Caregivers

Caregivers

I've fallen in love with the life I live,
Though my words often sing shadows of pain;
Ignoring those who have chosen to give
All they can, my precious life to retain.
Though my verbal barrages, thundering,
Echo of deep-hidden pain and despair;
A voice acerbic, often sundering
Love from compassion and duty from care;
My heart feels deeply what my eyes can't see,
And my ego's reluctant to admit:
That others have given a lot to me,
So much, I can barely comprehend it.
Though I act a curmudgeon, please forgive:
I've fallen in love with the life I live.

Mick McKellar
February 2013


I admit it: I am, sometimes, a curmudgeon. What is a curmudgeon? To be accurate, I looked it up and found this definition: a crusty, irascible, cantankerous, old person, full of stubborn ideas. Just imagine this guy...footsore, short of breath, and angry. That's me on a dark day, when I grumble, grouse, and grouch about, acting the churlish crosspatch for no apparent reason.

When my CML hayride began, I had many dark days and I think I fought on out of sheer stubbornness. However, I didn't fight alone. So many prayed, sent supportive messages and cards, and helped physically and fiscally, I was overwhelmed. My prose and poetry sometimes became somber and dark. Although I remain a semi-curmudgeon out of habit; I ask for patience. I may still take a walk in the shadows, but I have, indeed, fallen in love with the life I live -- and I live in the light friends and family give.

Mick

Saving Time

Saving Time

The Footsore Fox was again at my door.
As fatigued as I have ever seen him:
His eyes, puffy, irritated, and sore,
The bright flame that burned in those orbs seemed dim.

As he entered, he tripped on the threshold,
And stumbled wearily into my house.
He leaned on a chair, as though very old;
"So tired..." he squeaked, in a voice like a mouse.

"Here, sit in my chair," I said, "and just come
Sit down, while I brew a nice pot of tea.
Make yourself comfortable in my home."
But he stood there, as though he'd not heard me.

"We will sit and talk, I have lots of time!"
I said, and lifted his weary old bones.
It was then I heard his vest pocket chime,
And he whipped out one of those new smartphones.

I nearly dropped him, he moved so quickly,
With a growling grunt he shook himself free.
The Fox is often abrupt and prickly,
But he seldom behaves that way with me.

He stared intently at the little screen,
Then he tapped tiny buttons in reply.
But when no quick response was heard or seen,
He lowered his head and heaved a great sigh.

"I bought this new phone to help me save time!"
He cried, as he shook the shiny device.
"The salesman said wasting time is a crime,
And wouldn't a way to save it be nice?"

"He even gave me an app to record,
All the time I would save, using this tool.
He said I would never be late or bored,
And texting my friends is really cool!"

But Fox said he had friends he didn't know,
Who were texting messages, so inane
It seemed silly, but he answered them, so
The open prompt didn't drive him insane.

"I can read news and check on the weather!"
He cried, fixing me with his eyes bleary.
"My Facebook and e-mail...all together,
On one device that I carry with me!"

"And when was the last time you slept?" Asked I.
"I don't remember..." He mumbled, and sighed
Something about getting organized, by
Using the calendar app that he tried.

When he fell asleep in my easy chair,
I shut off his smartphone to let him rest.
I covered him up, and just left him there:
My softly snoring and bone-weary guest.

He woke hours later, and took his leave,
But before he left, he grinned sheepishly.
He'd opened the app and could not believe,
The time saved file was completely empty!

That it was empty did not surprise me;
You can't save time, only spend it wisely.

Mick McKellar
February 2013


My old friend Footsore Fox is back for a visit, and he brought a new toy. His smartphone was supposed to save time, but cost him more wasted time than he ever could have imagined. I missed old Fox and his sometimes companion (sometimes combatant) the Ribald Rabbit.

Mick

Dark Days

Dark Days

On dark days I wonder why I survive,
Why, though I may drift so near the abyss,
I return from each journey quite alive --
Why I come back from every near miss.
The darkness of dark days originates,
Under massive grey clouds, blocking the sun:
The shattered shadow my mind generates,
Making each movement toward the light hard won.
I can't make it back from there all alone.
I can't swim against that robust riptide.
Suddenly, although sinking like a stone,
Mighty hands lift me: a warm gentle ride.
And though I am powerless in my plight,
I once again dance in bright golden light.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

It is day 733 since my transplant, and although two years have passed since I received that most precious gift from my brother, not every day has been sweet. Not every day has been bright. I have traveled in shadow, through darkness deep and dangerous, to the very edge of life and fought against the pull toward the long sunless sleep. I came back, but not alone. Mighty hands lifted me up and powerful prayers helped carry me home.

