Gems and Memories

Sometimes I dig in my old refuse pile,
The one that lives out back, beyond my mind;
Down the path past the urgent guesswork file,
Behind the blackberries so hard to find.

I put stuff there that I want to forget,
Small embarrassments and stupid mistakes:
The spilled coffee that made my pants leg wet,
Or angry ranting about stale cupcakes.

I search there at night, when I’m all alone,
For much of what’s there is just junk to me;
But sometimes I’ll find a hidden gemstone,
Or I’ll rediscover a memory.

I’ll polish my shiny, refurbished prize,
And pretend it’s new when I show you guys.

Mick McKellar
July 2018

Everything old is new again…

Mick

Old Curmudgeons

On the back of an old curmudgeon's head,
Is a shiny spot where hair doesn't grow.
The skin is rough and a little bit red,
If you ask him why it's there, he won't know.
Old curmudgeons don't think of tomorrow,
Our far vision is fuzzy and narrow.
We carry joy in a bag of sorrow,
And a grudge in a small red wheelbarrow.
Curmudgeons ask questions incessantly,
To make long conversations unlikely.
For silence falls on the ear pleasantly,
And a wide open mouth is unsightly.
You wondered about the little red spot:
Well, the head is for real, the spot is not...

Mick McKellar
July 2018

Curmudgeons can be fun.

Mick

Gardens of Hate

I remember tending gardens of hate:
Talking trash words I didn't understand,
standin' round, lookin' down, stayin' up late --
Acting like the older kids had it all planned!

Of course, we thought we knew it all back then,
And anyone that looked like us, was "in."
Anyone who looked right...
Anyone who talked right...
And all you need is the right color skin.

Then, one night in the gardens of my mind,
I felt something grow heavy on my plate!
It slid away, leaving nothing to find...
At once, it seems, my garden lost its freight,
At once, my hateful garden had no weight!

Mick McKellar
June 2018

I remember that some of us were  never good at tending our little gardens of hate.

Mick

Fireworks

There’s a screaming banshee, that flashes bright
As a bonfire, with flames of red and gold;
Blinding your eyes in the darkness of night,
And with heat dissipated, leaves you cold.
Waves of emotion burst forth, asunder,
Dashed against rocky strands burdened by fear;
Roaring forth with the echo of thunder,
Splashing bystanders because they are near.
Epithet hammers beat hard on the mind,
Laced densely with empty vulgarities;
Coherent thoughts are too scattered to find,
Passion and fire blow away in the breeze.
To put your debate in certain danger:
Speak without thought in haste and in anger.

Mick McKellar
June 2018

Too often, of late, I find my own pyrotechnic displays getting out of hand.

Mick

The Weather-Man

The old man sat so silent in the rain.
He smiled a smile content and wistful, free
Of worry, free of dread, and free of pain;
I wondered, would he share his gift with me?
I sat next to him, in the torrent frail,
And asked him why he smiled, while getting wet.
He grinned and told me a fantastic tale,
About the time he lived in Calumet.
He used to work outdoors in the weather --
Of course, he used to shovel lots of snow:
Fluffy, white, but NOT light as a feather,
It had a tendency to drift and blow.
“Twas shov’ling snow that made me look so old!”
He said, and laughed, a bright and cheery sound.
“The problem wasn’t work, it was the cold!”
He giggled, and he spat on the wet ground.
“I’m only thirty-two,” he said at last:
“I guess the chilly weather caused some harm.”
A shadow crossed his face, but soon it passed.
“I don’t mind this here rain...because it’s warm!”

Mick McKellar
June 2018

It’s a matter of perspective, I guess.

Mick

Dancing Lights

I lay abed and watched the lightning,
Slash the sky with silver fire.
Briefly blinded by instant bright'ning,
Darkness brushed my sight entire.
As power coursing through vaulted sky,
Briefly rent the velvet veil;
With all of my might, I strained to spy
Heaven's Gates, golden and pale.
Although human eyes may briefly see,
The glow of an angel's wing,
I'll not glimpse the Eternal City,
Nor watch the golden gate swing.
At least, not yet, though I scan the skies,
Transfixed on that lucent dome --
Seeking a glance at that lovely prize,
Until I can call it home.

Mick McKellar
June 2018

Why do I love to watch the lightning? Maybe I'm trying to see into Heaven...

Mick

Dark River

Shadows of branches reach through my window,
Dance on my ceiling, dark specters of death.
Headlights induce a monochrome rainbow,
Wraith-like contortionists capture my breath.
Silent, I sit on the dark river's edge,
Watching, whispering a child's magic spells.
Worrisome wonders and simple fears, dredge
Up apparitions from deep, arcane wells.
Oh, powerful cataract carry me!
Cradle me, wash away my dreadful dreams.
Both swift and gentle may your passage be,
From velvet night until morning light streams.
River of Dreams, though a grim, eerie sight,
You carry me through to each dawning bright.

Mick McKellar
June 2018

I wonder, do all children face the dark river of dreams every night?

Mick