Silent Curtain

It is March, and in the Keweenaw that usually means cold mornings, snow storms, and generally miserable weather. Here, March traditionally comes in like a lion, and then roars for the rest of the month. Yet, when I walked out on my deck tonight, I felt the gentle, and very wet touch of softly falling rain. No wind was howling and banging the shutters. No blasts of cold Canadian air arrived, laden with moisture from the ample supply of Lake Superior. No snowflakes were seeking every opening in my clothing, prying with icy fingers for a chance to send shivers throughout my frame.

It is not really warm out there. We still have far too much accumulated snow to chill whatever air moves over its icy surface. Yet, the rain feels like a promise of changes to come, a momentary awakening from the long winter sleep: Its cold and shadowy dream disturbed by unrefrigerated air and unfrozen tears from low brooding clouds.

I felt its touch and heard its promise. What a joy it would be, if there were only a little thunder...

Mick

Silent Curtain

A silent curtain of gentle spring rain
Descends, ghostly piercing the darkling night.
Its touch awakens my longing again,
For crisp early mornings, touched with spring light.
I dream of the ending of winter's grip
On life, hibernating in soundless hope;
To hear snow and ice banks that melt and slip,
Sliding toward summer's slippery slope --
And the shining caress of warm sunshine,
When bright tendrils softly caress the earth,
Bringing forth new green and the insects' whine,
That signals the up-coming summer's birth.
Though caught in winter's dream, I am certain
I feel the touch of that silent curtain.

Mick McKellar
March 2010

Legacy of Kindness

William Wordsworth once penned:
"That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love."

I feel that, although the facts of the acts may remain unremembered by those who received the kindness or by the benefactor, any act of unrequited kindness lives on, dancing endlessly in the night, adding to the warmth, the flickering illumination of the soul of the human race. When I see a small token, or note, or image that reminds me of any act of kindness done for me, even though I cannot remember who or what or where or when, a warm happiness steals over my soul. Perhaps a small smile will light my face, just for an instant, and the tiny life of that kindness flares forth to lift my spirit and light my path.

As humans, we are blessed with the capacity to recall past moments, viscerally reliving the feelings, joys, fears, and pains of the past. When put into words and shared, the flame splits, is rekindled, divided and yet grows brighter with the sharing. In this way, even the smallest act of kindness lives on, grows, and becomes a silent, living legacy.

Those "random acts of kindness" truly have a life of their own.

Mick


Legacy of Kindness

As night's dark blanket shelters one and all,
And little, nameless, unrequited acts
Are done for others, whether big or small,
These kindnesses survive beyond the facts.
Cold facts, that flicker quickly and disperse,
Swift disappearing softly in the night,
Dance incidental, fleeting, and diverse,
Then vanish, tracelessly from mortal sight.
And yet somehow, I sense that there remain,
Small kindled flames of life I cannot see,
That warmly, endlessly endure, and fain
Grant me this one consoling memory:
The kindly acts I do live after me,
A silent, unremembered legacy.

Mick McKellar
March 2010

Island of Tears

Island of Tears

My heart cries out for the island of tears,
Writhing in agony before my eyes:
Portrait in pain of my own deepest fears,
Opera noir dark with desperate cries.
My Earth left her children nowhere to hide,
As her once teaming ocean of life shoals,
When the angel of death spread dark wings wide,
And swiftly gathered a river of souls.
The vision of bodies draped in the streets,
The buildings collapsed and fallen apart,
Made the rhythm of my life skip a beat,
As the eyes of the children pierced my heart.
My dreams remain haunted, as nights flow by,
For I know, but for God's grace there go I.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Shadow Hunters

Developing an idea or creating a concept is often a game of gathering shadows in the light. True feelings and emotions are often too painful to view directly, so we must rely upon the shadows they cast. For these thoughts, these shadows are simple projections, outlines that we can grasp and meld with other shadows, creating vast, cool pools of shade in which we can reside...or hide.

Far too often, I will be playing with thoughts and concepts on the brilliantly illuminated field of a grand idea, only to have one or more of those shadows vaporize in the light, escaping into the long night of lost memories. I cannot relate how rigorous and stressful have been some of my journeys down dimly lit and dusty pathways in my mind — all in search of a stray shadow, a fleeting memory, a truant thought. The wretchedly frustrating search for a lost thought truly is a bane of young and old, and is, perhaps, the driving force behind my need to keep a journal.

Think back and consider how many such journeys you have made — in search of an errant idea or wandering word — a devious shadow which suddenly, unexpectedly, and inexplicably melted into the recesses of your mind. It is at times like these we all become shadow hunters...

