A Face in the Crowd

I have not been writing much lately. Considering how much joy it gives me to put my virtual quill to electronic paper, I had to search for a reason. In that search, I discovered to my chagrin, that I may well have been hiding from the blunt and solid reality of living with my infirmity, my inability to make the final leap from terminally ill to terribly uncertain. Sometimes, I feel like the ancient oak: stolid and solid on the outside, yet silently rotting within. Little wonder, I guess, that I would seek to hide in plain sight, and become just A Face in the Crowd.


Mick




A Face in the Crowd


I've been hiding again,
Lost in the silent sight
Of those who know me.
I dwell as little more than a wraith,
Haunting the anonymous fog,
Creeping in from the shore-less sea --
Boundless waves of humanity,
Surging about all that is me,
Afloat, adrift in Eternity.


The soft caress of the mist,
Warms my cheek as though kissed,
Enfolds my weary shoulders,
In word-less, whispering embrace.
Dreaming, I see the sun pass --
From blazing dawn to blush at dusk,
While faces, distant and familiar,
Drift past in the golden haze:
Reaching, searching, yet not touching,
Never touching...


My memory holds close the rough,
The rocky reassurance of Earth,
Beneath my seeking feet, now numb
From treading on shadows and pain.
Mourning, I regret my flight,
From the edge of sorrow and fear,
To hide, a shade in penumbra near
The dark, and reside, a vestige,
An echo in search of a refuge.
And though I shout, both strident and loud,
I remain a mere sylph, a face in the crowd.


Mick McKellar
October 2011

Adjusting Sails

I was recently reminded of a quote from William Arthur Ward, who said: "The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails." I began wondering if my ongoing medical problems and the concomitant paranoia about germs, injury, and infections were driving me toward becoming that classical pessimist who simply curses the wind because he cannot change it.

I would like to think that, as seas become rough and my life-boat is tossed upon the foam, I will have the stamina and confidence to scale the mast and adjust the sails -- always keeping within sight of a lighthouse light and the safety of a home harbor.

Mick

Adjusting Sails

When wind shifts blow my little boat off stream,
And seas begin to toss me side-to-side,
I search horizons for a lighthouse gleam,
For there's nowhere on this ocean to hide.
The temper of the sea defines my path,
Swift changeable as clouds that sail the sky,
Unforgiving and fluid in its wrath,
And heeding neither need nor sailor's cry.
As long the westering sun seeks its bed,
Cleaving gray shadows with its brilliant rays,
I'll ride the tide, and bathed in blazing red,
Seek out the silent solace of home quays.
Then, when the last gleam of the sunset pales,
You'll find me on the spar, adjusting sails.

Mick McKellar
August 2011

Wasp on the Ceiling

I guess it cannot be helped. Despite my best efforts, there are still dark hours and even dark days, when the weight of challenges simply overwhelms me, and despair finds a crack in the walls of my redoubt, flowing in and forcing hope to tread its black waters. Change always seems to bring at least one black bag among the luggage. Most of the time, I can simply put the black bag aside until I am ready to dispose of its contents. Occasionally, however, the contents spill across an hour or a day and darken everything for awhile.

I do not welcome these times, both for the pain they bring and the effort expended to illuminate the dark and drive the shadows from my life. Like discovering a wasp on the ceiling, I  cannot simply ignore the little beastie because it may decide to hurt me, and the longer I leave it alone, the more likely it is to attack. I simply have to step aside and deal with it.  


Mick 


Wasp on the Ceiling 

My thoughts pour black, as bitter as coffee,
To fill my derelict, bottomless cup.
Passions gone cold flow as slow as toffee,
When old, dissipated, and all used up.
My face, gone gray as late autumn morning,
Startles my mirror, and shatters my eyes;
Those shadowed orbs, which offer no warning
Or guidance to where inner darkness lies.
An empty vessel at an empty quay,
Silently, swiftly, after midnight moored,
When facing an equally empty day,
Rides high at anchor, it's cargo outpoured.
I find this terrible, hopeless feeling,
As welcome as a wasp on the ceiling...

