Shake the Beast

Silence in the morning of our world's end,
Left us all undisturbed, abed, asleep.
Warnings of danger — on which we depend,
Had failed to generate even one peep.
Our representatives, long un-appraised,
Could not explain where our treasure all went;
Though episodic voices had been raised,
Whispering deep rumbles of discontent.
When cries for action unanswered remained,
When pie crust promises were never kept,
When faith in the beast could not be regained,
And the beast slept on, while the people wept;
Until its beating heart finally ceased —
All because nobody dared shake the beast.

Mick McKellar
June 2016

It is uncomfortable to ask the tough questions. It is difficult to demand that promises be kept. It is hard work to wake the beast and demand its attention to the many problems that need fixing.

Mick

Singer, Soldier, Spirit

Joe hid from August's soul-oppressing heat,
Inside the entrance to the local mall.
He watched a terrified boy from his seat,
Stumble in through the door and nearly fall.

When something in the frightened young man's eyes,
Caused him to shiver, he rose to his feet;
And then, despite the boy's desperate cries,
Pushed him outside, into the August heat.

Trying to break free and to run inside,
The young man twisted, turned, and pushed away.
And Joe saw what the boy had tried to hide:
Explosives, and a vest to shrapnel spray!

Joe grabbed him tighter, told people to run,
And dragged him out into the parking lot.
Then stood there, swaying in the burning sun
And laughed — to find himself in such a spot!

The boys eyes had gone bloodshot, wide and wild,
He started gulping air and tensed to run.
And Joe prayed: "Lord please help me save this child,
A child, as much a weapon as a gun!"

A bullet pierced Joe's shirt and then his breast,
And waves of pain exploded in his mind.
He loosed the boy when blood sprayed from his chest.
He felt the pavement slap him from behind.

A cop ran up with anger on his face,
And shouting words and phrases memorized.
He glared at me in my protected space,
And far too late, I think he realized.

He realized that I was not the threat.
He realized the kid was wired to blow.
His sad eyes said that he owed me a debt,
And realized he had nowhere to go.

The cop dove as the kid blew up his vest,
His body sheltered me from shrapnel fire.
He jerked as shrapnel tore his head and chest,
And movement stopped as I felt him expire.

The smoke and dust suspended in the air,
Hung motionless in silence so profound,
It shocked me when a voice both strong and fair,
Became the rich and lovely — only — sound.

A man dressed as a Minstrel walked to me,
And touched the cop, who rose and walked aside.
"I pray there is no pain!" He said, "You see,
The officer, the boy, and you all died."

That what I did saved lives he shared with me.
The cop reacted as he had been taught.
The boy was told he'd save his family,
And go to Heaven, just as he had sought.

The Minstrel sang some songs of strength and might.
He showed us all the paths to our reward.
And, as we left I saw the strangest sight:
The Minstrel leaving — this time, with a sword...

Mick McKellar
June 2016

Music may also inspire justice.

Mick

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