Wednesday, December 21, 2016

A Hero's Heartbeat

A Hero's Heartbeat

He lay his head on a cold, snowy bench,
Under a lamppost in the city park.
His worn, unwashed clothes had a musky stench,
So folks left him alone there, in the dark.

The stone bench was hard, but the snow was soft,
And he hardly felt the cold anymore.
When his eyes closed, dreams carried him aloft,
Where his legs and back were no longer sore.

As over the frozen pond he drifted,
He turned to look back at his silent form,
Under a blanket, as soft snow sifted
So gently, slowly a peaceful snow storm.

He heard his heart beat, out over the lake,
Its uncertain rhythm marking his fight,
As winter attempted his life to take,
And he fought on, alone on Christmas night.

A flash of green light brought his spirit back,
To hover once more near his sleeping clay.
A green man pulled a guitar from his pack,
Sat by a green fire, and started to play.

He drifted close, to hear the Minstrel croon
Sweet songs, to sooth a long forgotten soul,
In silvery light from the winter moon,
And soon they achieved their intended goal.

The Minstrel suddenly stopped his sweet song,
And a deep silence enveloped the night.
He knew in an instant, something was wrong:
His heartbeat had given up its long fight.

The Minstrel stood, and saluting with grace,
Said, "Sergeant, it's time that I took you home.
Your dress uniform is back in its place,
And your spirit no longer has to roam."

He smiled because he would suffer no more.
And a soldier entered the golden door.
Mick McKellar
December 2016


It is a tragedy that any who fought for our freedoms, should suffer in the cold and die in despair.

Mick

Monday, December 19, 2016

Lights and Voices

Lights and Voices

I dream Christmas dreams with eyes open wide,
To savor the shimmering, colorful sights.
Our snow-covered home, glows so warm inside,
With happiness, love, and flickering lights.
Richer yet than twinkling light that abounds,
Than the rainbow-hued diamonds shining there,
Are the brilliant, happy, and joyful sounds.
That permeate crystalline, Christmas air.
Golden voices narrating ageless tales,
Silver voices raised in carols and song,
Telling stories where Christmas love prevails;
Where magic wins and we all get along.
Thankful I don't have to make such choices,
I can savor lights AND love the voices!
Mick McKellar
December 2016


Much of my Christmas dreaming is done with my eyes wide open, soaking in the sights and sounds, the the voices raised in song, the voices warmly offering friendly greetings, and the voices telling ageless tales of Christmas magic and love.

Mick

Friday, November 11, 2016

Invisible Voices

Invisible Voices

I sing my song of patience from the wings,
Where curtains sap the vigor of my voice.
Although the chorus wrapped about me sings,
We do the best we can with Hobson's choice.
The audience might notice we are there,
If once the featured singers took a breath,
Or noticed us, and just because they care,
Paused their constant, scripted shibboleth.
How can the grand assembly understand,
The beauty and emotion in our cry;
If amplified lead voices and the band,
Leave us unseen, unheard, an alibi?
Let us loose, and as our throng rejoices,
We will shake the rafters with our voices!

Mick McKellar
November 2016


Voices unseen and unheard can suddenly rock your world.

Mick

Thursday, September 08, 2016

Wisdom of the Wildwood

Wisdom of the Wildwood

Far under the deep forest canopy,
Within the bright haze of the morning mist.
I dream of the light that I cannot see,
As sunbeam and forest begin their tryst.
Souls of the deep woods and wraiths of the trees,
Move through the greenwood as wistful dark dreams.
Arboreal titans bend with a breeze,
That ruffles their coverlet with its streams.
With daunted wonder, at reverent pace,
I silently tread the cathedral floor;
And whispering stillness imparts its grace,
As trees share memories of brake and moor.
Woodland and grove only slowly impart,
The ancient wisdom of the wildwood's heart.

Mick McKellar
September 2016


I have always loved long, slow walks through the green peace of the deep woods.

Mick

Sunday, September 04, 2016

To Sing The Story of the Night

To Sing The Story of the Night

    Are all dark nights truly empty?
    Soundless skies say nothing to me.
    Perhaps they are only waiting:
    For patient hand, or restless mind,
    To sow amid the sweet silence,
    To write upon velvet softness;
    For willing arms to reach out, and
    Gather harvest from out the stars.

    Does timid silence rule the night?
    As fleeting thoughts dance, dart, and play
    Mid lights — of silver, blue, red, gold,
    I climb the towering darkness.
    I glean the precious, fabled fruit;
    To hoard, to cherish, then to share.
    Saved in my sweet, elusive dreams,
    Such grandeur, idle fantasy.

    To free my mind is all I ask —
    To hear sweet music in each light,
    And courage to complete my task:
    To sing the story of the night.

Mick McKellar
September 2016


I love to gaze at stars in a velveteen sky, and see the serenade, the majestic music of starlight in the darkness. What I capture and share is but a pale portrait of colors without name and music that moves the spirit.

Mick

Monday, August 22, 2016

Reflecting Pool

Reflecting Pool

    As generous softness of sunlit waves,
    Traces a tender touch dance on the wall,
    Their simple serenity soothes, and saves
    A worried mind driven nearly to fall.
    The wonder of water — to bathe in light,
    Borrowed so freely from afternoon sun,
    All things of shadow, or covered by night,
    Or hiding in twilight barely begun.
    I gaze at the flickering tongues of flame,
    So energetic they might be alive;
    They call to my soul, they sing my true name,
    And they warm the garden where my dreams thrive.
    Their golden caress upon shadows cool:
    Stirs the magic of the reflecting pool.

