Tunneling

Marian tells me that my introductions are too long and that "people tune you out," when I ramble on. Henceforth, my introductions will follow my poems. Read on at your own risk...

Tunneling

I have spent most of my life tunneling,
Upwards, through layers and miles of debris.
Gathering knowledge and then funneling,
That raw data deep down inside of me.
Wanting to know why folks did what they did,
I strove to understand humanity;
While knowing danger that my pathway hid:
Such a quest could lead to insanity.
Despite awareness, I tunneled ahead,
Faster and faster, eager to learn more,
About people, whether living or dead,
And understand love, and hatred, and war.
Then I broke into, through layers of sand,
An ocean of stuff I don't understand!

Mick McKellar
February 2013


I have been spending a great deal of time just thinking. Actually, it is more like hunting and gathering, because so many of my memories are scattered, misfiled, or damaged -- probably due to the ravages of chemotherapy and long-term exposure to medications strong enough to twist my arm around and poke me in the eye. Some medications protect me from other medications and others just tend to slow down my mental gymnastics. Despite sporadic performance and the concomitant call for extra effort to overcome sluggish response, I continue with my avocation: trying to understand people.

Even as the evening news inundates me with images of violent actions, displays of rabid hatred, and evidence of our lust for power and control; my personal experience comforts me with images of acts of kindness, displays of undeserved affection, and evidence of our love for peace and freedom. Perhaps it is because these are extremes of behavior, that they break through the wall of noise that surrounds us and permeates our being. I think they used to call it the Madonna Effect: Only by being more outrageous will you be noticed. For 63 years, I have watched, listened, and taken notes. For 51 of those years, I have written about my observations in my poetry. One would hope that by mining such rich ore, the output would be golden. I suppose there are nuggets here and there, but to begin to understand humanity would require more than nine lives, and I am NOT a cat...

After tunneling through so much, I thought my recent brushes with the hereafter would lead me to deeper insights -- and I did have a breakthrough -- only to discover myself at the bottom of an ocean of stuff I don't understand...

Mick

Dreams Can Be

As I was writing the introduction to another poem, upon examination of the first paragraph, I discerned this tiny tutorial peeking out at me. Capitals and carriage returns (look it up) did the rest.

Mick

Dreams Can Be

Dreams can be wonderful things,
Full of fanciful flights,
Bright racing lights,
And the warmth enduring love brings.

Dreams can be foreboding things,
Filled with shadows and fears,
Hot burning tears,
And the chill song the black raven sings.

Dreams can be instructive things,
Filled with wild twists and bends,
When shared with friends,
May be truth, from which insight springs.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Enduring Legacy

I did not sleep well last night. Changes in medications and schedules, adjusting to home instead of hospital, and dealing with the consequences of falling down hard on the kitchen floor combined to have me up and out of bed nearly every hour, on the hour, for the entire night. It seems impossible that I had time to have a dream, but I did...and it was a doozy!

I suppose we all eventually must come to grips with our own legacy...that which we leave behind, and from which our descendants will remember us and determine the value of our lives. Although the idea of a legacy seldom intruded upon my daily thoughts, it must have been knocking about for some time in my subconscious, for it surfaced last night. It brought an angel in tow, to sit at the foot of my bed and chat about what I planned to leave behind upon my journey to the distant shore. What would be my enduring legacy?

Mick

Enduring Legacy

I dreamt that an angel visited me,
And sat, smiling, at the foot of my bed.
"Good news and bad news..." He said, quietly.
"The good news is you're going Home!" He said.
"And the bad news?" I asked, tenuously,
Unsure what direction this talk would take.
His ageless face smiled, quicksilver, at me:
"My friend, you have a decision to make!"

He told me my time on Earth was complete,
My tally of years: three more than three score:
Though not ancient, surely not a defeat,
But t'was time to open another door.
I started to rise, no more time to bide,
When he waved me back, and smiled at me.
For before I left, I had to decide,
What would be my enduring legacy.

Head on my pillow, face filled with surprise,
Heart full of questions despite my belief;
I searched deeply his ancient angel eyes,
They showed concern, but offered no relief.
A legacy...and one that must endure!
Something that would carry on after me.
It would not be money, that was for sure,
Nor fame, nor position of family...