Mick


Shadow Hunters

Our thoughts are shadows that our feelings cast,
Upon the silky surface of our days.
So, is it any wonder they don't last,
And they can fade away so many ways?
When swiftly they depart a conscious mind,
In "shifting smoke and empty mirrors" style,
They never leave a remnant we can find —
Except for deep frustration and denial.
Knowledge is the sum of captured shadows:
We catch them dancing on our mental walls,
Then store them where our tree of knowledge grows,
And where the ripe fruit of remembrance falls.
Our thoughts, once lost, are wretched to recall,
And make us shadow hunters, one and all!

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Choices

What would life be like without choices? Although I've heard so many friends and acquaintances lament the multitude of choices they must make each day, praying for some time to just drift, accepting what comes along without decisions, I have to wonder how long they could live with no choices, no decisions, and no responsibilities . It seems the hard part about making choices is not the act of choosing, but the knowledge that one accepts responsibility for the consequences of that choice. I remember the adolescent right of passage involving solving that most terrible inner dialog:

If I take A, then I cannot have B.
And yet, I am responsible to me,
So therefore, should I choose A over B?
But if I choose B, A is lost to me.
I don't want that responsibility;
And yet, I don't want you to choose for me!

Viktor Frankl once said: "I recommend that the Statue of Liberty be supplemented by a Statue of Responsibility on the west coast." He understood that freedom and responsibility are opposite sides of the same coin -- for one to exist without the other puts the universe out of balance, and drives parents absolutely crazy!

Mick

Choices

It seems the distant crossroads heckle me,
As soon as I but step outside my door;
Though decisions await, I cannot see,
Their siren summons beckons all the more.
As wave on wave, the silent calls invite
The wanderer who lurks within my shell,
The crossroads lie in wait with still delight,
Anticipating one they know so well.
They wait because they know I hear their voice:
The silent, whispered summons that they sent.
They wait for me, to come and make a choice,
To choose among the options they present.
For without choices, life is but a trail,
Which leads us through a long and narrow jail.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Losing Face

How sad it is that we so seldom, if ever celebrate noble failures. It seems the winner's circle is the only location where laurels are placed on the fair heads of leaders and heroes. Yet, the truth is that none of us is born speaking our mother tongue; none of us is born feeding ourselves; none of us is born ready to stride upon our own Earth. We learn even the most basic skills for communication and survival by trial and error. We mimic sounds until we connect them with meanings and talk. We get more food on our outsides than our insides until we discover how to eat. We wriggle, wobble, and fall until we perambulate on our own. We learn by failing and correcting our mistakes.

Somewhere along the journey from childhood, we lose the facility to lose and take it in stride as a learning experience. Winning becomes the only acceptable outcome, and making a mistake becomes a crime punishable by the self-destruction of our self-image and self-worth. Humility is lost in the arrogance of the winner and our total focus on the downside. Fear of losing face overrides any accomplishments, and the silver medal becomes a millstone about the neck, instead of recognition of one's achievement. No failure is truly a total loss if we learn from it, and practice the noble art of losing face.

Mick

Losing Face

For anyone as arrogant as me,
A failure was a cataclysmic fall —
An object lesson in humility,
A sad, heartbreaking, final curtain call.
That is, until the day I really failed,
And silently prepared to weep hot tears;
To grieve about my shining pride, impaled
Upon the lance of failure and of fears.
Twas then I learned a truth I can't deny:
Despite embarrassment, I still was me;
Despite chagrin and pain, I did not die.
I stumbled on a strange reality:
My greatest fear of all was losing face,
Until I learned to fail with humble grace.

Mick McKellar
January 2010

Guardian

As readers of my poems over the years are well aware, I believe in angels. I believe they whisper in our dreams and our musings, gently nudging us toward the path less traveled, for down the easy road lie shadows and troubles. Attuned to the sudden and awful needs of the human heart, our guardian angels watch and whisper and weep, as their gentle ministrations often have little or no effect against the power of our darkest emotions.

It comforts me to believe that guidance and might, though blocked from my sight, hover a mere heartbeat away, to hold me up on my darkest day. Some have brushed it off as wishful thinking, or simple stories told when I was a child. Rational minds and mysteries are not good neighbors, for upon each meeting battle must ensue. And yet, the mysteries persist, and it is within this grand persistence that my belief makes its home.

It is here that wonder and whispers relate the grim and joyless tales of guardians torn by the rending of human lives in the name of religion, ideology, or greed. I have pondered what depths of grief are possible for beings whose joy can soar beyond the stars...

Mick

Guardian

He soared freely over a snowy field,
His hair a living torch of golden thread;
Powerful, so even the sun must yield,
Yet, dimmed because upon his heart was dread --
An apprehension felt quick as a wink,
And from afar he'd sensed much was amiss,
For human souls were balanced on the brink,
The razor edge of the deepest abyss.
A man with sacrifice upon his mind,
Would end his life to steal more precious souls.
The guardian whispered words peaceful and kind,
But could not sway the martyr from his goals.
As bomber and his victims swiftly died,
The angel bowed his golden head and cried.

Mick McKellar
January 2010