Mick McKellar
August 2016


Watching light dance upon water and then reflect upon a wall or a window, has a magic all its own — that can bring peace and quiet to a mind troubled and fretful.

Mick

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Becoming

Becoming

At first, I stood alone on the bare hill;
All around me was blasted and laid waste.
I gasped, my eyes swimming, I stood stock-still
For a moment, and turned to leave in haste.

But the path that my old life had followed,
Was in darkness, or was no longer there.
I looked up to the sky and I swallowed,
Then I cried in fear and shattered the air.

I fell, I screamed, and I pounded the soil.
The curse from my doctor's lips I denied.
I grew angry till I felt my blood boil;
When it cooled, I collapsed, and simply cried.

Deep inside, a small voice: "You're not dead yet!"
A whisper emerging from inner void?
I gathered what courage I still could get
From my self-respect, so nearly destroyed.

Still shaking, I stood and I faced ahead:
A new path, challenging, rocky, and steep
Presented itself, but not where it led.
It was full of ravines that I must leap.

I noticed a small bench, off to one side,
Hidden in shadow and offering rest.
At once, I knew t'was a place I could hide
And wait for the end, a painless quest.

I almost sat down there, but then I thought:
"Why just wait with my mind shut and numbing?"
I began walking, though fearful and fraught,
To find out just what I was becoming.

Mick McKellar
August 2016


I was asked to write about some aspect of living with cancer. I remember the trauma of receiving the diagnosis and then the apparent failure of chemotherapy. Finally, I remembered having to decide whether to pursue a blood and marrow stem cell transplant, or opt for home hospice care till the end.

Mick

Tuesday, August 09, 2016

Tending My Tea Garden

Tending My Tea Garden

Soft spring rain refreshes evergreens,
That shadow cast my stream of consciousness.
I hear silence, and wonder what it means,
As southwest winds repeat their whispered guess.
I pause to ponder why the welcome charms,
Of dappled sunlight on the em'rald stream,
Should make me feel at peace, with open arms
To gather in the pieces of my dream.
A dream of wisdom and clairvoyant sight,
Of gifts along the paths I walk, to find
Such truths as help me penetrate the night,
And light my way through darkness in my mind:
To see with clarity, but not harden
The soft sunlight, in my dream tea garden.

Mick McKellar
August 2016



Like most everyone else, I am assailed constantly by media broadcasts, by questions from those selling goods and those conducting surveys to help politicians sell me yet another bill of goods. It can be difficult to chart a path through it all and my sleeping mind seems drawn to peaceful and quiet places surrounded by life. To a peaceful tea garden in my dreams...

Mick

Saturday, July 30, 2016

The Myth of Earth

The Myth of Earth
By dark green bough and shrouded glen,
By lives of trees beyond our ken;
Within that vast botanic history,
There lies a dim forgotten story —

Of once-existing fields of green,
With dark-brown soil and water seen
And touched by man, yet not defiled.
And clean fresh air with fragrance mild —

Of pines and flowers all around,
And sunlight streaming to the ground.
Where joy and laughter, glee and mirth,
Were universal laws on Earth.

But times like these are myths to men,
And peace and love beyond their ken.
Look out your window — if you can,
At Earth, defiled and scathed by man.

Mick McKellar
1968 or 1969


I found a copy of a poem I wrote longhand, and remembered sharing it with Cathy Cole, Publications Editor at Michigan Tech in 1968 or 1969 while I was a student assistant. It was buried in an old book.

Mick

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Word Magic

Word Magic

I wonder at words, the magic I find,
And the power I feel, when I find one
That lights up the dark places in my mind,
As through a window toward the rising sun.
I shiver when words I use ev'ry day,
Sparkle and crackle with magical light,
As though attached to ancient lines of ley,
And I, the word wizard, dispel the night.
I smile when words dance to music unheard,
And they come to life on an empty stage,
To paint a story — bewitching, absurd,
As they caper across my empty page.
Though stories range from funny to tragic,
They all begin with precious word magic.

Mick McKellar
July 2016


We've all felt the magic of a well-crafted story as enchantment spins through our minds on the wings of magical words.

Mick

Monday, July 25, 2016

Pacing the Storm

Pacing the Storm

My thoughts are woven in words of wonder;
They flash and dance in lively lightning leaps.
Sometimes they burst forth — full-cloaked in thunder,
Or rumble, distant — as a rain cloud weeps.
Furious downpours spawned in crowded mind,
Flood the fingers and flash the fertile page;
And yet, at times, the darkness leaves me blind,
My phrases cast aloft in fear or rage.
The surging lightning leaps from cloud to cloud,
As mind-storms bathe the sky in anxious wrath;
Crashing on passion's anvil — long and loud,
And far below, the writer seeks his path.
His task is to pace the storm, full throttle,
And to capture lightning in a bottle.

Mick McKellar
July 2016


What is it like to write poetry? Sometimes, it is a wild ride!

Mick

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

The Light Within

The Light Within

Oh! The milk of life tastes so very good,
I can't help worrying I must be wrong;
For I daily drink far more than I should,
And my taste buds dance to its hearty song.
When loneliness threatens this life of mine,
Companionship offers a hearty glow;
Though daylight may hide its sparkle and shine,
Its warmth reveals its most welcome outflow.
As church windows shine a comforting light,
That warms obsidian shadows outside,
And music pierces the silence of night:
Beauty to leave despair no place to hide.
So from darkness and pain I am set free,
By the light and music deep within me.