Mick

Jack's Advice

Jack's Advice

Love and water will not flow up a hill,
Without breaking nature's most basic laws.
Though many may find this a bitter pill,
The axiom is bound to give us pause.
A gentle slope, the best plumbers will say,
Will keep things moving along as they should,
But force it to flow any other way,
You could plug the whole system up for good.
So, building relationships is the same:
Gently moving forward's the way to go;
The steep slopes of both withering self blame,
And suffocating study stop the flow.
Follow this, and your relationships will
Be as easy as tumbling down the hill...

Mick McKellar
February 2013


I am not entirely certain how Jack and Jill and basic plumbing became entangled in the back of my mind, but this bit of fun was the end result. In the unending search for profundity, one often trips over one's own clown shoes. I was just searching about in the dark, dusty attic of my mind -- and stumbled across this mathom.

Mick

Cry Magic

Cry Magic

A poet's soul has a great empty hole,
He spends most of his life trying to fill.
Yet, he has no hope of reaching his goal,
For each poem he writes empties the till.
His mind reaches out for inspiration,
And gathers whatever magic it finds,
Until it erupts, a conflagration
So bright, it must be shared with other minds.
That magic exists in the world at all,
Is a secret known and mostly ignored,
By minds so distracted and held in thrall
To noise, embraced to avoid being bored.
A poet cries, "Listen," sings with his soul,
And searches for magic to fill the hole.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

I was born with an artist's eye and the hands of a farmer. I hear and see music: grand arias I cannot sing, and wondrous, towering symphonies I cannot play. Light touches my eyes at angles oblique -- liquid velvet in myriad hues. I love to see snow dancing on the wind and to fall asleep to the rhythm of rain on the roof. There is magic in the lullaby a summer breeze sings and a siren's call in wind waves coursing through golden wheat. Eyes tell me tales and sing songs of love lost and found. Smiles light a room or hide fear and aggression. The world is a magical, musical place, if you look beyond the noise and the barricades. Light or dark, I look for that magic and share it as best my words suffice.

Poet's Prayer

Poet's Prayer

Lord, grant me eyes to see music in life,
And ears to hear colors in voices roused.
Let me taste my words before they are rife,
And touch hearts and souls where they will be housed.
Let me feel the flow of time in my soul,
And my spirit dance in the sky above.
Let me race the wind over gentle knoll,
And move a great cloud with an airy shove.
Let me bask in the joy of mornings bright,
And taste the wonder of life each new day.
Let me hear the whispers of stars at night,
And gain wisps of wisdom from what they say.
Let me climb to the top of Heaven's tree,
And catch just a glimpse of eternity.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Do poets pray? From personal experience, I would say they must. That my view of the world differs from others is a fact of my life. A poet paints with words and finds the music in life all around. If this were not so, all poetry would be lyrics with no melody, no harmony  no rhythm. Dead words cannot bring images to life. Finding life in whispered words, soft sounds, and the touch of wind on my face and sharing that experience is the heart of what I do.

Mick

Wraith

Wraith

It silently drifts just beyond my sight,
Its frigid fog fingers upon my heart;
A mist that inhumes all visible light,
A curtain that veils an infernal night,
And rends my life's stoic ramparts apart.

Upon rising from chthonic realms to drift,
In humble non-presence near my dark shore,
It seeks to deliver its somber gift,
Chameleon cold and quicksilver swift,
And seal it in shadow forevermore.

An offering dark, a red golden ring,
A burnished bright prize with a simple tole --
Mere bending of knee will secure the thing,
But human homage to the shadow king,
Is homicide of my eternal soul.

Heartbeat a-drumming in both of my ears,
I utter a prayer, my voice hoarse and low,
For freedom from perilous haunting fears,
And suddenly wake, to wonder at tears,
That gratefully saturate my pillow.

Mick McKellar
February 2013

Dark visions haunt us from time to time, and for some those shadows dance in the darkness of our deepest dreams. Perhaps it is simply the process of the human mind, sorting through days full of bad news, awful news, and the evening news. Lord knows, there are vast opportunities to dwell on mankind's inhumanity, on those ever present pockets of darkness pooling alongside human footprints upon our global home. Realms where, unsated by our bloody banquet, we find new and creative ways to snatch away the gifts of life and liberty from our fellow travelers. Little wonder such mischief would darken the dream dance of the slumbering mind.

Still, in my most haunting dreams, when sinister radiance in umbrage gleams, and nothing could be as bad as it seems; I'm swept from the comfort of peaceful sleep, and swept into waters cold, murky, and deep. Aware that danger hovers near, threatening something or someone dear, I recognize the face of my fear. I silently pray for grace with my tears, and hug my damp pillow, free from fears.

The wraiths that dance in the darkness of dreams, die in the brilliant light of love.

Mick