Just a mortgaged house, a ten-year old car,
Knick-knacks and doo-dads picked up on the way;
Nothing of value to go very far,
As inheritance I could give away.
What wonders could my legacy comprise?
The answer that popped in my head -- absurd!
Were faith, fancy, and memories the prize,
In images, written and spoken word?

While watching my eyes, his head nodded once.
I asked: "Should I call, or write a letter?"
He sprang to his feet and said on the nonce,
"It seems something longer would be better.
Your journey has been postponed, my old friend;
It seems that you still have some work to do!
And though seldom gifted to see the end
Result, know your legacy will come true."

He turned back, just as he started to leave,
And favored me with a great beaming smile.
"May I come back?" He asked, "For I believe
I would like to visit once in a while."
I nodded, but words just would not begin.
In an instant, he was no longer there.
I sat up, my face registered chagrin,
"Anytime," I said to the empty air...

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Mud, Mirror, Mud

Too tired to read, too tired to watch television, almost too tired to think as I lay in my hospital bed since Friday night, I drifted away from the people, the pokes, and the pain that surrounded me as the shining fog surrounds dark pines on a bright, misty morning in the north woods. Light upon that fuzzy sea, adrift without a rudder or mast, the gentle current carried me, to dreamland's soft reality.

I journeyed far upon my pillow. I saw and felt and thought. I heard and smelled and touched. I laughed and screamed and cried. How I moved about I cannot say, nor do I know who was my guide. Did a gentle hand steer my course? Did a teacher or mentor or father or mother silently, invisibly, lead the way? Perhaps, or maybe it was just me -- searching and leading with my heart.

Upon my return home, last night, I once again dreamed. What I recall of the dream is below. Take from it what you will. I have not yet determined all that it means for me. Dreams are like that...yeah, they are!

Mick

Mud, Mirror, Mud

I dreamt I walked into a cave,
To see an eerie sight.
Although it was far underground,
It glowed with eldritch light.

The cavern floor was oddly warm,
And soft as river mud.
I felt surprise, but no alarm,
Until I heard a thud.

I turned to face the way I'd come,
The opening was shut!
As if a door was closed by some
Enormous force, but what?

The light grew brighter further in,
A frigid, greenish glow.
An invitation to come in?
I knew I had to go...

The room was only steps ahead,
I entered without pause.
I felt no fear or doubt or dread,
My heart did not give cause.

The room was covered, like the floor,
With mud, a dark green-brown.
As was the ceiling and the door,
The same, both up and down.

I noticed something on the wall,
I stared in disbelief:
It was my portrait, very small --
In muddy bas relief!

My image turned and looked at me!
It spoke, in whispered voice:
"I've things to show you, you must see.
You do not have a choice..."

One-by-one portraits appeared,
On ev'ry muddy plane.
Their whispered voices subtly seared
Their meanings in my brain.

I saw every hurt I'd done,
I witnessed deed and slight.
The times I should have helped, but run,
Portrayed there, in my sight.

At first, in anger, loud I screamed,
But ended with a sigh.
From my red eyes, hot liquid streamed,
As I began to cry.

Where teardrops touched upon the floor,
A tiny spot was free,
And shining brightly, more and more,
A mirror gleamed at me.

Something had changed, was not the same...
Through puffy eyes I'd see:
My image in that muddy frame,
Was smiling happily!

I knew I would be there for years,
I knew I had to stay,
Until I cried enough hot tears,
To wash the mud away.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Whispers in the Storm

I wrote the last verse of this poem as a response on Facebook, trying to make a point -- and I think I missed the target. The quatrain arrived with no back story, all point and no fletch. Divining the meaning involved a stretch exceeding my grasp as a writer.

It is meant as solace for those battered by innuendo, false witness, and lies -- no longer whispers in the darkness, but trumpet blares in sound bytes, poison postings on social media, and unexplained, sensationalized smoke and mirror photos and video bytes. It is meant for those who fear to speak with conviction on any topic for fear that their words will be excised with skill, edited with malice, and exhibited with sensational intent. Perhaps Launcelot in The Merchant of Venice was right, and "...truth will out." Yet screaming at a wall of noise is futile and tiring. Eventually, silence returns, at least momentarily, and it is then that a well placed and articulate whisper, the softest intonation of the truth, may be heard with the power of conviction and the ring of truth.