Mick McKellar
July 2016


Some people bring their own darkness with them, and if fortunate meet those who shine brightly enough to dispel the shadows.

Mick

Tuesday, July 05, 2016

Bequest

Bequest

My deep thoughts, I have an impulse to hoard;
I feel I cannot express them out loud.
Yet when thinking, I access where they're stored,
And by writing, I shout them to the crowd.
When I read an author's thoughts in silence,
We meet, face-to-face, in our solitudes;
And by following the writer's guidance,
Live his or her life in our interludes.
My written words hold a piece of my soul,
A gift I bequeath to generations.
Though none may read them, in part or in whole,
I hope to live on in my creations.
Such timeless, intimate conversation,
Is my ultimate communication.

Mick McKellar
July 2016


If I don't write, my dearest thoughts will become only old, water-hardened, cold ashes in the perishable redoubt of my mind.

Mick

Monday, July 04, 2016

Free Advice

Free Advice
Remember, get enough sleep, say the wise:
Very late to bed and early to rise,
Besides putting morning sand in your eyes,
Puts fat on your gut, your hips, and your thighs!
Remember, drink enough water each day,
To hydrate your body the simple way,
To wash out the toxins, the experts say;
And locate the bathrooms without delay.
Remember, find enough fiber to eat,
To fill up your tummy, it can’t be beat;
And then move around — get up off your seat,
Or when you stand up you won’t find your feet.
You just might, if willing to pay the price,
Live long enough to give your free advice.

Mick McKellar
July 2016


At least half of what I see, hear, or read on media is free advice. Regarding its value,
I agree with Benjamin Franklin: “Wise men don’t need advice. Fools won’t take it.”

Mick

Friday, July 01, 2016

After Work

After Work

I drive to my place.
The radio blares
About crime and race,
But nobody cares.

My heart has grown tired
Of hearing bad news.
My snacks have expired.
There's mud on my shoes.

My car's making noise.
My grass is uncut.
I trip over toys,
And fall on my butt.

I might as well mime,
When talking to teens --
They spend all their time
Staring at small screens.

My wife is so tired,
From each awful chore,
I think she's expired,
Til I hear her snore.

I eat -- drinking tea,
Stretched out on the couch;
While watching TV,
To practice my slouch.

Late news fills my head
With crime, death, and war.
So I'm off to bed --
Can't take anymore!

My eye sheds a tear;
I silently pray
A sigh for God's ear,
And thus ends the day.

Mick McKellar
July 2016


Unfortunately, this is how the day ends for untold millions of us.

Mick

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Evensong

Evensong

I listen to spirits of night,
To rhythms I feel from the Earth;
And a newborn ballad takes flight,
When the music heralds its birth.

The chanting of night birds, though soft,
Brings sleep in its gossamer wake.
The chorale of clouds far aloft,
Sing choruses for slumber's sake.

I drift on the clouds of a dream,
As music so airy and light,
Carries my soul upon a stream
Of soft evensong through the night.

Mick McKellar
June 2016


There is music everywhere.

Mick

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Stone Face

Stone Face

He waited, a massive boulder at rest;
A brown study of granite, in disguise
As a promontory casually dressed.
(If the Rock of Gibraltar had blue eyes.)
He waited, and never once made a sound;
He'd simply arrived and rolled into place.
He stared strait ahead, never looked around,
This monument sporting a great stone face.
The chair he engulfed was shaking with strain,
Quaking like Atlas supporting the world.
Til his massive legs helped him stand again,
When in ran a toddler, her blond hair curled,
Giggling when his huge arms swept up the child,
And the room shined bright when the stone face smiled.

Mick McKellar
June 2016


Large people, especially large and muscular men, can seem too massive for normal space. If they seem distant, it may be from folks staring at them.

Mick

Monday, June 27, 2016

Mundane Monday


Mundane Monday

 

I woke up and had to ask myself: Why?
I wondered where all my ambition went.
I'm usually upbeat, sort of spry,
And my days aren’t often ambivalent.
Not that I bounce up and caper around,
But my joy-powered battery was drained.
My lively spirit was chained to the ground.
My day's parade cancelled because it rained.
I dragged myself to the window, to stare
At the morning sun, but outside was grey
And wet, because it was raining out there.
So, I wrote this short sonnet, as a way
To rescue my spirit from the dungeon,
Of a disgruntled home-bound curmudgeon.

Mick McKellar
June 2016

Each day is still a gift to me, but sometimes it takes longer to unwrap it.

Mick

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Pulvis

Pulvis

I lie in the shadows of deepest night.
I melt into darkness still and silent.
Quietly, skillfully, hide from your sight,
While tracing your paths with dogged intent.
I blithely follow wherever you roam.
I dance in the turbulence of your wake.
I see you go out and trace your steps home,
Except for the parts of me that you take.
I touch all your trinkets and your treasure;
My blanket covers your undisturbed things.
Mostly, I'm just you, measure for measure,
And I fly around as if I had wings.
I get on your hands, your elbows, your knees,
And climb up your nose to make you sneeze.

Mick McKellar
June 2016


"Pulvis et umbra sumus. (We are but dust and shadow.)”
― Horace, The Odes of Horace
(Pulvis is dust, of course...)
Mick

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Dark Goodbye

Dark Goodbye

He tripped and fell in the dark of the night.
The edge of the sidewalk was broken there;
Hooked the toe of his shoe and fell from sight,
Into a ditch near that dim thoroughfare.

