Chronology

Chronology

Time is my constant, my fleeting companion,
A dancer, a juggler, a broken brass ring;
A smile in my darkness, when I lose the way,
My last helping hand, loosing everything.

When young, my companion moved very slowly,
To follow my progress on silent cat feet;
Then later run rapidly, growing bolder,
To spur me on forward, my future to meet.

We're both growing tired, my consort and I,
Sometimes I think maybe the puzzle's my fault:
I want to go back to when time moved slowly;
I don't want the journey to come to a halt!

Mick McKellar
April 2015

As I grow older, my chronological companion becomes both frenetic and less linear. Perhaps that explains the apparent rush toward an unspecified end of the ride.

Mick

Biscuits and Gravy

Biscuits and Gravy

Coffee in the morning opens my eyes,
Romancing my senses right from the pot;
Dark, aromatic and heady surprise,
That will leave my sleepy taste buds distraught.
Mellow, provocative, uplifting tea,
Though not as potent as coffee’s caffeine;
Jolts my palate invigoratingly,
Without being bitter, pungent, or mean.
Juice has its place, both acidic and sweet,
Teamed with bacon and eggs, muffins or toast.
Various cereals of oats or wheat
Are tasty, but not what I love the most:
Smother biscuits with thick sausage gravy—
The savory train to heaven for me!

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Some old friends reminded me just how much I like biscuits and sausage gravy. Reason enough to write a poem!

Mick

Walking Backwards

Walking Backwards

I looked for some old footprints to follow;
And though I searched, there were none I could find.
I created my own, deep and hollow;
Walking backwards through the dust in my mind.
Though I could not see where I was going,
I could see all the way to where I’d been.
I pressed on in the dark, always knowing
That I could find my way back once again.
Though I mostly face forward when I walk,
So I will not blindly stumble and fall;
I step lively backwards, and I don’t balk,
Although sometimes I’ll walk into a wall.
This way, I wander beyond my confines,
Because I can’t see the big red stop signs.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

One should not be hampered by the customary, the safe, and the usual. Adventure lives beyond the stop sign.

Mick

Wondrous Lights

Wondrous Lights

I wandered outside on the porch tonight,
Stumbling and shuffling around on the deck.
I wanted to see the Aurora’s light,
So grabbing a railing, I craned my neck.
I could see no Northern Lights in the sky;
Perhaps they were hidden by village lights.
My vision took wing as my gaze flew high,
And I gasped at the wonders of the heights.
The stars were diamond-bright holes in the black;
The Milky Way spilled across the vast vault --
Numbers so legion my eyes could not track,
Arrogance with’ring before the assault.
I trembled once as my spirit took flight,
Drawn to the brilliance of the fierce starlight.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

When the skies clear at night, I simply must gaze up at the wondrous lights.

Mick

Colophon

Colophon

The end of the road seems distant tonight,
Though sometimes it seems just around the bend;
For my passage is slow, my burden light,
And my boon companions have time to spend.
Despite many potholes to walk around,
And rain that makes the road muddy and slick,
The laughter of friends, such a joyous sound,
Makes a difficult journey light and quick.
Still at quiet times, when we stop and rest,
I ponder what happens when I arrive.
Will I feel like I fulfilled a grand quest?
For nobody gets out of life, alive.
As I journey on, my last words should be:
“I love all of you for walking with me!”

Mick McKellar
April 2015

In today’s email, the word of the day was “Colophon.” It resonated with me, I guess.

Mick

Shadows on the Snow

Shadows on the Snow

From inside my parka's hood,
A fuzzy warm cave for me;
I peer through the howling white,
But winter is all I see.

I cannot see where I am,
And barely see where to go.
I navigate by the sun,
And by shadows on the snow.

The muffled cry of the wind,
Laughs at my bundled up ears,
Sings to my frozen heart, that
This journey will end with tears.

Only up here in the North,
Where spirits of snowstorms talk,
Could I get lost without hope,
Taking the dog for a walk…

Mick McKellar
April 2015

OK, maybe I’m stretching...just a bit.

