40-Love, and it Went Over the Net

I was digging through my ancient files today, looking for an old program, and I happened across an even older e-mail I printed out in 1992. I had posted a quick poem for some friends about the new concept of electronic mail, and what might happen when love letters entered the Web fray. An on-line friend posted the poem to a discussion list and it was circulated as “A sorrowful ditty by one of our local e-poets.”

It does point out the dangers of communicating using the undependable resources of new Web server technology during its infancy. It also points out the dangers of romance on the cutting edge of technology. It’s a look back through 17-plus years of history to a time before browsers, when ASCII art was king, and I wrote nearly all my e-mail and documents on a dumb terminal linked to a university mainframe.

Mick

40-Love, and it Went Over the Net

I lost my one and only love,
When writing went on-line.
I simply mailed my love to her,
And she replied to mine.

Passion flamed on terminals,
And hearts were linked by wire.
Emotions, raw, were keyed, white-hot,
And set the Net on fire.

Alas, our correspondence died,
A victim of travail.
Although she thinks I cut her off,
Her server nuked my mail!

Mick McKellar
November 1992

Crimson Rage

Rage is defined as violent, explosive anger, with furious intensity, as of a storm or disease. Despite the fury inherent in the meaning of rage, we often use the word to describe acts of simple anger and unthinking cruelty. I dreamt about rage last night, about the terrible tempest inside us, when the crimson tide rises and our darkest urges are unleashed. What happens inside, and how do we ever regain control?

The images racing through my dreamscape startled me awake in the cool darkness of our bedroom and I lay awake, pondering the rampaging storm that filled my mind. Although I have never acted upon such an impulse, I have witnessed the aftermath of unfettered rage, and seen the dark storm in the eyes of another. And I wonder, what might it take to unleash the crimson tide within me? God grant I never discover it.

Mick



Crimson Rage

The torn sky weeps its blood upon the lands.
Blinded, fury pleads with wild raised hands.
Tears stream hot on flushed and bloody cheeks,
To gasp and groan, upon a tide that reeks
Of death and darkness — heaped upon a world
On which a wily serpent lies uncurled.

Wind dancers caper searching for redoubt,
Adrift on loathsome drafts the tide spills out,
Keen a sharp and bright demand for aid.
One by one their brief lives are unmade,
As swiftly comes a deadly, angry shark,
That breaks itself upon a looming ark.

Glowering, the serpent spies the craft,
Strikes to rend and break it fore to aft;
Yet eyes, unsleeping spy the darting worm,
And turn the ark to slide into the storm.
The serpent misses, falls into the tide,
And flounders as its target turns to hide.

Though crimson darkness seeks to hold its prey,
The wily serpent swiftly breaks away,
And satisfies its hunger for the ark,
By feasting on the still and broken shark.
It, slow and sated, crawls back on the world —
To sleep and wait, dark, silent, and uncurled.

The ark, careening through the crimson gale,
Screams as bones and tendons nearly fail.
Straining mightily, the craft at last breaks free,
Onto a calm and sunlit, silent sea.
There to rest and whisper once, "Amen."
Until the crimson rage erupts again.

Mick McKellar
April 2010

No Home in Success

Odd isn't it, that so many who contend with life's vicissitudes and challenges, somehow manage to be both depressed and arrogant? I was very recently reminded that defensive pride can lead to chagrin and that proverbial egg on the face feeling.

Perhaps it is merely a natural reaction to rejection and loss, that the inner eye loses perspective and one builds an overblown image of self. Perhaps the redoubt of arrogance is a natural defense, and like the body's histamine reaction defense against irritants and allergies, it is not only effective, but also nasty, painful, and messy.

Small successes should build confidence and self-image, yet unwarranted pride and arrogance simply have no place in that picture. Their home remains on the pages of one's journal, to cast their glimmer between the lines of one's memoirs.

Mick

No Home in Success

The wheel of life takes you for a spin,
Testing you in word and deed.
Challenges offer a chance to win,
Yet nothing is guaranteed.
Sometimes the brass ring is reachable,
Most times it's out of your reach:
Life's lessons become most teachable,
When life has something to teach.
Winning and learning are not the same,
Though many never see why
They can't always win at ev'ry game:
Viewed with a self-centered eye.
Arrogance born of adversity,
Is arrogance, nonetheless;
Despite travail and catastrophe,
Pride has no home in success.

Mick McKellar
April 2010

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