The collision of a rock and his head,
Made little noise for anyone but him,
And he couldn't see that the rocks were red,
Or the facial gash that made him look grim.

Tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn't move.
Heck! He didn't feel his body at all!
Until someone gave his spirit a shove,
Then he drifted upright and very tall!

He screamed when he saw his body supine,
His eyes staring blankly at the night sky.
His face looked tragic in the weak moonshine,
And yet, he could not bring himself to cry.

Then the hand that shoved him touched his shoulder,
And he spun around, staring into a face
With ancient skin, though the eyes were older —
Dark green and leading to another place.

The other was thin, a minstrel by dress,
And he stood by a fire giving green light;
Then began to sing, his words to caress
A soul torn from life by death in the night.

The melodies made his terror subside,
The harmonies bathed him with hope and peace.
The words were so beautiful that he cried;
He felt all his ties to the Earth release.

He felt so much joy he wanted to fly,
But stayed to talk to the Minstrel awhile.
He asked his questions about how and why,
But the Minstrel would only sing and smile.

“Why do I do it?" He said with a groan.
"These two reasons will have to be enough:
Because no one should have to die alone.
Because we are all made of the same stuff."

The Minstrel stiffened and tried not to cry,
When the brave little boy hugged him goodbye.

Mick McKellar
June 2016


Death can catch us unaware, at any age, at any time, in any place.

Mick

Monday, June 13, 2016

Shake the Beast

Shake the Beast

Silence in the morning of our world's end,
Left us all undisturbed, abed, asleep.
Warnings of danger on which we depend,
Had failed to generate even one peep.
Our representatives, long un-appraised,
Could not explain where our treasure all went;
Though episodic voices had been raised,
Whispering deep rumbles of discontent.
When cries for action unanswered remained,
When pie crust promises were never kept,
When faith in the beast could not be regained,
And the beast slept on, while the people wept;
Until its beating heart finally ceased
All because nobody dared shake the beast.
Mick McKellar
June 2016


It is uncomfortable to ask the tough questions. It is difficult to demand that promises be kept. It is hard work to wake the beast and demand its attention to the many problems that need fixing.

Mick

Thursday, June 02, 2016

Singer, Soldier, Spirit

Singer, Soldier, Spirit

Joe hid from August's soul-oppressing heat,
Inside the entrance to the local mall.
He watched a terrified boy from his seat,
Stumble in through the door and nearly fall.

When something in the frightened young man's eyes,
Caused him to shiver, he rose to his feet;
And then, despite the boy's desperate cries,
Pushed him outside, into the August heat.

Trying to break free and to run inside,
The young man twisted, turned, and pushed away.
And Joe saw what the boy had tried to hide:
Explosives, and a vest to shrapnel spray!

Joe grabbed him tighter, told people to run,
And dragged him out into the parking lot.
Then stood there, swaying in the burning sun
And laughed to find himself in such a spot!

The boys eyes had gone bloodshot, wide and wild,
He started gulping air and tensed to run.
And Joe prayed: "Lord please help me save this child,
A child, as much a weapon as a gun!"

A bullet pierced Joe's shirt and then his breast,
And waves of pain exploded in his mind.
He loosed the boy when blood sprayed from his chest.
He felt the pavement slap him from behind.

A cop ran up with anger on his face,
And shouting words and phrases memorized.
He glared at me in my protected space,
And far too late, I think he realized.

He realized that I was not the threat.
He realized the kid was wired to blow.
His sad eyes said that he owed me a debt,
And realized he had nowhere to go.

The cop dove as the kid blew up his vest,
His body sheltered me from shrapnel fire.
He jerked as shrapnel tore his head and chest,
And movement stopped as I felt him expire.

The smoke and dust suspended in the air,
Hung motionless in silence so profound,
It shocked me when a voice both strong and fair,
Became the rich and lovely only sound.

A man dressed as a Minstrel walked to me,
And touched the cop, who rose and walked aside.
"I pray there is no pain!" He said, "You see,
The officer, the boy, and you all died."

That what I did saved lives he shared with me.
The cop reacted as he had been taught.
The boy was told he'd save his family,
And go to Heaven, just as he had sought.

The Minstrel sang some songs of strength and might.
He showed us all the paths to our reward.
And, as we left I saw the strangest sight:
The Minstrel leaving this time, with a sword...
Mick McKellar
June 2016


Music may also inspire justice.

Mick

Wednesday, June 01, 2016

Heartsong

Heartsong

The ploughman speeds across my field of dreams,
Singing, as with joy he seeds my slumber.
Voice sonorant, awash, silently streams
And feeds my dreams, budding without number.
The dreams spring skyward, stretched in silent dance,
Swaying in rhythms unheard, all night long;
Til in the moonlit silence, just by chance,
I hear a whisper of my own heartsong.
Simple, soto voce, and so alive,
I almost fail to catch its faint bouquet;
As lively dreams subsume its strength, and strive
To reach my sleeping mind and run away.
As I keep pace and follow right along,
To dance my dreams while singing my heartsong.
Mick McKellar
June 2016


Sometimes, our hopes and dreams grow to the music of our heart, even if we can’t hear it ourselves.

