Slumber’s Ardent Grace

Slumber’s Ardent Grace

The hours fly by and sleep eludes my mind,
Because tenacious images hold sway.
An unheard voice whispers words not unkind,
My words -- to drive the images away.
Bright images, fantastic and mundane,
And shadow constructs built of doubt and fear;
I see them all, the pleasure and the pain,
And grand adventures make sleep disappear.
Soft arms of slumber quietly enfold
My shoulders, sagging, weary with the strain.
Yet, on they flow -- the words -- timid and bold;
To tell the tale, to let me sleep again.
At last, the words release their fierce embrace,
And I succumb to slumber’s ardent grace.

Mick McKellar
August 2015
I was up again last night, in the wee hours, pecking at my tablet to translate images to words and release my mind -- for it was time to dream.

Mick

Aging Summer

Aging Summer

Soft, warm breezes betray with shallow breaths,
Long golden hours spent waiting on the night;
When glints of sunlight flare their tiny deaths,
And crimson clouds salute the passing light.
The morning dance sleeps longer with each day;
The molten orb is later to embark
On daily journeys, swiftly on its way
To rendezvous with shadows of the dark.
The torrid air now carries scent of cool
And misty daybreak, rain-soaked window panes,
That signal change, a limpid, liquid pool --
A mirage of refreshing Autumn rains.
We sense the changes, soon upon us all;
As aging Summer births the infant Fall.

Mick McKellar
August 2015

Far too often I hear the remark, "There is a touch of fall in the air."

Mick

Dichotomy

Dichotomy

Never happier, than when not laughing;
Never more in love, than scolding my child;
Never more at ease, than when I’m gaffe-ing;
Never more severe, than when acting wild.
Never hungrier, than when I’m sated;
Never more relaxed, than when energized;
Never more wistful, than when elated;
Never more serene, than when I’m surprised.
Never sillier, than when I’m austere;
Never more certain, than when I surmise;
Never more kindly, than when I’m severe;
Never more foolish, than when I am wise.
Never more at peace, than when I’m crying;
Never more alive, than when I’m dying.

Mick McKellar
August 2015

Human beings are a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, inside a paradox.

Mick

Whisper to My Heart

Whisper to My Heart

My mind remains so full of daily cares,
I scarce can see my moments through my needs.
So blinded, changes catch me unawares;
I can’t see where my stumbling journey leads.
The beating of my heart fills up my ears.
The sound of my own voice rends silent air.
I taste the bitter, salty, tang of tears,
From lashing, angry hatred ev’rywhere.
A rational redoubt of human thought,
And paragon of logic, science bred,
Can not refute the insight that I bought,
With coin earned while I flickered, nearly dead:
With senses filled with logic, joy, and woe,
Lord, whisper to my heart what I must know!

Mick McKellar
August 2015

A silent prayer I’ve never uttered aloud; my last thoughts before I sleep silently carry this request to God each night. I spent most of my life trying to think my way through every challenge, when I should also have paid attention to that tiny voice whispering to my heart.

Mick

Sweat Equity

Sweat Equity

Near boiling waters of hideous pain,
Across a path that carries you hither,
Where nightly deluge of sulfurous rain,
Makes your eyes burn and your limbs all wither;
Stands a wall of amorphous, living fire,
Towering upward and searing a sky
So black, when the soaring and roaring pyre,
Scalds menacing storm clouds, it makes them cry.
Wicked scabrous fumes fill the deadly air,
The rocks and the stones shriek in agony.
Though nothing alive could survive long there,
In a tiny, hot room prepared for me!
"I must be in Hell!" I screamed in my fear.
"First time in a Sauna?" Asked someone near.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

I remember my first time in a sauna. I thought my lungs were being cooked and my backside barbecued. After that, it was great,  sweaty fun.

Mick

Words for Wounds

Words for Wounds

Each day begins with promises unbound;
So many pleasant possibilities.
So many opportunities abound,
That I can scarce decide which chance to seize.
I want to help, to lift somebody’s pain;
To raise a spirit, cleanse a weeping wound,
To touch a life where unhealed scars remain,
With understanding lovingly attuned.
The stories that I write may seem inane;
Sometimes they’re harebrained, odd, or maybe true.
Yet, if a tale can help someone in pain,
I have to write -- I can but follow through.
For words may salve a wound that will not heal,
And I must tell the stories that I feel.

Mick McKellar
July 2015

Of course, I write for me. However, I share because someone, somewhere may find solace in my sometimes silly words or ridiculous rhymes.

Mick

Tough Audience

Tough Audience

I talk to myself when I am confused,
When I'm uncertain which way I should go,
And get comments from someone unenthused:
The laughing crow outside my window.
I pour out my heart, all over my sleeve,
The crow speaks up, and he just says: "Haw, haw!"
I grumble aloud: "Just shut up and leave!"
Rustling feathers and a single, "Haw!"
I rush to the window, bellow: "Enough!"
The bird, unimpressed, merely ratchets: "Naw!"
My avian critic, though really tough,
Will never share anything that he saw.
Our arguments always end in a draw;
He always calls my ideas: "Caw, Caw!"

Mick McKellar
July 2015

You can’t win an argument with a bird. They’re a flight risk…

Mick