Saturday, July 21, 2018

Path of Reasoning

I spun perfervid politics today;
In public voice I thought collect and calm,
A strident tone I swore I'd put away,
Exchanged to favor poetry and psalm.
I meant to walk the path of reasoning,
To share such facts and truths as I discern.
I tried to skip the piquant seasoning,
The kind that warms the heart, but leaves a burn.
But like the cook who fears his food is bland,
Though seasoned with a deft hand and aplomb;
I peppered it with ardent, hot words, and
Threw caution to the wind and pitched a bomb.
Although I meant each word of my dictum,
I should have used more care when I picked 'em...

Mick McKellar
July 2018

The politics of our current situation can bring out the sharper edge of the tongue and perhaps, generate more heat than light. I am endeavoring to reason before reacting.


Friday, July 20, 2018

Heart of Gold

A meal is a grace of Heaven on Earth;
A touch of divinity served and shared.
Food's part of our daily lives from birth,
Often lovingly procured and prepared.
To share and prepare it with a compeer,
Singing the music of hope all day long,
Fills a great empty hole within, with cheer,
Makes the dirge of living a loving song.
Those that forego tasting milk and honey,
Skipping song and cheer to remain apart,
To cuddle their gold, and taste their money,
Live luxury lives with an empty heart.
There's none so onerous, leaden, and cold,
As a living man with a heart of gold.

Mick McKellar
July 2018

This morning, I was reminded of Thorin's final words near the end of The Hobbit: “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But, sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell." Only at his death, does Thorin understand.


Sunday, July 15, 2018


He loved to wander in his memories.
Yet, often he remembered things awry.
He glamored losses into victories,
And he beat challenges he didn't try...

Folks thought him harmless, and in truth he was;
Though he might sputter, bark, and make a fuss.
He did the kinds of things a hermit does,
And lived just out of town, in an old bus.

A teacher at the school would give him food,
Gave her time to help him re-learn to read.
But local harpies all misunderstood,
And served up grist for the rumors to feed.

Once, the teacher didn't show up at school,
And wasn't home at the house where she stayed.
The parents worried, and then some old fool
Cried: "The hermit!" And assumptions were made.

A crowd surrounded the rusty old bus,
And they loudly called for him to come out.
He came out smiling and grinning at us,
Until they grabbed him and shoved him about.

He started shaking and fell on the ground.
We backed away in our horror and fear.
He died of seizures, while we stood around,
And not one of us would even go near.

The teacher ran up and took in the scene,
She knelt and cradled his grizzled old head.
The air around her began to glow green;
A melodic voice said: "Leave him. He's dead."

A tall, green Minstrel was suddenly there.
A gate to Heaven opened where he stood.
A green fire, burning, hovered in the air,
And he said: "Get up Sergeant, you’ve done good!"

The hermit's spirit, in dress uniform,
Rose and saluted us, with a big smile.
His passing sounded like a thunderstorm.
The Minstrel lingered for a little while.

Slowly he turned, and he began to sing
Of a hero, and of a broken man;
Who still loved his life and everything --
Giving all that a human being can.

"Please call the Army to bury this man --
A hero deserving more than your fear."
We said: “He'll be honored, best that we can.”
We saw him nod once, and then disappear.

The Army claimed him and some of his things.
And the rest went missing in just one night.
His stuff was gone as though it grew wings --
While the bus was surrounded by green light...

Mick McKellar
July 2018

All the turmoil and focus on foibles of fools of late, made me think of The Minstrel and a quick story brought him back to me.


Saturday, July 14, 2018

Live, Cry, Laugh

Live your whole day!
Don't think about your daily worries and cares.
Your present is now;
Your past and future are the phantom that scares.
Let your heart shout -- let it be!

Cry if you must!
Let all your anguish out, and push it away.
Just empty yourself;
You will feel lighter without all of that pain.
Let your heart sing, now it's free!

Laugh if you can!
Just find the humor in your predicament.
Look up at the sun;
Smile at the joy in all of the firmament.
Let your heart laugh, now you see!

Mick McKellar
July 2018

Today is day 2700 since my transplant! I wanted to write an update, but this song of my heart, a poem, insisted on making itself heard.


Herbal Tale

I rise before the daylight streaks the sky,
And skip and jump outside upon the lawn.
The touch of fairy dew haunts me, as I
Dance with the Elder Mother at the dawn.
I share my gifts of milk and bread and cake;
Nothing is touched til I petition thrice,
And finish my entreaty near daybreak,
With breath a-fog and feet as cold as ice.
Add mint and yarrow, flower and boneset:
A simple tonic taken as a tea,
A medicine without a sobriquet,
An elderflower aid to breathe easy.
This herbal tale is, frankly, a canard;
For I can't dance outside in my backyard.

Mick McKellar
July 2018

I pictured myself dancing among the elder flowers in the dewy dawn...and tea came out of my nose.


Sunday, July 08, 2018

My World

I live in a world with different rules,
Than the laws that govern your residence.
Where even the schools are okay with fools,
If their foolishness makes some sort of sense.
You can walk on the street in your bare feet,
Because residents never will litter.
If you’re private and neat, they’ll be discreet,
And no one talks about you on Twitter.
If you want to fly, it’s okay to try,
For such failures are just part of living.
If with a cry, you launch into the sky --
You will find them all very forgiving.
None will ever care about clothes you wear,
For old fashioned is evermore in style.
If your coat is worn, or it has a tear,
Then someone will loan you theirs for a while.
Sunlight is dappled by trees ev’rywhere;
Picnics and lunches aren’t ruined by rain.
There is extra oxygen in the air.
Being rude can cause you physical pain.
All the politicians, by law, are mute,
And can only campaign on Tuesday night.
By law, all babies and seniors are cute,
All children: quiet, respectful, polite.
Bosses get bonuses when workers smile;
The rich share their bounty without a frown.
The towns folk share free dinners all the while,
At shelters where food and drink “trickle down.”
“This place is too good to be true!” You say,
“And it sounds like it’s difficult to find!”
I find it, easily, every day --
For it’s in my heart, and it’s in my mind.

Mick McKellar
July 2018

Some have told me that I must live in a dream world, another reality. I must admit, I go there from time to time to escape the reality of this one.


Friday, July 06, 2018

Gems and Memories

Sometimes I dig in my old refuse pile,
The one that lives out back, beyond my mind;
Down the path past the urgent guesswork file,
Behind the blackberries so hard to find.

I put stuff there that I want to forget,
Small embarrassments and stupid mistakes:
The spilled coffee that made my pants leg wet,
Or angry ranting about stale cupcakes.

I search there at night, when I’m all alone,
For much of what’s there is just junk to me;
But sometimes I’ll find a hidden gemstone,
Or I’ll rediscover a memory.

I’ll polish my shiny, refurbished prize,
And pretend it’s new when I show you guys.

Mick McKellar
July 2018

Everything old is new again…


Thursday, July 05, 2018

Old Curmudgeons

On the back of an old curmudgeon's head,
Is a shiny spot where hair doesn't grow.
The skin is rough and a little bit red,
If you ask him why it's there, he won't know.
Old curmudgeons don't think of tomorrow,
Our far vision is fuzzy and narrow.
We carry joy in a bag of sorrow,
And a grudge in a small red wheelbarrow.
Curmudgeons ask questions incessantly,
To make long conversations unlikely.
For silence falls on the ear pleasantly,
And a wide open mouth is unsightly.
You wondered about the little red spot:
Well, the head is for real, the spot is not...

Mick McKellar
July 2018

Curmudgeons can be fun.