the challenges and uncertainty of those twelve months. However, it appears that, with the aid of modern medical chemistry and the application of multiple layers of paranoia about germs, I must consider getting older a possible outcome of the transplant process.

I've noticed changes that track very closely with those experienced by the older members of my family and some of my friends. Some nights, like a broken toy doll, if you sit me up my eyes close. If you lay me down, my eyes open. Ambient temperature has finally become a factor in my life, and I cannot determine why my eyebrows are reaching out from my face, as though to grab something. Always a dependable friend in the past, stairways have become my nemesis, for the steps appear to be propagating.

Maybe it's just me and my radical, new, senescent perspective on the world around me.

Mick

Senescence

I walk outside on a warm, sunny day,

And a sudden breeze make my skin feel cold.

On the sidewalk, I'm always in the way,

And why are all my young friends looking old?

I go to bed and I lie awake, wired;

Yet, ten minutes ago, dozed in a chair.

I sleep for long hours and wake up still tired.

Is my rest leaking out of me somewhere?

The hair on my head very slowly grows,

And stops in certain wide open spaces;

Yet it grows thick and quickly in my nose,

And other very unlikely places.

And though I've seen no construction, I swear,

They've made stairways longer everywhere.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Personal Rapture

When Roger Whittaker sings The First Hello, The Last Goodbye, I am always struck by the line: "They say the moment that you're born, is when you start to die." We forget that life is a temporary job and could lose that job without a lot of notice. Young people seem to have little sense of danger or personal mortality. Older people sometimes seem to simply give up and let their lease expire.

For those threatened by a disease or disaster which could or will end that life, the initial reaction (at least in my case) is fear of losing everything and of dying alone. However, many discover that by living each day as a gift, and as though it may be your last, you can live in the present, the precious present, and not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow is in God's hands and is His present to bestow.

Mick

Personal Rapture

It's so easy to lose track of the fact,

That we all have an expiration date.

Little wonder so many of us act,

As if life and health remain on our plate,

Until we decide that the meal is done.

Invulnerable, we think, in our youth,

Many seek out thrills for life is boring;

And in our old age, though we sense the truth.

We spend a great deal of our time snoring,

Or worse, we end up spending it alone.

For those whose illnesses threaten their lives,

Fragile veils of self-deception shatter.

The loss of children, of husbands, of wives,

Of leaving behind the things that matter,

Fills their hearts with fear for when they are gone.

The precious present, for those who find it.

Is treasure beyond any Earthly store.

Some day they will die, but they don't mind it,

Living each day as if gifted one more,

Loving the gift as though it's the last one.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Crystal Bridges

I have long believed that, when we think about someone we care for, a connection is forged that is untouched and unstained by distance and time. Concern, compassion, and love are powerful emotions that, at least momentarily, change our state of being from internalized thought to a broadcast channel of immense power. The closer we are to each other, the more we can "feel the love," and sense the underlying compassion and concern. A hug can be a life changing event.

Sometimes, when I pray, I can feel a connection with God -- the slightest, ephemeral whisper of a touch, yet overwhelmingly real and profound. Perhaps it is but the yearning of my heart to reach out and touch the face of God, or maybe He simply took my call. And someday, when I am done here, and go home, I am hoping for a universe changing hug.

Mick

Crystal Bridges

In a dream, I saw a bright glowing world,

A crystalline network, arches aglow,

Uncountable brilliant branches unfurled,

Flashing in myriad colors below.

For each glowing soul, the power of light,

Just waited to be given direction.

With each kind thought a crystal bridge took flight,

Forging a momentary connection,

A glistening conduit, bright gleaming,

Unseen, with whomever they thought about;

And a power surge, silently beaming,

Delivered the good they were sending out.

The image that warmed my own heart so much?

Each soul grew brighter with each gleaming touch.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Honoring the Gift

I am a lucky man to have friends and family who care about me at a time when I could spend all my hours feeling sorry for myself. Yet, I do not feel sorry for myself. During and while enduring the challenges of my illness, I learned a valuable life lesson. I have learned to live in the present.

For each new day is for me a gift from God. I strive to make the most of each one and to live each day to the fullest and to honor the gift of each new day.

Mick

Honoring the Gift

The joy of a sunrise near breaks my heart,

As the early light so wan yet pleasant,

Gives me the strength and the power, to start

Planning to make the most of my present.

For that precious present is all I need,

To fire my spirit and blood to rise,

So my tree of life, now a tiny seed,

In a single day can reach to the skies.

And if in that single day I can find,

Another soul in distress or in pain.

And in giving love and compassion, kind,

Offer solace sincere from stress and strain,

Without worry or doubt about short shrift,

I have given honor to God's great gift.

Mick McKellar

May 2011

Faith, Love, Music

Sometimes I wake in the wee hours of the morning, my mind churning away on a problem or trying to make sense of the daily nonsense of life. Last night, I was dream-pondering about the relationship between music, faith, and love. Do they exist apart, or are they so entwined with the human heart that to remove one weakens the others? Yes, one could write music with no faith or love in the title or song lyrics, but from where springs the creative spark?

Academically, one can separate them, as one separates egg whites from yolks. In my heart and my life experience, faith vibrates in my soul, love soars with the beauty and power of a symphony, and under, around, and within it all is the music of my life. Even this biological shell I inhabit vibrates with electrical discharges and maintains a magnet field of sorts, a wondrous electrochemical entity. The music of the universe, God's music lives in me.

Mick

Faith, Love, Music

Awake in the dark still hours of the night,
I listened to the music in my heart,
And wondered could it possibly be right:
Can faith, love, and music exist apart?
The essence of all that I am says, "No!"
For music is more than notes on a page.
The triumph of song lets my spirit go,
Beyond the borders of illness or age.
For when I love, my spirit simply sings,
Severed from fetters and free to take flight.
Faith touches my soul with warm golden strings,
That resonate with pure love day and night.
Each treasured prayer that I pray is a song;
It lives in my heart, it has all along.

Mick McKellar
May 2011