Kudos to the screenwriters for the movie, The Interpreter, in which a character, Zuwanie, reads the following dedication from his book: "The gunfire around us makes it hard to hear. But the human voice is different from other sounds. It can be heard over noises that bury everything else. Even when it's not shouting. Even when it's just a whisper. Even the lowest whisper can be heard -- over armies... when it's telling the truth."

If there is any wisdom in waiting, it resides in the silence when a bombast takes a breath.

Mick

Whispers in the Storm

Though booming firebrands hold sway,
On stages all across the land;
Though strident wordsmiths have their say,
In searing tirades, cast in sand;
Though dark invective shadows cast,
On smoke where nothing ever burned;
The purity of truth will last
Beyond the storm, where trust is earned.

The loudest voice will soon grow hoarse.
The pedant hoist his own petard.
The winds reveal the smoke's dark source;
And patience seems its own reward.
Yet, steps beyond such raucous strife,
The stalwart enter maelstrom's eye,
With naught but truth, a battered life,
And whispered words to slay a lie.

Do not despair you won't be heard,
Despite their shouts, that cause ear pains.
For clear as dawning's first songbird,
In silence, ah! Your whisper reigns.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Shrapnel

The gift of life is my daily blessing -- the morning glory that brings joy as I open my eyes each day. Yet, I remember dark moments when both pain and weariness flooded the moor below my little redoubt upon the crag; what became an island in a sea of sorrows and shadows. In that cold, dark place, I heard only the whining of winter winds, felt only the icy touch of darkness, and saw only the blackest veil of the abyss.

This was momentarily my world: Until a tiny whisper in the darkness silenced the winds. Until the fiery touch of Heaven's grace warmed my soul. Until the darkling veil was shred by love's golden gift, shattering my dark study and showing me the path home across that sea of sorrows and shadows, to rest finally in healing hands, upon a bright and precious coast. It was the prayers, wishes, and good thoughts of friends, family, and more -- that brought me home to that happy shore.

Mick

Shrapnel

Chuffed at the gift of yet another day,
Unconcerned about the overmorrow,
I bask in the grace that showed me the way
Home, across a silent sea of sorrow.
We think we traverse our paths alone,
To search for solace in patches of sun.
And yet, when I stumble on root or stone,
Strong arms catch me, set me upright, to run;
Should my short, sweet life be torn asunder,
And shadows, the shrapnel of loss, be cast
Among those I love, a silent thunder --
Rending veil and valor -- present to past.
I grasp God's gift, hold it tight, never cease:
'Til my shrapnel be shards of light and peace.

Mick McKellar
January 2013

Stone Pillows

Sleep has become a major factor in my life. With apologies to the musical group, it may be part of my chemical romance with chemotherapy, high-dose steroids, and up to 24 medications per day. I've been slowly sorting through major tangles in my web of memories and searching about in dark spaces where shelved, codified, and indexed experiences ought to dwell in well dusted peace. Though fraught (as in the song, Sleep) with nightmares and even night terrors, my rest has wrought the wonder of recollection.

As I lay wrapped tightly in my blankets -- I keep my bedroom a bit chilly, to make breathing easier -- a night or two ago, I was beset with images earlier than any I previously remembered. I remembered being cold and cuddled, fed and fondled, and beset with grinning faces full of large teeth. I remembered the spastic agony and ecstasy of having my feet tickled -- a sensation I was to lose forever only a few months later. As I continue my search for lost or misplaced reels from the movie of my life, such gifts remind me to pay special attention to the unknown number of reels that remain.

Still, I love to watch reruns of my favorite memories, and sometimes to share them. I wonder, when I finally fall asleep, will I dream?

Mick

Stone Pillows

Images of my arrival on Earth,
Dance as they rise from my mind far beneath;
Flickering memories about my birth:
Cold, soft pillows, and faces...and teeth!
My experiences of days long past,
Among the few treasures I truly own,
Return to inhabit my dreams at last --
As my tally of days has quickly grown.
I treasure the gift I'm given each day:
My memoirs unfolding within my mind.
They comfort me in a most special way,
As the last reels of my movie unwind.
I'll leave the weeping to wind and willows,
And I'll fall asleep on cold, stone pillows.

Mick McKellar
January 2013