Working in Winter

Limed and frosty, his beard breaks the iced air.
Hollow and cranky, his voice steams and booms.
The knife edge of sunshine that slices fair,
Razors the shadows in dark, frosty rooms.
Early mornings are hard in the Winter,
Even when sun-dogs cavort in the sky.
Probing and sharp, each draft is a hinter
Of the chill companions that outside lie.
Sunbrowned from hours spent in the white glare,
Covered in layers, to keep life inside
Far from the gelid atmosphere's air;
Granting a body's warmth someplace to hide.
Such are the protocols and daily chores,
Of one who spends long days working outdoors.

Mick McKellar
December 2020

I have vague memories of working on projects that involved spending entire days out in the glare of sun on snow and cold creeping in every gap in my clothing.  

Mick

An Old Man’s Carol

An old man lay awake in his warm bed,
And wondered why it was he wasn't dead;
Pond’ring many a possibility,
To justify his own longevity.
As long awake and struggling, he lay there,
A passing Christmas angel heard his prayer.
"Dear God, I feel so useless!" was his thought,
He feared he'd lived much longer than he ought.
"My life is backwards from what it should be;
I'm always sick, can't help my family:
My loved ones, my responsibility.
Instead they have to help take care of me!"

The angel heard his heartfelt lonely prayer,
A carol on the crystal morning air;
And swiftly flew to aid a soul distressed,
Console a spirit hurting and depressed.
He hovered till the old man’s eyes had closed,
Until his breathing slowed, he softly dozed.
Then soft as baby’s breath, a bright sunbeam,
He stood revealed inside the old man’s dream.
“Hail, ancient one!” he cried, and then he laughed.
His merriment, ice crystals on a draft
That washed a spirit free of regret’s stain,
And made one feel alive and loved again.
The old man felt like he was but a boy,
Awash with love and peace and Christmas joy.

The old man’s eyes shone bright with happy tears,
His soul felt buoyant, free of leaden years.
His brown eyes locked with angel silver blue,
And instantly, with certainty, he knew
That long ago a baby came to Earth,
That God’s Son was the infant in that birth,
That stories of a heavenly home were true,
And he would go there when his life was through.
Until that time, he had one simple chore:
Return his loved ones’ love with even more.
The angel kissed his brow and flew away.
The old man woke and smiled -- Twas Christmas Day!

Mick McKellar
December 2020

My friend, the Christmas angel, is back and helping old codgers like yours truly to remember the meaning of Christmas and to find the joy of this happy season.

Mick 

Propugnaculum of Gratitude

Lo! I navigate a roiling morass
Daily, the bite and burn of hatred rage,
Ever and always o’er all the compass.
My log wastes acid from every page.
I steer by stars seen but seldom nightly,
Often dimmed and obscured by fog of lies.
Yet, near the horizon, burning brightly,
Stabs silver, a dagger piercing my eyes.
I tack, close-hauled before a wind unkind.
I come about and pierce the veiling mist,
Past jagged shoals, the harbor mouth I find,
And sail to peace, by love and sunshine kissed.
Safe harbor built by change in attitude:
My propagnaculum of gratitude.

Mick McKellar
November 2020

Sailing on social media can be hard on one’s hull. The acid in those waters leaves scars that last a very long time. An attitude of gratitude can salve and save the ship.

Mick

Grey Destinations

In the earliest grey light hour,
Before I am fully awake,
My imagination has power,
My soul on a journey to take.
My heart, not a captive companion,
But willing compatriot muse,
A powerful friend with compassion,
True compass, I willingly use
To navigate grey destinations,
Soft shadows and whispering lights,
Where silently wait desperations,
That haunt my loneliest nights.

We wander among recollections,
And worries about what's to be,
Following innate directions,
From wisdom and empathy.
As dimly, grey light shadows breaking,
Awareness brings clarity bright,
Light shatters shadows with waking,
And gone are the ghosts of the night.

Mick McKellar
October 2020

Not quite awake, but not asleep -- you know the twilight land, filled with grey destinations and ghostly mists. This is the place we walk in another's shoes and ponder the wisdom of "what ifs."

Mick

Artem Publica

Clouds chase the Sun.
Racing on windful wings,
Scudding the sky,
Blocking the warm arms of the Sun.
Casting cool shadows against my eyes.
Welcome in Summer.
Annoying in Winter.

Clouds chase the Sun.
Taxing the golden rays,
Harvesting a bounteous revenue,
Storing liquid assets.
Drawing deeply from the Earthly well,
Basking in heavenly waves of light.
Saving for self.
Saving for all.

Clouds chase the Sun.
Reaching to touch the source,
Seeking the cold edge of space,
Caressing both soil and sea.
Flashing and booming when sated and grown,
Feeding both soil and sea with their own.
From all in bounty.
To all in need.

Mick McKellar
October 2020

Is governance a natural phenomenon? Should it have the grandeur and innate art of the clouds, our sculptures of the sky? Does it bring balance and beauty and wonder and majesty? Is it merely out of balance when it becomes a gateway to greed? Tough questions.

Mick

I Want Only to Understand

Today, God, I want only to understand.
My inner tears fly silently,
Cat's paws on old shag carpets.
The ache and heat they carry,
Hovers just behind my eyes,
But the well is dry and the flood won't come.

Dissonant waves lap upon my shoreline.
Voices ancient and green as Spring,
Crash and thunder, wail and wonder,
Distant as the horizon and beneath my feet.
Storm...storm and crushing cascades
Of anger tear the sky.

Today, God, I want only to understand!
Your gifted world dances a dance
Of darkness, spits words of ancient iron,
Blades of bitterness and spite,
To shred the wondrous land,
To poison the virtuous sea.
I feel alone and abandoned.

Mick McKellar
October 2020

Sometimes, I don't pray for change but for understanding.

Mick

Bargains With God

“Americans don’t know how to dicker.”
Said every movie I ever saw.
We just pay full price because it’s quicker;
We never bargain, a grifter’s catspaw.
When someone is sick, or injured, or lost,
Be it me or you, family or friend,
We pray for a deal, no matter the cost,
Negotiating how crises will end.
Promesas are made, hallowed vows are sworn,
Well-intentioned pledges are on the board.
Many heartfelt sacrifices are borne
On the wings of prayer, set before the Lord.
Though generous offers are sent above,
God doesn’t bargain, His answer is love.

Mick McKellar
October 2020

With the pandemic ongoing, even worsening, frantic prayers offering heartfelt bargains must rise to the heavens constantly. I believe the Lord always answers prayers, though the answer may not be as we desire.

Mick