Friday, May 26, 2017

My Summer Song

I cry for light that pierces gloom,
And brings forth hope which fills the room;
That bathes my soul to banish strife.

I sing my lovely winter song,
And seek a flame all season long,
That melts my spirit — sealed in ice.

I still believe in summer days,
And love the light, with brilliant rays
That touch my heart with hope and life.

I raise my voice, with no surcease,
And sing of love, of hope and peace;
That all will hear — it will suffice!

Mick McKellar
May 2017

Although I have sung of winter these many years, I still believe in summer days.


Saturday, May 20, 2017

Pie Crust Castles

Your campaign voice wove pageants in my mind,
Bright images flowed swiftly into place.
Your promise of the riches I would find,
Did quickly pull me into greed's embrace.
I saw the fantasies you did describe;
I heard the phantom wind in distant trees;
I felt desire's touch -- its subtle bribe,
And yearning brought my reason to its knees.
The walls, the parapets, the towers seem
So real, I scarce believed that they could fall.
And yet they shattered, fracturing the dream,
Until the castles crumbled, one and all.
Your promises were more fragile than fair,
Your lies, your pie crust castles in the air.

Mick McKellar
May 2017

I wonder if politicians ever think about the sense of loss that must overwhelm many of their volunteers and dedicated supporters when, after they are elected, they fail to pursue the wonderful dreams they spoke about, the pie crust promises of their campaign.


Monday, May 15, 2017

Invisible Hero

The smartest man that may ever have been,
Though he espoused advice both wise and sage;
Could walk and talk, both unheard and unseen,
If he appeared to be a certain age.
His comments could a famine bring to heel.
His wisdom broker long-envisioned peace.
His passion teach a country how to feel
Compassionate, to make the hatred cease.
And yet, it's likely he would be ignored;
Remain invisible and stay unheard.
Our brash cacophony will just reward,
The risqué, the vulgar, and the absurd.
He'll simply fade to black, an anecdote:
An old fart in a polyester coat.

Mick McKellar
May 2017

I have discovered the secret to becoming invisible and silent as the grave — become old.