Christmas Gift

On day 308 after my blood and marrow stem cell transplant, still alive and loving it, I wandered outside to shovel a bit of snow and breathe the cold, crisp air of Christmas morning. It's such a simple thing, shoveling and scooping snow. Although most would consider it a bother and near drudgery to pile on the winter weather gear, dry boots, and warm gloves to lift and push a few inches of snow out of the driveway, from the walk, and off the porch; I revelled in feeling my muscles move, watching my breath fog the frosty air, and hearing the strong, warm beat of my heart as I worked.

I received my Christmas gift when my eyes opened this morning. Each day is a gift for anyone who has come face-to-face with his own mortality. To know how precious is life and to understand how fragile is our grasp on this mortal coil, troubles and all, makes the present my precious present, and today my most precious Christmas present. Sharing it with my family and my friends was pure delight and wonderful memories worthy of many pleasant dreams.

Merry Christmas,

Mick

Christmas Gift

I stood outside and watched it snow this morn,
And shivered, just a little, in the cold;
On Christmas day, the day that Christ was born,
And pondered when (or if) I would grow old.
Despite the trials of the year gone past,
And more than sixty-one years gone before,
The days have raced by me so very fast,
I need a calendar, just to keep score.
I looked up at the Christmas morning sky,
And said a prayerful "Thank You" just to be
Alive, and with freezing tear in my eye,
Gazed at the silent snowscape around me.
My heart, ablaze with joy, in its own way,
Unwrapped my precious gift, this Christmas day!

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Christmas Dreams

In the year past:

I have suffered changes, both great and small. 
Yet the change that eclipses them one and all,
The one that disturbs me, profound and deep,
Is my tendency to drift off to sleep...



A peaceful doze in my easy chair, bathed in the gentle aura of Christmas lights, drifting off to timeless tones of traditional Christmas music is a wonderful way to enjoy the peace of Christmas...at least until the sugarplums dance in my head and I wake up hungry for Christmas cookies and hot cocoa (with tiny marshmallows). Memories of Christmases past warm my heart and fill my dreams. May your Christmas dreams keep you warm and happy all year!

Mick

Christmas Dreams

As he sat in front of his Christmas tree,
The tired old man drifted off to sleep.
Its twinkling lights were the last he would see,
Before his soft slumber, profound and deep,
Ferried his soul to a wonderful place,
Where memories of Christmas past abide;
Where blessed somnolence and yuletide grace,
Led his spirit to wondrous joy betide.
As the bright Christmases of years long past,
Dwelt once again in his sleeping embrace,
Brilliant images danced, cascading fast,
As a rushing wind tags a downhill race.
He slept on in peace, with only a trace
Of a timeless smile on his ageless face.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Poet, of Course

I've been writing poetry since 1962, when I wrote my first poem for my mother...at age 12. Since then, I have written more than 1,000 poems (some pretty good, some pretty awful), a great many papers, articles, and reports. I have made thousands of journal entries, since I started "journaling" about the same time I started writing poems. Yet, despite several efforts, a best effort at the great American novel has eluded me.

Recently, I was asked why I have not authored a book...a novel. I was asked why I write so much poetry, when poetry seems to be so little valued and widely ignored in this age of blockbuster books, blustering blogs, and ever-present e-books. It has not been for lack of trying. I think perhaps my recent journey into shadow and re-emergence into the light may provide the impetus I need to start such a project once again. But, will my Muse grow restive, and interfere?

Mick

Poet, of Course

My best plans are often interrupted,
By the sudden appearance of my Muse.
Many a good night's sleep is disrupted,
When my poem suppressor pops a fuse.
Though I reason with logic empiric,
There's a part of my mind that thinks in rhyme --
Whenever I hear a good song lyric,
I try to re-write it, every time.
I work very hard, and fight a good fight
Against my Muse, and try to defeat her;
Yet when descriptive prose I try to write,
I comes out iambic pentameter!
If I write a novel, go make your bets...
It will be written in rhyming couplets.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

Carol of the Stars

I went outside tonight, and it's 20 degrees, air clear as crystal and a velvet sky with millions of diamond bright stars and a moon so bright it dances on the snow. I went outside tonight, just to listen to the music of the stars, and to reach upward and touch the carol of the universe. Christmas is timeless in the northern climes, green and silver, gold and white, gray as shadow and brilliant bright. I went outside tonight, and I gazed to the East, secretly expecting to see a distant star, reaching across the years with the promise of joy and peace.

The piercing cold, the pearly snow, the precious touch of an icy breeze on a soft winter night made my heart sing and my soul soar to dance among the stars. Christmas is my favorite time of the year, especially when I feel the joy of the gift of life.

Mick

Carol of the Stars

Black velvet sky, with diamonds beyond price,
Soars soft above a field adrift with snow;
A masterwork of ebony and ice,
A-glimmer with a silver moonlit glow.
The tableau shifts before my wond'ring eyes,
As starlight sprinkles drifts with gems of light;
Clear crystal chimes cold-echo from the skies,
And pierce the subtle silence of the night.
Enchanting voices which caress the air,
And softly whisper Christmastime is nigh,
Swell suddenly to carol ev'rywhere:
Sweet voices of the stars fill all the sky.
The moonlight dims before the Eastern Star,
And love shines forth from long ago and far.

Mick McKellar
December 2011

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