Mick

Weary Voyage

Weary Voyage

A bit of fatigue sets my mind adrift;
Cut loose from it's moorings, it rides the tide.
Swells toss it about, and the sudden shift
Causes changed perspectives from the rough ride.
I drift rudderless along the shoreline,
Venturing unguided before the gale,
Running attuned to the rising wind's whine,
Powerless to skipper without a sail.
My cerebral navy remains afloat,
To follow all the currents in the sea.
My weary acumen is in that boat,
Gratified for such opportunity.
Despite my grand expense of energy,
It's strange that my fatigue should set me free!

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Sometimes, I believe my mind must be weary to drift away and see life from a different perspective.

Mick

Sleepless Night

Sleepless Night

The lights are on upstairs tonight,
And shadows move behind the shade.
It seems I cannot douse the light,
Until I write what must be said.

The words are frantic to be free,
To dance across my empty page.
Those I ignore, will scream at me,
Until I open wide the cage.

Should I not quickly write them out,
Or try to hold them in my mind;
When I check back, without a doubt,
There's nothing left for me to find.

So, pen in hand I just comply,
And write the words I want to keep.
When I am finished, I will sigh,
Put down my pen, and go to sleep.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

There's no fighting it, when the words want to play, I never get a bye.

Mick

Angel Eyes

Angel Eyes

I’m sure I met an Angel once,
Or maybe it was twice.
Still, to let me know for certain,
Would have been very nice.

That seraphs walk among us here,
Is certainty for me.
I wonder if the secrecy,
Is how it has to be?

For many times I’ve felt their touch,
A cool hand on my hair,
That lifts the burden of my pain,
But, no one’s standing there.

A look, a smile, a tender word,
That lifts my spirit high;
Yet I cannot recall a face,
And I can’t explain why.

Long have I watched to find a way,
Angels to recognize;
I think the only way to know,
Is look into their eyes.

For though each face escapes my ken,
Their haunting eyes remain,
And I’ll remember to give thanks,
When I see one again.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

In December 2011, an Associated Press-GfK poll showed that 77 % of adult Americans believe in angels. It is nice to have company.

Mick

Serenity

Serenity

Sometimes the tears come softly in the night,
Silent sobs cannot my torment allay,
And although I may rise to fiercely fight,
Haunting, nameless fears never go away.
I try to still my shaking in the gloom,
To hide my weakness from my family,
Writhing all alone in my darkened room,
Hiding my shame so nobody will see.
Anger sustains my terror and despair,
Lurid companions on my somber quest,
To find no cancer lurking anywhere,
And grant my screaming heart a chance to rest.
Brief harmony my chagrin to assuage:
Serenity making peace with the rage.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Sometimes, when I am alone, I grow restive and angry with this body I no longer recognize or understand.

Mick

Plainsong

Plainsong

Deep within the early morning light,
Softly breaking silence of the night,
Drift sweet chants of simple melodies,
Whispered hymns of sun and summer breeze.

One needs only silence plaintive thoughts,
Center on the joy each morn allots,
Clear your mind, and open wide your heart:
Feel the music simple songs impart.

Countless voices chant across the years,
Sing of love and loss and tender tears.
Happy moments happening each day,
Soon forgotten, never go away.

Acts of kindness given without heed,
Resonate to comfort human need.
Heard in coldest snow and warmest rain:
Modest murmurs sung with mild refrain.

Softly canticles set souls alight,
Singing humble, joyous anthems bright,
Shining through the darkness of the night:
Plainsong in the early morning light.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

The simple joy of waking up each morning brings to mind the mystical beauty of morning prayer or Lauds, and chanting of hymns to welcome the new day. Be the dawn the gold of risen sun or the pewter glow of misty morn, music rides the light and brings joy to the day.

Mick

Dustbins and Brooms

Dustbins and Brooms

A blazing hearth alight within my mind,
Gives poignant memories passion and light,
In an inglenook difficult to find;
Leaving dread doubts and worries in the night.
My living spirit burns on the hearthstone,
Aglow with soul and vital consciousness.
My memories and I tarry alone,
Seeking sufficient time to coalesce.
My memory mansion has many rooms,
Most remain tightly sealed, locked, and shuttered.
Despite using mental dustbins and brooms,
Most rooms have become dusty and cluttered.
Nightly I sit near the hearth and obsess,
About the best way to clean up the mess.

Mick McKellar
April 2015

Who knew my mind would need Spring cleaning?

Mick