Mick

Friday, May 20, 2016

No Ugly Heart

No Ugly Heart

Often we disguise our faith and caring,
And make our inner light a mystery;
A lovely golden light made for sharing,
But not let its glow shine for all to see!
I want those who see me, to see beauty;
I want them to see His grace from the start.
Please help me know pure joy in my duty;
Lord, please don't let me have an ugly heart!
Please help me live a life so grateful,
I cannot help but smile at ev'ry turn.
Don't let me become hurtful or hateful,
But help my inner love light's beacon burn!
I want those who see me, to see beauty;
I want them to see His grace from the start.
Please help me know pure joy in my duty;
Lord, please don't let me have an ugly heart!
Let me show the world sweet joy in living,
And let me show them all how to forgive;
For then they'll know the joy of forgiving,
And understand how we are meant to live!
I want those who see me, to see beauty;
I want them to see His grace from the start.
Please help me know pure joy in my duty;
Lord, please don't let me have an ugly heart!
Mick McKellar
May 2016


I wish I had some music for this song. It's based on comments from a small child in a story that may or may not be true.

Mick

Monday, May 16, 2016

Superior Sings

Superior Sings

None listen to the sound of my voices,
Though they spill forth from places black as night.
I pray someone notices my word choices,
Though the wail of my tunes be slim and slight.
My urgent cry is firstborn of distress,
And father to its echoes to come;
A family wand’ring in wilderness,
Their plaintive voices unsettling to some.
Cold fury of winds crossing darksome moors,
Breaking forth from shadows chill with despair,
Both battering windows and bolted doors,
And carrying warnings everywhere.
As twilight transitions to fulsome dark,
My wind voices whisper in voices stark.
Mick McKellar
May 2016


Lake Superior sings all the time, but most poignant is her fell voice on the urgent, cold winds of warning when weather is about to change.

Mick

Friday, April 22, 2016

Gypsy Moon

Gypsy Moon

With a cry of joy she welcomes the night;
Her voice a call for the silvery light —
A dance to the thrill of a mystic tune,
On a golden thread of the gypsy moon!

I watched her dance through a dark window pane,
Softly bejeweled by a short summer rain;
On a sparkling lawn bathed in ghostly light,
The sky below with the stars shining bright.

I felt the strong pull of that ghost-lit globe,
And I ached to shed my tattered bathrobe,
To join the mad dance on the diamond lawn;
Till I broke the spell with a tiny yawn.

I frantically searched for the gypsy sprite,
But all I found was a wet moonlit night...

Mick McKellar
April 2016


Feel the pull of the Gypsy Moon!

Mick

Monday, April 18, 2016

Too Digital to Die

Too Digital to Die

In early youth my mind harbored grand dreams,
Of fame and wealth and notoriety.
Nightmares of failure all had the same themes:
To live and die in anonymity.
And so, the Internet brought hope to me:
A chance to publish, make my name well known;
A place to share, and best of all twas free,
But I could not foresee how far it's grown.
Words I wrote more than twenty years ago,
Are still alive and haunting search replies.
My public words forever put on show;
All that I shared, still there for searching eyes.
My legacy forever will be nigh,
Because I'll be too digital to die.
Mick McKellar
April 2016


It never dawned on me, years ago, that I was already writing my autobiography by posting on the Internet.

Mick

Monday, April 11, 2016

Effluential People

Effluential People

"Garbage in garbage out," said the old school,
At least, that is how our leaders quote it;
Til "Dollars in garbage out," became the rule,
As our current politicians wrote it.
Politics was the art of compromise,
Where nobody totally won or lost;
Twas a messy way to achieve the prize,
And everyone bore some of the cost.
But with dollars driving the ship of state,
Compromise has become a dirty word.
Our leaders refuse to negotiate,
From positions radical or absurd.
How can those officials represent me,
If someone bought their flexibility?
Mick McKellar
April 2016


It's supposed to be public service, not a permanent job.

Mick

Thursday, April 07, 2016

Stairway to Bedlam

Stairway to Bedlam

He climbed the stairway to Bedlam tonight,
His body demanding sweet oxygen.
And every step was a bitter fight
To feed the fires of this scion of men;
Whose bellows have nearly bellowed their last,
And whose furnace succumbed to corrosion.
His reserve fuel levels were falling fast,
As he faced perpetual non-motion:
The familiar ache filled his arms and chest,
And the fuzzy fog crept into his mind;
He stumbled along till he came to rest,
Leaving a trail of used tissues behind.
He opened the tank, positioned the hose,
And the breath of life rushed in through his nose.
Ahhh…

Mick McKellar
April 2016


It's like drowning in air.

Mick

Wednesday, April 06, 2016

Tree Hugger

Tree Hugger

Were wakeful trees watching me silently,
When soft, snow-laden, slowly I stepped past?
As I trudged by, it rare occurred to me,
They'd see my plodding passages as fast.
I'd oft admired their strong and stately stance;
Their quality of arboreal grace.
That even when the Fall gales make them dance,
Perforce they bend, yet stay rooted in place.
To them, I must seem near ephemeral:
A spirit candle flickering with light;
A passing daytime shadow quick and small,
Or just a thing that goes "bump" in the night.
I wondered, would they take note -- notice me,
If slowly I should stop and hug a tree?

Mick McKellar
April 2016


When I walk in the woods, it nearly always feels like the trees are watching. Still I have to wonder what they "see."

Mick

Monday, April 04, 2016

Love and Possibilities

Love and Possibilities

He sat alone in his hospital bed,
Numb from his eyeballs to fingers to toes,
And wondered again why he wasn't dead,
And why he must suffer repeated throes.

He knew guilt -- from asking himself these things;
He should be grateful that he survived.
Yet aware of costs that survival brings,
His life leaves his small family deprived.

The doctors said: "Don't think about the price.
Don't worry about it. Just rest -- and heal."
And he tried hard to follow their advice,
But the flood of bills was both quick and real.

