Heartsong

The ploughman speeds across my field of dreams,
Singing, as with joy he seeds my slumber.
Voice sonorant, awash, silently streams
And feeds my dreams, budding without number.
The dreams spring skyward, stretched in silent dance,
Swaying in rhythms unheard, all night long;
Til in the moonlit silence, just by chance,
I hear a whisper of my own heartsong.
Simple, soto voce, and so alive,
I almost fail to catch its faint bouquet;
As lively dreams subsume its strength, and strive
To reach my sleeping mind and run away.
As I keep pace and follow right along,
To dance my dreams while singing my heartsong.

Mick McKellar
June 2016

Sometimes, our hopes and dreams grow to the music of our heart, even if we can’t hear it ourselves.

Mick

No Ugly Heart

No Ugly Heart

Often we disguise our faith and caring,
And make our inner light a mystery;
A lovely golden light made for sharing,
But not let its glow shine for all to see!

I want those who see me, to see beauty;
I want them to see His grace from the start.
Please help me know pure joy in my duty;
Lord, please don't let me have an ugly heart!

Please help me live a life so grateful,
I cannot help but smile at ev'ry turn.
Don't let me become hurtful or hateful,
But help my inner love light's beacon burn!

I want those who see me, to see beauty;
I want them to see His grace from the start.
Please help me know pure joy in my duty;
Lord, please don't let me have an ugly heart!

Let me show the world sweet joy in living,
And let me show them all how to forgive;
For then they'll know the joy of forgiving,
And understand how we are meant to live!

I want those who see me, to see beauty;
I want them to see His grace from the start.
Please help me know pure joy in my duty;
Lord, please don't let me have an ugly heart!

Mick McKellar
May 2016

I wish I had some music for this song. It's based on comments from a small child in a story that may or may not be true.

Mick

Superior Sings

None listen to the sound of my voices,
Though they spill forth from places black as night.
I pray someone notices my word choices,
Though the wail of my tunes be slim and slight.
My urgent cry is firstborn of distress,
And father to its echoes to come;
A family wand’ring in wilderness,
Their plaintive voices unsettling to some.
Cold fury of winds crossing darksome moors,
Breaking forth from shadows chill with despair,
Both battering windows and bolted doors,
And carrying warnings everywhere.
As twilight transitions to fulsome dark,
My wind voices whisper in voices stark.

Mick McKellar
May 2016

Lake Superior sings all the time, but most poignant is her fell voice on the urgent, cold winds of warning when weather is about to change.

Mick

Gypsy Moon

Gypsy Moon

With a cry of joy she welcomes the night;
Her voice a call for the silvery light —
A dance to the thrill of a mystic tune,
On a golden thread of the gypsy moon!

I watched her dance through a dark window pane,
Softly bejeweled by a short summer rain;
On a sparkling lawn bathed in ghostly light,
The sky below with the stars shining bright.

I felt the strong pull of that ghost-lit globe,
And I ached to shed my tattered bathrobe,
To join the mad dance on the diamond lawn;
Till I broke the spell with a tiny yawn.

I frantically searched for the gypsy sprite,
But all I found was a wet moonlit night...

Mick McKellar
April 2016

Feel the pull of the Gypsy Moon!

Mick

Too Digital to Die

In early youth my mind harbored grand dreams,
Of fame and wealth and notoriety.
Nightmares of failure all had the same themes:
To live and die in anonymity.
And so, the Internet brought hope to me:
A chance to publish, make my name well known;
A place to share, and best of all — twas free,
But I could not foresee how far it's grown.
Words I wrote more than twenty years ago,
Are still alive and haunting search replies.
My public words forever put on show;
All that I shared, still there for searching eyes.
My legacy forever will be nigh,
Because I'll be too digital to die.

Mick McKellar
April 2016

It never dawned on me, years ago, that I was already writing my autobiography — by posting on the Internet.

Mick

Effluential People

"Garbage in — garbage out," said the old school,
At least, that is how our leaders quote it;
Til "Dollars in — garbage out," became the rule,
As our current politicians wrote it.
Politics was the art of compromise,
Where nobody totally won or lost;
Twas a messy way to achieve the prize,
And everyone bore some of the cost.
But with dollars driving the ship of state,
Compromise has become a dirty word.
Our leaders refuse to negotiate,
From positions radical or absurd.
How can those officials represent me,
If someone bought their flexibility?

Mick McKellar
April 2016

It's supposed to be public service, not a permanent job.

Mick

Stairway to Bedlam

Stairway to Bedlam

He climbed the stairway to Bedlam tonight,
His body demanding sweet oxygen.
And every step was a bitter fight
To feed the fires of this scion of men;
Whose bellows have nearly bellowed their last,
And whose furnace succumbed to corrosion.
His reserve fuel levels were falling fast,
As he faced perpetual non-motion:
The familiar ache filled his arms and chest,
And the fuzzy fog crept into his mind;
He stumbled along till he came to rest,
Leaving a trail of used tissues behind.
He opened the tank, positioned the hose,
And the breath of life rushed in through his nose.
Ahhh…

Mick McKellar
April 2016

It's like drowning in air.

Mick