Driving Lessons

Driving Lessons

Riding a bike with a bag on your head,
Driving backward with your head in a pail,
Jogging when covered by an old bedspread,
Downhill skiing with a dark canvas veil,
Playing baseball with a sack for a hat,
Running down the stairs with a kale blindfold,
Sprinting with your eyes smeared with bacon fat,
Skating with your head wrapped in scarves of gold,
Water skiing with a mask painted black,
Mowing the yard with your head in a box,
Diving with your head in an old backpack,
Climbing with your eyes wrapped with stinky socks;
You’d never try these things—to stay alive,
And yet, you text on your phone when you drive?

Mick McKellar
March 2015

Maybe common sense isn’t so common after all…

Mick

The Fury of My Dreams

The Fury of My Dreams

When Northern winds hurl epithets of snow,
Against the fragile ramparts of our walls;
And raucous howling with nowhere to go,
Makes lullabies of frozen banshee calls;
When the cold and brittle power of ice,
And the frigid, frozen arms of the storm,
Sweep away wishes, erased in a trice,
Of feats of daring I'll never perform;
The power of wonder with all its might,
Rises to challenge the grim sounds I hear,
Push back the ebony terror of night,
And illuminate the darkness I fear.
Though perilous power's in midnight screams,
It's no match for the fury of my dreams!

Mick McKellar
March 2015

The mysterious moans and screams of growling and howling winter storms can terrify the calmest mind during the murky depths of black frozen nights. Furious dreams must light the way.

Mick

Shouting Down the Well

Shouting Down the Well

I know it’s my voice, I heard it reflect,
In hollow echoes which cause me to smile.
It's a talent that I want to perfect,
So my thoughts might linger a little while.
Though the resonance makes my voice sound deep,
With overtones both sublime and mellow;
I never hear anything new, to keep
To myself, from that talkative fellow!
I talk to myself, and that may seem strange,
My solo, one-sided conversation;
But, I've never heard a reason to change,
Nor have entertained a reservation.
Though few remember the stories I tell,
I like how I sound, shouting down the well.

Mick McKellar
March 2015

Posting personal poetry online can feel like shouting down a well. I may like how it sounds, but mostly I'm merely talking to myself—sometimes loudly enough for others to hear.

Mick

Veneer

Veneer

Although the polished fire of valor gleams,
On my shiny patina of courage,
Its brilliant glow revealed in fondest dreams,
Shines forth solely to decry my dotage.
When my steps grow infinitesimal,
On a way so narrow, a path so steep,
And daybreak makes somber shadows dismal,
I master my fears—always in my sleep.
The august visage of my fearless face,
Reflects the deluge of love and respect,
Given my spirit from everyplace,
By those whose fierce impulse is to protect.
They will never see my heart full of fear,
For my courage is a flawless veneer.

Mick McKellar
March 2015

Never explain that the clicking sound is really your bones—shaking in fear…

Mick

Old Bags

Old Bags

I don't want to be an old bag of sand,
Shapeless and heavy and a little damp;
Much too soft to independently stand,
And I’d sag—a marshmallow with a cramp.
I don’t want to be an old bag of bones,
Skinny and skeletal, crusty, sharp sticks
Stuffing a tote full of pointy unknowns:
A sad sack of toys that no one can fix.
I don’t want to be an old bag of tricks,
Gambols and gags in a package of plots,
With exploding cigars and rubber bricks,
Selected by charlatans casting lots.
I dodged these destinies, but I’m chagrined,
I turned out to be an old bag of wind...

Mick McKellar
March 2015

Whether by satchel, a purse, poke, or pouch;
In the end, I’m a curmudgeonly grouch!

Mick

Terror

Terror

I read daily of violent attacks,
And doses of death that all call terror;
Their fear engendered, not solely by facts,
But by insecurity and error.
The mighty shout of the media mouth,
Rattles young nerves and gives old men nightmares;
Making rumors unwise, language uncouth,
And weapons of words and rusty plowshares.
The peaceful lifestyle we've so long enjoyed,
Bought with the blood of valiant sacrifice,
Is threatened by those easily annoyed,
Who seek to be righteous at any price.
Are we in shadow, fallen from the light,
To hurt others to prove that we are right?

Mick McKellar
March 2015

Has pervasive social media, intended to forge new connections between us, made it impossible to peacefully debate and discuss important and urgent matters in public forum?

Mick

Start Anew

Start Anew

I saw a faint shadow scamper away,
So quickly, my eyes could not recognize
What it was, or why it couldn't just stay
For a visit, and maybe socialize.
I was searching, and rummaging about
In my mind's attic, finding nothing new;
Beginning to wonder, to feel some doubt—
Were feelings of missing memories true?

While searching my attic, both high and low,
And not finding what I was searching for;
I saw dusty pictures get up and go,
To vanish as though through a secret door.
If this continues a little while more,
If there's nothing that an old man can do,
There'll be nothing left on my attic floor.
Guess I'll sweep up the dust and start anew!

Mick McKellar
March 2015

It’s disconcerting to have your most precious memories scamper away from you, just as you reach out to touch them.

Mick