He watched retirement funds disappear.
He felt their small savings dwindle and fade.
His vague trepidations became true fear;
He questioned all of the choices he'd made.

For what is the value of just one life,
If extending it causes so much pain?
If his valiant battles create such strife,
Must he weigh the cost of his hard fought gain?

As he found himself wanting on that scale,
Considered ending the cost of his care;
He saw a small fire burning green and pale,
And a raggedy fellow standing there.

From the ageless face came a soothing voice,
Singing words warm and soft and hard as stone.
The words said that no man should make the choice,
To discard a gift given him alone.

Life is more precious than silver and gold;
Not to be measured by man's graft and greed,
Not to be stolen, nor traded, nor sold,
Though it may be given at greatest need.

He could not know what his presence may mean,
To the people he loves in days to come;
He might be the beacon through storms unseen,
To guide a lost loved one safely back home.

The Minstrel sang of possibilities,
Of chances only life can generate:
Visions of futures that one only sees,
If viewed with eyes powered by love, not hate.

Later that night, as he drifted toward dreams,
He felt the Minstrel's soft, feathery touch;
And understood life's not bad as it seems,
And the scary bills -- maybe not so much...

He saw life is not about owning things,
About balancing books and policies,
Not about money, cabbages, or kings;
Life's about love and possibilities.

Mick McKellar
April 2016


Desperation is often the stepchild of fear and misunderstanding.

Mick

Sunday, April 03, 2016

Winter Star

Winter Star

Our house is warm,
and yet I sit and shiver.
Winter's white bear, awake and hungry,
haunts my frosty windows,
seeking to force its gelid immensity
through mouse holes and settlement cracks.

It stalks me, its insatiable hunger
shining through its icy, white eyes.
I sense a gaunt greed,
through my wool and my fleece.

Then a golden dagger pierces my frosty panes,
stabbing the empty, frozen lust,
and chasing the frosty beast into nearby shadows.
Outclassed and over-matched,
by golden beams of the Winter Star;
the ravenous craving for warmth retreats.

My frigid fear runs away,
through the brilliant Summer fields in my mind.
Touched by the mellow fire of a honeyed blade,
my shivers subside,
and I take one perfect breath,
before a great, gray spoiler
shields the Winter warrior from view;
leaving me with a sunny memory,
and a gentle smile.

Mick McKellar
April 2016


The touch of Winter sun is a welcome interlude, that too seldom visits.

Mick

Friday, April 01, 2016

Write of Passage

Write of Passage

A writer of songs and my soul's delight,
Seeks tunes that cannot be vocally sung;
For the notes all live in the key of light,
Too sweet to be sung by a bitter tongue.

For my shadowed path, often dark and drear,
Seldom wanders in the bright lands of light.
A voice that whispers of gathering fear,
Can be overwhelmed by the shining sight.

And thus, the most difficult task for me,
The challenge for such a bitter old voice,
Is recognizing a sweet melody,
And vocalizing the sonorous choice.

Endure my attempts, to eliminate
Long gray pages darkened by shadows rife;
While I teach my tongue to illuminate,
The passages in the book of my life.

Behind all the mountains of doom and gloom,
That shadow my words in a long twilight;
Is a land of beauty where flowers bloom,
And ballads are sung in the broad sunlight.

Mick McKellar
April 2016


Bear with me, I'm learning to write about happy stuff!

Mick

A Visit from Earl Grey

A Visit from Earl Grey

I groaned upright from a long winter’s nap,
Snuggled beneath a great mountainous quilt.
My eyes glued shut, my mouth tasting like crap,
I stumbled down stairs that a sadist built.
Thus my day began in a treacle fog:
The body moving, but the mind asleep.
Though I’d slept like the proverbial log,
The log was in charge of driving this heap.
Somehow, I located my old tea pot,
And managed to measure some loose, black tea.
I blended the leaves with fresh water, hot,
And enjoyed the fragrance surrounding me:
The leaves’ bitterness, bergamot’s nosegay.
I awoke to a visit from Earl Grey!

Mick McKellar
April 2016


Some days, waking up means following your nose…

Mick

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Tapestry

Tapestry

My heartbeat was weaving a melody,
As frantic, I grasped what words I could find;
To construct a ladder of poetry,
And climb through a window into my mind.
The pack on my back was as black as coal,
And went unnoticed, as I was leaving
The deep, dark hole where I stole my own soul;
A vital part of what I was weaving.
My hand swept the sky to gather bright stars,
And moonlight to shimmer and radiate,
To breathe life into ancient avatars,
Who would populate scenes that I create.
In my fantasy memoir majesty:
My life story, my living tapestry.

Mick McKellar
March 2016


We are all weaving something to leave behind as a legacy.

Mick

Monday, March 21, 2016

Impressions and Images

Impressions and Images

In the sweet softness of slumber's embrace,
Dreams of the Earth-bound can swiftly take flight;
As the artist of mind observes it all,
Impressions and images fill the night.

Rocks under water, movement and stillness,
Silky white skirts of a river’s swift fall;
Restful reflections from liquid light mirrors,
Azure haze filtering glow above all.

Blue green and tan pull the eye sunward,
Hazy horizons surrounding the deep;
Fire streaks the surface of water at rest:
Hot coals of red snow powder shorelines steep.

Soft gold and green caress dancing rivers,
As steel gray and lavender swallows sand.
Curtains of white screen verdant embankment,
Soft liquid silver soaks shoreline's dark band.

