Walking in the Rain

I grew up in an era when boys did not cry...at least not when other boys could see...and began learning about pain at eighteen months of age. My feet and hands were severely burned by boiling water from a vaporizer, and there was doubt whether I would learn to walk because of the pain. I learned to walk and to control and suppress the pain, but in the process lost my childhood.

My Mom, my Dad, and me...
before my injury

My mother told me that, where other children might be serious, I was grim. I seldom smiled and almost never played with other kids. I grew to be the protector for my siblings, because I did not fear pain. Aloof and silent, I read and watched and waited, wading in when needed and remaining alone...except for a very few friends, most of whom were adults.

My mom often joked that I was born an old man, but we both knew why I liked to walk in the rain...

Mick

Walking in the Rain

At a young age I learned: don't sob and wail
When I hurt, and I would feel heroic.
That to let on that I hurt was to fail,
Seek sympathy where I should be stoic.
I sought to prove to myself I was tough,
And met distress with a grin and a song,
For no torment would ever be enough,
To make me admit anything was wrong.
I wanted always to smile through the pain,
Even though it felt I might be dying;
So l often went walking in the rain,
Because no one could see I was crying.
I'd lost myself in a forest of fears,
And sailed on an ocean of unshed tears.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

River of Time

Reading through some of my old messages, I stumbled over a memory of how I was moved by Jim Croce's song, Time in a Bottle. Jim and Ingrid Croce performed on the college concert circuit, where I sat one evening, coffee cup in hand, transfixed by his story songs. His 1972 song about trying to save time has resonated across the years and gained special meaning for me when I was diagnosed with leukemia.  I love the line: "I'd save every day like a treasure..." His lyrical fantasy still haunts my dreams.

Anyone who has come face-to-face with his own mortality will tell you how precious becomes each second, of each minute, of each hour, of each day. For me, time is a river system, cataracts that propel me always forward in a current too swift to swim against. I have always been part of the river and cannot set foot upon its banks. The best I can hope for is to tread water or float along with companions in the stream until, at last, I drift into my own estuary, and alone...meet the sundering sea of eternity.

Mick

River of Time

On countless cataracts it carries me.
Full rudderless, I float on currents swift,
A helpless spirit compelled to the sea,
My passage, an ancient, enduring gift.
A lifetime I must tread its mighty flow;
I cannot climb ashore...it moves too fast.
What lies ahead I simply do not know,
And all behind quickly becomes my past.
There's little I can do, but daily strive
To rise, and to ride the wild churning foam;
To boldly endure until I arrive,
At my destination, my timeless home.
The river takes us all, without our thanks,
And God alone may stride upon its banks

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hole in the Bucket

I sing silent songs and saturate the subtle silences haunting the untrod halls of my cerebral redoubt with music unplayed and lyrics unvoiced. My eyeballs vibrate to the flash and thunder of silent symphonies...music that echoes across the vast expanse of my imagination to the delight and wonder of my soul, but can never be heard by another except in the ebb and flow of my poetry. I lack the spark, the talent, the bridge to bring that music outside and share it as melody, harmony, tone, and chord...as music.

In my own mind, I sing the poems I write. I feel their innate harmonies and the rhythms that drive them forward. My inner voice weeps and laughs and cries for joy. It soars to incredible heights and plunges into the darkest abyss. But, it all remains inside, for my true physical voice seems disconnected from the wonders within. My poems must sing for themselves, because I cannot carry the tune from within to without...there's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Poems are music for the mind.

Mick

Hole in the Bucket

I sing within the shadows of my mind,
Where no one else can hear the airs I sing,
And thunder forth whatever I can find...
In total silence...let the rafters ring!
My voice: Basso Profundo in my head,
Could shatter the foundations of a house.
Unlike my true voice, which many have said,
Reminds them, oh so much, of Mickey Mouse.
My sense of rhythm follows no known clock,
My sharps slide high, my flats, beneath the sea.
The glory of my voice, I would unlock,
Unfortunately, I can't find a key.
I can't carry a tune by chance or choice...
There's a hole in the bucket of my voice.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Hidden Empires

Folks ask from where I get all the stories and strange ideas in my poems and essays. Is there some Big Book of Aberrant Anecdotes, Flaky Fables, and Mystifying Myths I reference regularly? Do I have a secret source secreted away on the infamous Internet? Are there piles of copious notes and curious narratives hoarded about my home? Sorry, but search all you will, my sources will not appear...because they reside solely in my mind.

I travel about the empires of experience and imagination of my inner world. I ramble about in the ramshackle attic of my mind. Here I find my ideas, and here I store my records. The human mind and imagination are too vast, too multi-dimensional to be cataloged on paper or deposited in a data base. When I write, I welcome you to my world, telling its tales and relating its beautiful memoirs. These are my hidden empires...

Mick

Hidden Empires

You will not find them under my pillow,
Nor in my briefcase or under my bed.
You can follow me anywhere I go;
Any search will lead to ends that are dead.
The trappings of my life seem so normal,
One can stumble on the everyday.
My lifestyle is so simply informal,
Even boredom tries to leave in dismay.
So, where do I closet all the stories,
The adventures and tall tales that I write;
The depths of despair and all the glories,
The long journeys from darkness into light?
I retrieve all the memoirs I can find,
From empires hidden deep within my mind.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

Shine a Light

January is named for the Roman god Janus, a two-faced god who looks to both future and past. New Years Eve, I dreamt I sat up, shivering in the silent darkness of my bed, in the wee hours of January 1, 2012, and saw a vision of myself perched on the ancient marble head of Janus...unsure which way to look...fearful of the regrets of the past and the uncertainties of the future. I was terrified that by trying to look both ways, I would overbalance, slip, and plunge into the misty shadows at the foot of the timeworn stone deity.

I woke shaken from the dream and said a prayer for peace of mind to focus on living in the present -- for one cannot live in the unchangeable past, nor in the uncertain future. As I prayed, the moon peeked past the clouds and momentarily touched my window. I felt my petition had been answered.

Happy New Year!

Mick

Shine a Light

I was lurking in the shadows, alone
And frightened, at the rolling of the year.
My heart felt heavy, brittle, hard as stone,
My muscles locked with overwhelming fear.
In silent darkness, perched upon my bed,
The new year drenched my mind with cold dismay.
As voiceless trepidation filled my head,
Trembling and soundless...I began to pray.
I asked for peace, for mercy, and for light,
And through my window, slashed a silver ray
Of brilliantly-shining argent moonlight,
That flared just once and chased my fears away.
And so, without a whisper or a word,
I knew my passionate prayer had been heard.

Mick McKellar
January 2012

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