Sub Rosa

Sub Rosa

The advent of instant social networks,
Foreshadows slow death for privacy;
When miscreants, even ignorant jerks,
Gain intimate knowledge of you and me.
In wrong hands, my online profile becomes
A grave weapon of perilous power,
To stretch my identity till it thrums:
Screaming chain on a sudden-dropped bower.
In my search for simple ways to prevent,
Being part of online curiosa,
I find that false trails might best circumvent
Scrutiny -- leave the real me -- sub rosa.
"Think you know me?" becomes my battle cry,
"When I fill in your forms, I might just lie!"

Mick McKellar
November 2013


Online, it seems everyone wants a piece of me: my full name, my address, my phone number, my e-mail address, my age, etc. Want to read an article? Complete the registration form, sign in, and let our cookies track you! Although I would never advocate lying as a policy, in my early years as a writer online, I discovered the value of maintaining various noms de plume. Mick McKellar, E. McKellar, Jr., Maudit Cybercurmudgeon, and The Midnight Poet, helped Elwin McKellar keep personal and professional life separate.

Mick

Taste of Ashes

Taste of Ashes

My life's one long emergency,
Rushed to hospitals and clinics.
I crash and burn repeatedly,
But rise again like Phoenix.

Although I leave something behind,
In each of these fiery crashes:
A bit of heart, of soul, of mind,
I retain the taste of ashes.

And though I like my steaks well-done;
Cooked at leisure, eaten in haste;
I take no pleasure, have no fun,
Enduring that faux-charnal taste.

To cleanse my palate of that mess,
I find that I simply must go
Savor the flavor of success,
And devour my life with gusto!

Mick McKellar
November, 2013

As day 998 since my blood and marrow stem cell transplant dawned, I reflected on my long list of emergencies and flirtations with the hereafter. Each time I relapse (or collapse), and claw my way back to what passes for normalcy in my fragmented life, I am left with a bad taste in my mind — a bitterness that lingers until I remember the simply joy of waking up each morning — until I remember to savor life.

Mick

Firefly at Dusk

Firefly at Dusk

Tiny stars that float and flicker,
In twilit dervish dance so brusque,
Only daydreams perish quicker,
Than firefly flashes in the dusk.
High above, the stars, eternal,
Flickering, though their lives endure,
Keep their silent watch nocturnal --
Bright chroniclers of time's grand tour.
In their long view of creation,
Do souls continue burning bright,
Or flare, brief illumination --
Just firefly flashes in the night?

Mick McKellar
October 2013

When I walked out our front door this morning, I was greeted by Orion and stunned by the majesty of the early morning sky. I wondered: If the stars are watching us, how must our brief explosions of life on this Earth appear to their ageless eyes?

Mick

Dance of Days

Dance of Days

A-shimmer in the wintry morning light,
Ephemeral mist drifts on icy air.
Warm, humid, human breath shines rimy bright,
The touch of warmth no longer barely there --
As delicate mist shadows on the snow,
Caress the canyons riven through the drifts,
And tiny shadow dancers soft and slow,
Flit silently cross crevices and rifts.
My days seem as translucent as the mist,
Of life's breath crystallizing in the sun:
The diaphanous wraith, by Jack Frost kissed,
Becomes a ghostly veil to jump and run.
My own luminous shadow skips and sways,
An eerie evanescent dance of days.

Mick McKellar
October 2013

As day 960 since my transplant drew to a close, I was thinking about how swiftly and delicately the days fly by. The image of warm breath misting in early winter morning sunshine jumped into my mind.

Mick

Snow Shark

Snow Shark

I'd go out walking after dark,
And never once feel insecure.
I imagined a great snow shark,
Made my safety a sinecure.
I'd stride as if I owned the road,
Just taking my shark for a walk;
Invisible -- it never showed --
While hiding that twas all a crock.

Although the shark remained unknown,
I knew its aspect could cause dread;
My guardian was wholly grown,
To roam dark places in my head.
I learned that bullies would think twice,
If I'd pretend I had a guard:
Impervious to snow and ice,
Invisible, but strong and hard.

These were skills that I had to hone;
It doesn't work if you're lazy.
But bullies may leave you alone,
If you're a basket of crazy.

Mick McKellar
September 2013


Okay, I know this fantasy sounds a bit crazy, but there is a kernel of truth. I found that bullies in school would leave me alone, if I acted as if I had nothing to fear. After a while, they were no longer scary and dangerous, just annoying and dangerous (like heavy traffic or thunderstorms).

Mick

Chimera

Chimera

A thought intruded, suddenly,
While gathering wool, sipping tea,
And gazing inward, I could see
I wasn't me, entirely.

A river red and blue, it flows,
From top of head to tips of toes.
Yet ev'rywhere the river goes,
Its misbehavior often shows.

It knows a secret, wild and fey,
That makes it act in a strange way:
My life's blood, as blood tests betray,
Contains my brother's DNA.

I may not appear differently,
I look the same; I look like me.
Yet, me, myself, and I agree,
I'm not myself, entirely...

Mick McKellar
September 2013


939 days since the blood and marrow transplant, and I am still not used to the knowledge that, essentially, my brother's blood flows in my blood stream.

Mick

Senses

My mom, my dad, and me...in 1951.

Remembering my Mom (September 13, 2013):

Today would have been my Mom's 83rd birthday. She died in May, 1990. I miss her everyday. This is the poem I wrote upon her death and read at her funeral:






Senses

I see in my reflection, clear,
The image of your face.
I glimpse your shadow, standing near,
In each familiar place.
Your perfume permeates the air,
When sudden, I take note,
And lingers long and gently there,
On letters that you wrote.
When injured, or when feeling sad,
I feel your soothing touch.
And smells of cooking make me glad
I loved your food so much.

Now, late at night, when silence reigns,
I hear your voice again.
I know that after tears and pains,
Your flame is gone - your warmth remains.

Mick McKellar
( written upon the death of my mother, May 6, 1990 )