Tender Palates

Tender Palates

Though the tang of life often bites the tongue,
Surprising the unwary with its spice,
It gives pause to the palate of the young,
Persuades them to sample a smaller slice.
For the little ones teethe on tasty tales,
Saccharine stories and sweet fantasies,
That leave out the unsavory details,
Of their candy-coated calamities.
Vary their penchant for syrupy fare,
Giving bitter and salty with control.
If they taste all of life with tender care,
Maybe they won’t try to swallow it whole.
Fantasy’s flavor is a honeyed treat,
But experience savors bittersweet.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I believe there was some wisdom in the old fairy tales that often had scary villains and unpleasant consequences. It may have taught those of us lucky enough to hear and read them to be careful and exercise caution when taking a bite of life.

Mick

Parentology

Parentology

Children are our lives and our legacies,
Puzzles to be solved and to be treasured.
Loved for their marvelous intricacies:
Complexities too great to be measured.
Childhood can be terror in Tiny Town,
Rebellions rising from the slightest row;
Or afternoons spent with a goofy clown,
And all the giggles patience will allow.
Experts will tell you what you should expect,
And then sell you their insights by the book.
But, all their advice won't make you perfect,
Because most of it is gobbledygook.
It's best to ignore all of the above,
And just be there, with your arms full of love.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

It's best not to worry about keeping track of all the things you did wrong when raising your children. When they grow up, they will be able to give you a list.

Mick

In the Moment

In the Moment

I have a mission walking out my door,
Something important, maybe overdue.
Then, I'm looking back, where I was before...
I can't remember what I had to do!
I meet a neighbor standing in the street,
Remarking that our houses look the same.
I tell my wife how great it was to meet...
I can't remember our new neighbor's name!
I drive up to our big box shopping mall,
And stand outside, just staring through their door.
My wife and kids wait with me, one and all...
I can't remember what we're shopping for!
I feel much better sharing this, it's true,
And yet, I can't remember...Who are you?

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I was going to write something poetic and profound about this poem, but I can't remember what I was going to say...

Mick

Dream for All Seasons

Dream for All Seasons

I lazy lay in sunlit summer field,
Relaxed on sparkling bed of winter snow,
While camouflaged in autumn's vibrant yield,
Spring flowers made my pillow softly glow.
I reveled in the warm and peaceful light.
My spirit sang with voices in the air,
Sweet songs of soaring, of the joys of flight,
And freedom to take wing to anywhere.
I rose to stroll along a verdant stream,
Bright shining in the golden light of day,
While pondering: If I walked in a dream,
How I might find a way that I could stay.
I awoke, pillow soft beneath my head,
The morning sunlight shining on my bed.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Ever wake up from a wondrous dream, all tucked-in and warm, and try with all your might to just get back to that dream and stay there for a bit longer?

Mick

Slice of Night

Slice of Night

A slice of night fell hard into my dreams,
Its touch so cold, it froze my sleeping heart.
All heaven echoed with my silent screams,
As frigid darkness tore my dream apart.
Where once I walked in light beneath the sky,
With fragrant clouds of heather all about,
I now raced ‘cross the moors, a raven’s cry,
Near deafened by the icy-cold wind's shout.
Though sword of crimson ice was in my hand,
Held ready to defend or to attack,
I swiftly fell, and sprawled on frozen sand,
Lay completely defenseless on my back.
But, I will rise again, to stand and fight,
Until I overcome that slice of night.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Loss of friend or family always hits you like a slice of night. It is necessary to battle the darkness, to fight against that slice of night.

Mick

A Waste of Skin

A Waste of Skin

I fear to turn into a waste of skin,
A useless dependent of little worth;
That to justify the skin that I'm in,
I may need functional, urgent rebirth.
I’m told to be careful of close contact;
Each person I meet is a petri dish.
For whenever I try to interact,
I’m an accident with a risk fetish.
It’s so hard not to be a fatalist:
Somewhere, there’s a superbug knows my name.
If Twinkies and mildew can coexist,
Then why can’t microbes and I do the same?
Although being careful is not a sin,
Total solitude is a waste of skin.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Isolation has been an effective tool to keep me out of the hospital. I also keeps me effectively out of my life.

Mick

Portraits of Moving Streams

Portraits of Moving Streams

[Can you hear the symphonies in my words?]

The silent timbres of my voices swell,
As they harmonize with vast threads of thought:
Passage to passage, where ideas dwell,
Measure to measure, where insight is sought.
A thousand thousand legends and stories,
Long caroled by minstrels, mighty and kind,
Meander -- limitless inventories,
Throughout the vast dark of my sleeping mind.

[Can you taste the melodies in my verse?]

Whether right or wrong, the merely mortal,
Swims freely among the stars of the night.
The fleshly form finds a hidden portal,
And sings of wonders in Heaven’s warm light.
My mind, unfettered by Earth’s rigid rules,
Finds such adventures an awesome delight;
To dance in moonlight with wizards and fools,
And sing to the soul when my heart takes flight.

[Can you feel the harmonies in my dreams?]

I struggle to capture the beauty I see;
I strive to remember the music I hear;
I strain to bestow the gifts given me,
On all who seek understanding sincere.
The images rendered by swift insight,
The word songs and stories sung in my dreams,
Drive me to transcribe the verses I write,
As though painting portraits of moving streams.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

Writing a poem truly is painting a portrait of a moving stream. Reading poetry is very much like contemplating paintings in a gallery or museum. Each takes time and considerable effort. Perhaps that explains why so few enjoy poems in a world that demands so much already and allows so little time to contemplate, to consider, and to commune with author or artist.

Mick