Living Love Song

T'was the strangest sight in the dark of night,
An old man crouched in his chair;
His skin glowered grey, or was lit that way,
By the flat screen shining there.
His eyes, mouth, and nose -- a serious pose,
Were still and easy to see.
Did a thought bequeath -- that he didn't breathe?
At least, so it seemed to me.

But he was not ill, though he sat quite still,
His attention was transfixed.
My greatest surprise were tears in his eyes,
Moans and whispers, intermixed.
"My life has been long, a living love song."
He crooned in a husky voice,
"He launched an attack, and I attacked back;
I felt like I had no choice!"

He talked for a while in a breathless style,
About adapting to change.
"I'd always adjust -- I knew that I must,
But social media's strange.
The spirit's akin to striving to win,
Even though there is no race."
He said: "There can be no civility,
And no one can see your face."

"Many posts are jokes or indirect pokes
In the eye of friend or foe.
And much of the stuff is fake news or fluff --
F-bombs -- wherever I go!"
He said that he missed correspondence, kissed
With a touch of writer's tools;
And though there are posts graced by writers' ghosts,
Many spring from flatulent fools.

He sits there at night, in the screen's blue light,
And ponders how to proceed.
His gentle old soul and singular goal,
Focused on planting a seed,
That will grow to be a family tree,
To which we all can belong;
To open a gate, to flush out the hate,
And be a living love song.

Mick McKellar
November 2019

There is treasure in the measured response of well-reasoned correspondence. In this day of rapid retorts and sound bytes, I often miss the pleasure of the treasure in civil discourse and well-written prose.

Mick