Friends are a Blessing You Can Make

Loneliness is a decision you do not make.
The stairs go down and down,
Easier than up, because gravity...
And you are too tired to try.
And you are too tired to cry.
And no one sees your shoulders shake.

Pain is a memoir you do not make.
It writes in fire upon your soul,
With icy fingers steely sharp.
For you have no tears to shed.
For you have no scars of red.
For no one hears your silent quake.

Fear is a burden you do not make.
It spans your path with darkness deep,
Its shadow thick that claws and clings.
You feel alone -- no warmth to share.
You feel alone -- with none to care.
Does no one sense your silent wake?

Friends are a blessing you can make.
To dispel the crushing weight of fear,
To read your pain and share your path.
You're not alone -- if someone cares.
You're not alone -- if someone shares,
And hand-in-hand your journey takes.

Mick McKellar
October 2021

Loneliness can be a self-fulfilling curse. Often those with chronic illness can feel like an  invisible wanderer, feeling not only pain and fear, but shame. It can be difficult to share.

Mick

Amazing Dreams: Angel’s Breath

Listen to the distant song
Of twinkling stars above.
Open up your aching heart
To whispered songs of love.
Brush the velvet folds of night,
Softly, with your mind.
Feel the hushed, the tender touch,
Of angel’s breath you find.

Distant, roofless halls of stars,
So vast, and burning bright;
Beckon you, your lonely soul,
To gather in their light.
But life demands you walk your road,
With those you love, and more.
Time enough to visit stars,
When life’s short path is o’er.

Mick McKellar
October 2021

I love it when my dream path wanders among the distant stars.

Mick

Amazing Dreams: The Lost Soul's Price

The wind on the road in the lonely dark,
Sang a tune softly with warnings so stark,
I dared not ignore their timely advice;
Though I had no desire to disembark,
From my darkling path of the lost soul's price.

In grief, I embarked on this austere quest,
With only one other, my silent guest,
Whose attempt to befriend a misanthrope,
Who eschewed both companionship and rest,
Depleted his store of friendship and hope.

Alone now, astride an ancient draft horse,
Who alone seemed able to set a course,
We wandered forlorn in the dreary mist;
Pain in a saddle, a bag of remorse,
Cracked visage broken, and face Faery-kissed.

Sudden as thunder came warm, soothing light.
Gone were the shadows, the gloom, and the night;
Gone was the burden my old shoulders bore.
A kindly young man appeared on my right,
"Come down!" He commanded with great ardor.

"Why so dismal, my child, what troubles you?"
He asked. (His eyes said he already knew.)
"I caused a death, and I must pay the price!
Pay the lost soul's price is all I can do!"
My words were bitter as frozen blood ice.

His laughter was warm, with comfort and love,
"His soul is with God, in Heaven above!"
He shone like sunshine on newly formed ice.
"You were not at fault!" Said a wondrous dove,
"And He paid for every lost soul's price!"

Mick McKellar
September 2021

My dreams can sometimes wake me up.

Mick
 

Amazing Dreams: The Old Man on the Hill

I stood on a hill overlooking the world,
And the world looked up at me,
In my raggedy jeans,
In my t-shirt covered with my dog's fur,
In my sagging socks,
In my wispy hair fluttering faintly,
In the sun.
And in my crusty, crackling whisper I said,
"I can not cry for you!"
For I had no tears to shed for them.

And they laughed...

Their bloated, bleary and bulging faces,
Shining with a ghoulish light of hilarity,
Bathed in self-indulgence,
Born in unfocused hunger,
Bred in fear and hate,
Glared in focused rictus --
Uttering a hideous growl of mirthless laughter
At the old man on the hill,
Who had no tears for them.

And they blamed...

Eight billion minds burned a hole in my chest.
Eight billion hearts poured their grief in my soul.
Eight billion voices cried my name in their rage.
And I threw my arms wide,
So none could miss.

My hand brushed the moon as I reached for stars;
My arms gathered light from ages past,
And wisdom from those who walked there.
My heart hummed with joy,
As I comforted all,
And I found the tears,
To shed for all humankind.

Mick McKellar
September 2021

Amazing what one can do in one's dreams.

Mick

Amazing Dreams: Fantasies of an Old Man

I stand on the brink of a waterfall.
My wings gleam white in the dawn’s golden light,
Showering sweetly on faces of all
Who gasp at the sudden death of the night.
Many who hide in the valley below,
Shield tender ears and avert fearful eyes --
Gravity lashes water to bellow
And to roar as the falling river cries.
None hear my aging voice cast on the air;
Comforting words never reach tender ears.
I pierce the abyss on wings white and fair;
The joy of my flight distracts from their fears.
Their cheers and hurrahs support my grand flight.
Their bright shining faces dispel the night.

Mick McKellar
September 2021

When folks are so afraid they cannot hear and cannot see, joy may break through to dispel the shadows and bring the light.

Mick

Canopy

All alone one day, in our big backyard,
I closed both my eyes with a great soft sigh,
Then I stood stock still without breathing hard,
And raised both my arms to the sunny sky.
I squared my shoulders and I locked my knees,
Standing straight and tall in the morning's glow,
I heard singing birds and felt a soft breeze,
Then I let my imagination grow...

Hungry roots plunged deep into rich brown earth.
I had thousands of leaves instead of hair.
My canopy of consciousness, gave birth
To awareness of trees everywhere.
I felt the Earth spinning beneath my feet.
I felt agony from forests ablaze.
I cried at the sacrifice and defeat,
Of each woods and forest we humans raze!
I shared in their green communion a while;
I felt the depth of their long, slow regard.
Then quick -- with a teary eye and a smile,
I stood all alone in my big backyard.

Mick McKellar
August 2021

Although this journey might be a fiction, there remains a possibility it is not.

Mick

Old Words, New Friends

His voice crackles from its frayed edges,
And from the surge of his sputtering dynamo --
Pushing and pleading, cajoling
Old and familiar words to carry more:
To hang longer in the dusty air,
To sizzle and pop and dance
With the urges and sins of youth --
Almost forgotten, except in dusty dreams.

Savory words, gone salty and rich
With harmonies of hue and hazy shadow,
Beckon your child mind to drift and dream,
Plunge, ever-so-slowly,
Through a honey-rich patina, polished
By ageless passage and care;
To find the youthful spirits and ageless wonders
Who linger there.

Mick McKellar
June 2021

Why do old men write poems? One question. One million answers.

Mick