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Etiolated

It does chafe the soul, hiding from the sun in an area that is not known for a lot of sunny days. I was never a sun worshiper, lying for hours in direct rays to tan my hide. Born with the "Celtic curse" of fair skin and a penchant for burning and peeling instead of turning brown, I have always taken some precautions. Yet I spent many a happy afternoon hiking, swimming, or just walking about on our rare and wonderful, sunny days.

Now, because of my skin's delicate condition and the effects sunlight has on my medications, I must avoid exposure to direct sunlight, whether natural or artificial. Because I used to have house plants, I know that most living things need some light to survive and stay healthy. People housed away from the sun develop a palor and even vitamin deficiencies. Will I turn pale and colorless away from the old haymaker? We shall see...

Mick


Etiolated

I've been told I must stay out of the sun;
A medicated mushroom in the dark.
The restriction makes sense, but it's not fun
To hide inside -- a Jubjub-hunted Snark.
I'll watch TV or a video disk,
And bathe in LCD/CRT light,
Or avoid the illumination risk,
By venturing outside only at night.
I wonder, will I simply disappear?
Will I vanish, once I've become too pale?
I could hide here, in perpetual fear,
A prisoner inside a light-less jail,
Or wear sunscreen as thick as molasses,
A broad-brimmed hat, a mask, and sunglasses.


Mick McKellar
June 2011

Gray Majesty

Sunset at Eagle River, MI

Nothing built by man will last forever. I have heard that phrase and with the possible exception of the Twinky, I agree. We are temporary residents in and on our world. In the long view, most of what we have built has been completed in a tiny fraction of the time our world has existed, and much of what we have built has become ruins, either by our own actions or the great relentless recycler: time. Yet, we expend extreme amounts of resources to build monuments to ourselves and our ideals.

The ruins of some of our strongest ancient redoubts, castles and towers built of huge blocks of stone, are now tourist attractions. Pyramids and temples slowly erode and will eventually become one with the soil on which they stand. Yet, compared to the span of our lives, they seem almost timeless and permanent. As living humans, we are ephemeral creations of the living God, our candles briefly burning to hold back the night. Little wonder we seek immortality in metal and stone. Once our soul has moved on, the ruins of our lives may endure a little longer, mute testimony to our ideas and ideals, pride and prejudices, values and vanity -- standing against the ravages of time with gray majesty.

Mick



Gray Majesty


Silent it stands at the edge of the sea,
Poised on a jut just above a sea cliff.
Once a great tower, providing a lee,
For sentries whose bones in the wind grew stiff.
Built from the limestone, the bones of that land,
Stoic, it stood there for two centuries.
Though weathered it endured and looking grand,
Survived until war brought it to its knees.
Explosives and bombs weakened its great wall,
And beaten by wartime technology,
Its wondrous battlements began to fall,
Collapsing inward almost silently.
Though time takes a toll so relentlessly,
The ruins stand firm with gray majesty.


Mick McKellar
June 2011

Epic Dream

Did you ever dream an epic dream? You know, the stories where you and others are in mortal danger, and through long odds and even longer dark and deadly chases, you emerge victorious. I am a fan of fantasy and science fiction stories, so my epic dreams can range from space opera to mythic fantasy stories.

One such dream involves the defeat of dark and shadowy hounds by the application of secret knowledge and the power of light. The story is a complete fantasy, powered by the Ambien I took while being treated with high dose steroids. For some reason, Ambien dreams are in technicolor and surround sound. I hope you enjoy my epic fantasy, my epic dream...

Mick


Epic Dream

Soft forest bracken brushed me as I ran.
Twigs snapped, and leaves were crushed beneath my feet.
My heart was pounding, quick as my heart can,
As on I labored, neither fast nor fleet.
Dark and brooding shadows closely followed;
The swift and deadly darts of fear they cast,
Left their victims empty-eyed and hollowed.
So many fallen, now I was the last,
To face the hounds, and their evil battle,
With every fibre of my being;
And avenge the others, led like cattle,
To their deaths, unfeeling and unseeing.

