Turkey Coma

It was a long weekend, and I spent it in close proximity with far too much far too good food. I've been fighting the battle of the bulge for nearly a year now, and have had some minor success, but Thanksgiving is a tough holiday for those watching closely what passes the portal of the palate.

There is a hidden danger in all that pleasing provender, causing a silent, slumberous somnolence leading one down the drowsy path, toward unconscious eating and carbohydrate addiction to steal the soul of the most dedicated calorie counter. Beware the bane of the bird! Beware the dreaded turkey coma!

Mick

Turkey Coma

Longing for goodies I haven't tasted
In nearly a year could drive me crazy,
So I spent the weekend getting wasted
On so many foods, my memory's hazy
About all the treats that by-passed by lips.
Remote-controlled, gut-bomb, high-fat missiles,
To torture my tummy, inflate my hips -
As saccharin-laced as love epistles,
The love-starved, lonely, lost heart indulges.
I fed my face with rich gravy and pies,
Until I remembered last year's bulges,
And started telling myself the old lies.
But did my psycho damage my soma?
It's hard to tell in a turkey coma...

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Winter Rose

Some call them pretty poison and others just the Christmas flower. An urban legend tells of a two-year old child dying in agony after eating a single Poinsettia leaf. There are also tales of its status as a death blossom for pets and other animals. In truth, it's not really good for you, and can make you very ill if you have an allergy to latex, but it is not deadly poison. They grow wild in the tropical forests of Mexico, and like so many people I know, who live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, they don't do well when the temperature drops below 50 degrees...

According to legend, a little Mexican girl called Pepita assembled a bouquet of common roadside weeds and offered them at her church's nativity scene, because she had been told that even the most humble gift, given in love, is acceptable in God's eyes. When she placed the weed bouquet at the foot of the nativity scene, it instantly blossomed into brilliant red flowers. The astonished witnesses called them Flores de Noche Buena, or Flowers of the Holy Night. The were Poinsettias, the most popular Christmas flower, sometimes known as the Winter Rose...

Mick


Winter Rose

Although the Aztecs called it purity,
A symbol that the ancients highly prized,
The rumor of its great toxicity
Has grown through time, and lingers super-sized.
And yet, unless you have an allergy,
It's safe to eat a leaf, not that you should -
For though it might just upset your tummy,
I've heard that it does not taste very good!
The legend says a child, humble and poor,
Picked weeds to bring to church on Christmas Eve.
They blossomed when she brought them through the door:
A Christmas miracle, they all believe.
A wild Poinsettia was what she chose,
The Christmas Star, the velvet Winter Rose.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Pleasant Moments

I was considering how often I say, "Happy Thanksgiving!" without considering what I'm thankful for. Like "Good Morning," "Good Night," and "How are you?" -- the words just roll past my lips without careful consideration of what I'm saying or asking. If you think this is not the case, the next time someone asks how you are, tell them. Give them the litany of your day's travails and blessings. They won't be expecting it, for their words are automatic, part of a standard greeting. They may never ask again...

Put to the test, I wonder how many folks can say what the Thanksgiving holiday celebrates? As an American, I have so many blessings, they are impossible to count, and Thanksgiving makes me think of freedom, family, friends, football, and food. For me, it's a quiet day, filled with precious memories and pleasant moments.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Mick


Pleasant Moments

Can we in conscience, silently conspire
To let a festive holiday slide past,
Without a little spark, a little fire
Of passionate desire to break the fast?
And though we often travel many miles,
Arriving tired, rump-sore, and quite spent,
Familiar faces bring forth quiet smiles,
And make us very thankful that we went.
We leave behind the bustle and the stress,
Journey through the winter's advent weather,
And while we all try to forget the mess,
Spend a little pleasant time together.
For after all there's nothing quite as good,
As moments spent with fam'ly, friends, and food.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Ice in My Veins

I know that, when I got up this morning, I had hands and feet. Yet, I swear they had an out-of-body experience several times today, for although I could see them on the ends of my arms and legs, I could not feel their usual steadfast, functional presence. There just seems to be something about November weather that penetrates the best defenses, searching so deep, I swear ice forms on the bones from Carpals and Tarsals to Phalanges at all points of the human compass.

I’ve heard that fear can make your “blood run cold,” but does slush have to form in the plasma? When I was a young man, I went most of the winter without gloves. Now, I need choppers to look for ice cream in the freezer. If only I could have saved up that miserable heat from the dog days of summer, so that I could raid the account for the dark days of early winter. If I seem to be moving slowly today, it’s not sand in my shoes, it’s ice in my veins…

Mick

Ice in My Veins

I cannot say that it’s cold this morning,
However, not because it isn’t cold;
Perhaps the goose bumps are early warning,
Perhaps they’re just a sign of getting old.
Though I complained about the summer’s heat,
Disgruntled, with sweat running down my back,
Now that I cannot even feel my feet,
I wish I had a little of it back!
I know there is heat, somewhere deep inside,
That never reaches my extremities.
I don’t understand, why it has to hide
Above my elbows and north of my knees.
I cannot blame it on my aches and pains,
If my blood’s sluggish, there’s ice in my veins…


Mick McKellar
November 2007

Corner of My Eye

Maybe it’s too much coffee. Maybe it’s too many years hanging around academics. Maybe my scalp is too tight. Whatever the cause, when I put digits to keyboard tonight, the first paragraph that came out is the following…

“Poets often become platitudinarians of the highest order -- proselytizing primitive proverbs and antediluvian anecdotes until the cows come home. Avoiding these timeworn traps and venerable, antiquated aphorisms and adages is the daily trial of those who seek to tell a story without mumbling maxims and mouthing mottos.”