Silver white cascades frame portrait of life:
Ancient, bent tree greets soft morning sunlight.
Sunset breathes foxfire on basins of blue,
Golden mist burns through forest at twilight.

Cerulean snow wreaths green and gold fire,
And evergreens skate on mirror dark blue.
Blue water iris staring at Heaven,
As black water mists cliffs of gray iron dew.

Cotton ball clouds settle slowly to Earth,
Frothy seafoam decorates green sand shore.
Slowly I float from the sky to the strand,
Longing to dream and to fly there once more.

Mick McKellar
March 2016


Sometimes, my dreams take flight with technicolor images throughout the night.

Mick

Friday, March 18, 2016

Adrift Upon a Drift

Adrift Upon a Drift

I placed my hope within a tiny boat,
I built with promises and sealed with tears;
Then cast the lifesongs from my heart afloat,
And filled its sails with dreams bright and sincere.
The sea that softly rushes on my door,
Moves slowly, though it does not seem to flow;
Its milky waves are still upon the moor --
A frigid sea, an ocean made of snow.
Its sprays and plumes are crystal on the gale,
They dance and flash and sparkle in the light.
White winter waves stand tall, and without fail,
Crest brightly in the midwinter moonlight.
I’ll wait until the craft that I set free,
Adrift upon a drift, comes back to me.

Mick McKellar
March 2016


Even a winter sea carries hopes and dreams.

Mick

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Sometimes I Hear My Bones

Sometimes I Hear My Bones

Sometimes I hear my bones.
They settle while I dream,
and sing a sweet sigh,
as tired tendons forget tensions
that hold them prisoner all day.

I listen for their chatter,
when I reach for my tea cup,
or climb the stairs to my room;
but the moaning of muscles,
and the rushing of bellows
as my furnace breathes,
drowns them with a river of sound.

Sometimes I hear my bones,
as they clatter and rap,
when Winter's white finger
makes me shiver and shake;
the rattling clack of a bone quake.

I listen to their music in the night,
as bone passes bone,
when I shift my face
buried in my pillow,
to breathe easy and free;
and their syncopated snapping
calls me from my dreams.

Sometimes I hear my bones,
as they shuffle and pop,
complaining about the load
and the long hours...
All they want is to rest.

Mick McKellar
March 2016


As I get older, my bones complain more loudly.

Mick
 

Monday, March 14, 2016

Life, Maybe

Life, Maybe

My life is more than empty hours to fill,
And calls me to become more than I am;
To reach for stars with passion, faith, and skill,
A crusade greater than a tinker's damn.
Yet, walking such a path without a guide,
Seems far beyond the talents I possess.
To journey on with nowhere I can hide,
Go forward on a hunch or on a guess,
Takes courage I'm uncertain that I own,
And asks me to abandon common sense.
To leap into the arms of the unknown,
Means leaving safety here upon the fence.
My heart tells me I need to act bravely,
And then I'll learn to live my life, maybe…

Mick McKellar
March 2016


One can get sore from always sitting on the fence.

Mick

Thursday, March 10, 2016

Manifest Serendipity

Manifest Serendipity

I saw them, writ large last night, in a dream:
Huge letters as tall, or taller than me;
They stood on a lawn, near a nimble stream,
They spelled: MANIFEST SERENDIPITY.
Bright, glowing with rays of summer sunlight,
As emeralds, diamonds, rubies would be;
I bathed in the radiance of the sight,
Shining: MANIFEST SERENDIPITY.
Then deep, distant voices began to sing;
The shining letters were singing to me.
Over and over, they chanted one thing:
“You must manifest serendipity!”
I’d pondered what my life’s purpose should be;
The answer was glowing in front of me…

Mick McKellar
March 2016


Life is full of tough questions. Sometimes the answer is a clear as six-foot tall, glowing letters near a stream in a dream…?

Mick

Tuesday, March 08, 2016

Phantom Footfalls



Phantom Footfalls

My shuffling gait on the floor of my room,
When my slippers scuff the old hardwood planks,
Brings echoing forth a sonic heirloom,
From a time when dark footsteps were mind pranks.
My pillow is near the attic stairway;
A steep, almost ladder with vocal treads.
They whisper of footfalls both night and day,
As the ancient construction shrinks and spreads.
I can hear our house breathe on long, cold nights,
As warmth dissipates through papery walls;
And winter winds whistle through tiny sites,
To sing with the draughts in stairwells and halls.
Their songs awaken stark, unreasoned fears,
When phantom footfalls touch shivery ears.

Mick McKellar
March 2016


Old houses tell tales and sing of silent spirits. Wind songs whisper along empty halls and footfalls haunt long, chilly nights.

Mick

Sunday, March 06, 2016

The Peeking Owl


The Peeking Owl
Twas a Great Gray Owl in a darkling wood,
Staring at me from behind a pine tree,
Asked me “Who?” I was, as a gray owl should.
I responded quickly, “Why, I’m just me!”
He blinked just once, as if considering
What he should day, then he simply asked, “Who?”
So, I stood still a moment, pondering:
What more I could say, what more should I do?
I said, “I’m a writer,” and spoke my name.
He nodded just once, and then he asked, “Who?”
By now I was growing tired of this game,
And said, “I’ve nothing more to say to you,
Except: nevermore to a bird of prey!”
He made a rude noise and he flew away.

Mick McKellar
March 2016


Conversations with owls tend to be one-sided affairs; more like an interrogation than a conversation.