Scraping, clawing, quickly up I scrabbled,
Now desperate to top the nearest tor.
Gathered there, the other's spirits babbled,
Clamoring for revenge and so much more.
As I breached the rim, I turned to measure,
The number of the hounds confronting me,
And determing if my precious treasure,
Could capture or destroy my enemy.
Silently, their darkness flowed toward me,
Dividing to surround my high redoubt;
Soon I'd be an island in a black sea,
Dark seething at the shore with no way out.

I put aside the fear, calmed my spirit,
And touched my inner core, where lies my strength.
Power surged so loud the hounds could hear it,
And paused their advance, watching me at length.
Down my spirit reached to touch the Earth's core,
And up my mind embraced the wan starlight.
I opened up my heart just a bit more,
Inviting other's spirits to the fight.
As a lens I focused all this power,
And flooding all below with brightest light, 
Watched the shadows vanish, the hounds cower,
And flee the battleground without a fight.

Silently the other's spirits left me,
And leaving only gratitude and peace.
One might think I'd lonely and bereft be,
And lost, when I felt all that power cease.
There upon the tor I stood and shivered,
And listened for the normal forest sounds,
Please about the judgement I delivered,
Without destroying any of the hounds.
Knowledge is the treasure that I carry,
So deep within the inner core of me,
Using it for good and also chary,
To cherish it and use it sparingly.

Contented that I would not end up dead,
I shifted and turned over in my bed...

Mick McKellar
June 2011

Green Dream

This poem is based on a recurring dream, wherein I become one with the forest and listen to their long slow song about life, death, and rebirth in the wonder of spring. I have dreamed of becoming a tree and reaching from the cool depths of forest soil to the majesty of the grand forest canopy. To live so long that seasons are like days and to remember when the world was young.


If the trees sing to each other of the memories of days past, they must feel sadness at the way they've been used and abused. The toxins in the air and water, the acid rains, the burning of less-filtered sunlight, and the loss of vast forests worldwide could destroy their spirit and silence even the whispers. Whispers I swear I still hear when I walk through a forest glade where ancient first growth trees still survive. Maybe it just my over-active imagination, but I want to believe that any life so long lived must be aware.


Mick


Green Dream


I dreamed I woke in a cathedral green,
And walked alone amidst the giant trees.
Whispers touched my ears from voices unseen;
The weight of their watching weakened my knees,
And I felt them considering my worth.


Sunlight, filtered to a yellow-green haze,
Flickered and danced on the soft forest floor.
Entranced, I stood for what may have been days,
But, was certainly an hour or more;
The most complete peace I've felt since my birth.


Suddenly, a great silence descended,
And the only sound was my beating heart.
The air was still and the whispers ended;
I felt my physical self come apart,
As I welcomed a joining with the earth.


My arms and my fingers stretched towards the sun;
My feet and toes reached down, into the soil;
My legs were now fused together as one,
And I felt all my hair stretch and uncoil,
As I reveled, I sensed a wave of mirth.


The laughter of trees, a sound to behold,
From voices so deep and cavernous fair,
Became a song both incredibly old,
And reverberated everywhere.
It felt as though it encircled the Earth.


It sang of memories of clean fresh air.
Of drinking deep waters both cold and pure.
Sunlight caressing its canopy fair,
Of winter and summer a cycle sure,
And adding new rings to increase its girth.


Then I felt the giants focus on me.
The shadow of their despair had grown strong;
Their voices grew sad and melancholy,
And then the song faltered, something was wrong --
For of all these things there was now a dearth.


Their ghostly images flooded my mind,
And sadness over vast forests now gone.
In my dream, I was again humankind,
But my heart was as heavy as a stone,
Despite my green communion and re-birth.


In the still quiet morning, shadows long,
I still walk though the forest damps and dews,
And I listen for the sad forest song;
Always wishing that I had better news,
To justify their judgement of my worth.


Mick McKellar
June 2011