AAARRGHHH! Eschew Obfuscation indeed! I looked in a mirror, grimaced (as usual), and asked myself, “What can I do…what is the solution to this alliterative, yet cloyingly troublesome claptrap?

Answer: Write about small stuff and ordinary occurrences, everyday episodes, and funny phenomena, because it’s hard to wax pompous about pot-roast and even harder to be haughty about hamburgers, hangnails, and hairy knuckles. And, so, I write about sofas and shadows, funny friends and imaginary fantasy folk (like Footsore Fox and Ribald Rabbit), light and dark, love and loss, and things seen only in the Corner of My Eye…

Mick

Corner of My Eye

I looked out my window,
In the yard I saw a shadow fly.
Why then, I do not know,
But this time they caught my eye.

Creatures tiny and swift,
Often scamper over rocks and leaves.
Bandits crossed a snow drift:
Teeny-weeny, furtive thieves!

Burglars taking at need,
Things that they store in an old wood pile;
Robbers at hyper-speed,
Whose antics can make me smile...

Chipmunks, gophers, and mice,
Are considered pests and hence, destroyed.
And it's hard to be nice,
When their pranks leave me annoyed.

Long as they stay outside,
And live their lives under open sky,
They can run, live, and hide -
In the corner of my eye.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

It Just Makes Sense

Life should be about "giving to" not "taking from." Yet, each year, when Thanksgiving, Advent, and Christmas role around, fewer and fewer people are willing to wish me a Merry Christmas or a even a Happy Thanksgiving. I believe political correctness has gone awry. May as well tell me I cannot show friends a picture of my beatiful grandchild because someone with poor eyesight (or who hates children) cannot or will not look at it. May as well tell me I cannot raise my voice in song, because someone with poor hearing or who hates music (or my voice) cannot or will not listen to the song. Now they tell me that, because someone may not like the Christian color of my light, we all should sit in the dark - because the dark is so "inclusive." The dark is also dark...

I do not apologize that my poems rhyme and adopt forms more popular in the late 19th Century than in the early 21st. I will not apologize for writing about feeling the touch of the Creator, when I walk on a snowy evening and shiver at the delicate phantom touch of snowflakes on my upturned face, or as I savor the rich green shadows of the ancient Estivant pines on a sultry summer afternoon. The universe of those who believe this world just happened by chance must be empty indeed, and cold because all is ruled by the tossing of dice. There is an icy beauty in the concept of a universe driven by probability, but it cannot compare to a universe designed by a loving and powerful Creator. I love a mystery, and there is none greater.

I want to than Martha Dobbs for the beautiful image I used on the page with this poem. Then I want to thank her for reminding me that, politically correct or not, the world is too beautiful to have simply happened. It was created - it just makes sense...

Mick

It Just Makes Sense

His message comes through clearly,
If you listen with your eyes,
To children cared-for dearly,
And to brilliant sun-drenched skies.

His voice is all-surrounding,
If you watch with loving ears.
It's filled with love abounding,
And a light that calms your fears.

Just taste His wondrous incense,
All afloat on spirit breeze,
And smell flavor so intense,
It will bring you to your knees!

See and smell and taste and hear
Life, you love so very much,
And know He is very near,
When you feel His loving touch.

Human senses let you pray,
So very many ways, and
Savor each and ev'ry day,
That you dwell within His hand.

Mick McKellar
November 2007

Gray Man

I wonder how normal it is to feel as if you're fading away? I know how it is to feel invisible. I've been to gatherings and parties where I don't fit in, where I feel like a hole in the air - only noticeable when someone tries to walk through me. Ever leave a gathering and have no one notice you've gone? Fortunately, it is a rare occurrence (at least in my life) and it happens about as often as those rare times that I have been the center of attention. During those invisible times, when I have faded from view, I think of myself as a gray man.

As I've grown older, I've noticed that I can choose to become a gray man, simply by distancing myself from everything. As I begin to not feel, I also begin to fade - as the bright dawn dies into a gray winter's day. I blamed everyone else for not paying attention to me, and yet the truth was much more under my control. I faded from their view because I chose not to be affected by others and the life going on around them. It is a dangerous choice, for one can choose to become too gray, and simply fade away...

Mick

Gray Man

Am I the gray man when the fires of dawn,
Bring naught from me but stifled yawn?
I wonder where my heart has gone?
My heart has gone.
It's gone.

Am I the gray man when a wondrous song,
Cannot stir me to sing along?
It feels as if it's very wrong.
It's very wrong.
It's wrong.

Am I the gray man when a lover's touch,
Cannot somehow be felt as such?
It doesn't stir me very much.
It's very much.
It's much.

Am I the gray man when an old friend's voice,
Is just a part of background noise?
I wonder if it's just a choice?
It's just a choice.
It's choice.

Am I the gray man when the death of dawn,
Moves me no more than a chess pawn?
It matters not if I am gone.
If I am gone?
I'm gone...

Mick McKellar
November 2007