Mick

Tuesday, March 01, 2016

Breakout

Breakout

I slipped my fetters and I ran away;
I did not look back at my lifelong jail.
The guards I feared, the source of my dismay:
Not there to respond, my flight to assail.
My prison walls, made of anger and fear,
Crumbled silently, fell away to dust;
And the bars that held me, year after year,
Lay beneath my feet -- gone to powdered rust.
The haunted, long years, in that monstrous cage
I built from the fear of what others think,
Fueled sorrow, sadness, resentment, and rage;
And unleashed a flood of digital ink.
My greatest joy, now my Muse is set free:
Though I share what I write, I write for me!

Mick McKellar
March 2016


This piece sprang fully formed from something a friend posted. It was a Facebook meme that said: "The greatest prison people live in, is the fear of what other people think." Apparently, it's a quote from David Icke, a conspiracy theorist who makes a living trying to change what other people think… Hmm…

Mick

Saturday, February 20, 2016

Song Unfinished

Song Unfinished

I'm a song unfinished, a tale untold,
A river of consequences at flood.
I'm a portrait in clay, too soft to hold
In your hands, just dust and water made mud.
I'm tied to the Earth by biology,
With distant cousins across all the globe;
And yet no one else is the same as me,
From my worn-out heels to my frontal lobe.
In seven short years I'll have disappeared,
My old cells returned to dust on the Earth;
Yet I always grow the same scruffy beard,
And my memories dwell in the same berth.
I'm always brand new, yet I'm always me:
A beginning and a totality.

Mick McKellar
February 2016


Stuck in a hospital bed, a person has time to think the strangest things…

Mick

Friday, January 29, 2016

Starlight Song

Starlight Song

I've heard the stars sing on the crystal wind,
That drifts bejeweled snow in winter deep.
What icy choirs sing they can't rescind,
It lives on in my dreams when I'm asleep.
Awake I cannot hear the starlight air,
Nor seek for solemn silence in the skies.
Yet, when I'm touched by those who love to share,
I see the psalm of stillness in their eyes.
I wish that I could sing the melodies,
The lullabies, and carols of the sky;
To teach these wondrous siren songs, and please,
Touch others with such beauty they would cry.
I wish to fly, to bring my friends along,
And teach them all to sing the starlight song.

Mick McKellar
January 2016


Silence is the siren song of my heart.

Mick

Reality Show

Reality Show

The political roadshow on TV,
Makes me uncomfortable and nervous;
For in the rhetoric engulfing me,
I rarely hear about public service.
I'm buried in slick ads, and quick sound bytes
About each individual's chances.
The pundits encourage candidate fights,
And rush to show the daily poll dances.
I wonder why anyone wants to try,
To win such a contest given its cost,
And who will be left, to just sit and cry,
When we discover the things we have lost?
While we're watching this reality show,
Who's running the country? I'd like to know!

Mick McKellar
January 2016


Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!

Mick

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Green Grace

Green Grace

In my childhood dreams, I'd silently walk,
Moss-covered paths in a sun-speckled wood;
And with woodwind voices the trees would talk,
About starry nights and how rain feels good.
Then a busy squirrel, high in a tree,
Would stop his bustle, then stare in my face,
And would shout squirrel expletives at me,
Chattering loudly till I left that place.
The forest would hum as I walked along,
Watching me with arboreal esteem;
Till the wind would carry their ancient song,
On the fairy breeze and into my dream—
Till I gained green grace from my surreal stroll;
Their song healed my heart and it salved my soul.

Mick McKellar
January 2016


These days, I can only dream of long, peaceful walks in a green wood.

Mick

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Blessed

Blessed

I dream of tiny fingers touching mine,
A gentle grasp of love and utter trust;
A ruffling of hair so soft and fine,
It could be eiderdown or fairy dust.
I hear a tiny voice as soft as rain,
That whispers precious secrets in my ear;
And later, like the whistle on a train,
Can scream and wake me in the night with fear.
I feel a squirming bundle on my knee,
That wriggles back and forth, to get down deep
Within my arms, and slowly smiles at me,
Then closes wondrous eyes and goes to sleep.
I reminisce when down and feeling stressed,
Remembering how much I have been blessed.

Mick McKellar
January 2016


Some memories are worth revisiting.

Mick

Friday, January 22, 2016

A Speck of Forever

A Speck of Forever

I sensed the distant wake of its genesis;
Perceived as an awakening supernova,
but in an impossibly remote galaxy.
Its nascent touch,
the brush of a mosquito's wing on my cheek,
Was barely there,
but impossible to ignore.
My heart leapt,
Quickened by the thought of distant thunder.
Something wonderful was coming!

A chill wind stirred the dormant, slumbering dust
in the farthest attics of my mind.
The startled air whispered to me:
"Something wonderful is coming!"

I tasted air,
with the piquant savor of electricity,
the sweet promise of ginger and salt,
the lovely flavor of life.
I stumbled, once;
as the floor shook beneath my feet,
and a brilliant storm of light and sound
washed over me, and shone around.

My eyes were captured,
by the dignified flight
of a regal point of light;
an aura, a diminutive sun,
encompassing rays of rainbow hues.
Its gravity drew me forward,
as it gently came to rest
within my cupped hands.
Soft, yet irresistible thoughts
engulfed my mind,
and pulled me deep
within the petite, pulsing light.

Within the cascading light,
I felt the might and grandeur of life.
I saw the weakly flickering candle that is me.
I wept and laughed and sang and dreamed...

When I woke, I was alone.
I was changed, but I know not how.
I feel joy pulsing within me,
And that will be enough for now.

Mick McKellar
January 2016


A speck of light in your dreams can brighten your life.

Mick