Tuesday, February 22, 2022

If I cried, would the angels hear?

I put on each new morning,
Like a clean shirt:
Crisp and fresh from the drawer,
Creased, yet not wrinkled.

I pull it over my head, and for a second,
It's summer and I am camping;
Waking in our golden tent,
Smelling canvas warming in the early sun.
Hungry for my breakfast of pancakes and sand.

As my head erupts from the collar,
My magic mirror catches my eye,
And laughs.
It shows an old, gray geek in a worn t-shirt,
The word "Survivor" shouting from its face.
Hair tangled as a tumbleweed.
Fingers too stiff for buttons, waving about
For balance, seeking comfort from a bookcase.

I pause as my memories and my years
Catch up with me.
I sit on my bed.
I cough, shake my head,
And wonder:
If I cried, would the angels hear?

Mick McKellar
February 2022

It is both curse and joy to remember how it felt to be young, and to relive those feelings and sensations, only to rediscover the wear and tear caused by the sands of time.


Friday, February 18, 2022

Wrestling with Ghosts

Dim shadows of twilight,
Hide gay revelry:
A spirited frolic,
And tonic for me.

A quixotic ballroom,
Awash with starlight,
Twinkles and beckons
Across the dark night.

A fountain of music,
And a geyser of song,
Enrapture my spirit
To sing loudly along.

I tumble and tussle
With spirits and souls,
And share a timestep
With a saint, with goals...

 I wake with the sunrise,
Fatigued and dismayed,
And thinking that maybe
I shouldn't have stayed --

So long at the party,
With my unseen hosts;
Tap dancing with angels,
And wrestling with ghosts.

Mick McKellar
February 2022

Ever notice that your dream self can do a whole lot more than your awake self?


Friday, February 04, 2022


My eyelid tingles,
as the purple pewter wash
of the day's first light,
caresses its night-crusted surface.

Deep in the warm snuggle of my dream,
the ether rings.
Tintinnabulation of tiny silver bells
pierces the shell of my now-forgotten story,
spilling its contents into my waking thought,
and quickly draining away.

My fingers and toes grow cold,
as the great furnace at my core roars
and my damaged bellows draw new life
from the stillness of my room.

The curtain rises.
The tang of a new day engulfs my tongue.
The flavors of my dreams,
sweet though they be,
are fragmentary memories:
too soon savored and forgotten.

I greet the day with gladness;
I release my dreams with sadness;
And I pray to shun the madness
This day may send my way.

Mick McKellar
February 2022

Each day I awake is a blessing and an enlightenment.