A Hero's Heartbeat

He lay his head on a cold, snowy bench,
Under a lamppost in the city park.
His worn, unwashed clothes had a musky stench,
So folks left him alone there, in the dark.

The stone bench was hard, but the snow was soft,
And he hardly felt the cold anymore.
When his eyes closed, dreams carried him aloft,
Where his legs and back were no longer sore.

As over the frozen pond he drifted,
He turned to look back at his silent form,
Under a blanket, as soft snow sifted
So gently, slowly — a peaceful snow storm.

He heard his heart beat, out over the lake,
Its uncertain rhythm marking his fight,
As winter attempted his life to take,
And he fought on, alone on Christmas night.

A flash of green light brought his spirit back,
To hover once more near his sleeping clay.
A green man pulled a guitar from his pack,
Sat by a green fire, and started to play.

He drifted close, to hear the Minstrel croon
Sweet songs, to sooth a long forgotten soul,
In silvery light from the winter moon,
And soon they achieved their intended goal.

The Minstrel suddenly stopped his sweet song,
And a deep silence enveloped the night.
He knew in an instant, something was wrong:
His heartbeat had given up its long fight.

The Minstrel stood, and saluting with grace,
Said, "Sergeant, it's time that I took you home.
Your dress uniform is back in its place,
And your spirit no longer has to roam."

He smiled because he would suffer no more.
And a soldier entered the golden door.

Mick McKellar
December 2016

It is a tragedy that any who fought for our freedoms, should suffer in the cold and die in despair.

Mick

Lights and Voices

I dream Christmas dreams with eyes open wide,
To savor the shimmering, colorful sights.
Our snow-covered home, glows so warm inside,
With happiness, love, and flickering lights.
Richer yet than twinkling light that abounds,
Than the rainbow-hued diamonds shining there,
Are the brilliant, happy, and joyful sounds.
That permeate crystalline, Christmas air.
Golden voices narrating ageless tales,
Silver voices raised in carols and song,
Telling stories where Christmas love prevails;
Where magic wins and we all get along.
Thankful I don't have to make such choices,
I can savor lights AND love the voices!

Mick McKellar
December 2016

Much of my Christmas dreaming is done with my eyes wide open, soaking in the sights and sounds, the the voices raised in song, the voices warmly offering friendly greetings, and the voices telling ageless tales of Christmas magic and love.

Mick

Invisible Voices

Invisible Voices

I sing my song of patience from the wings,
Where curtains sap the vigor of my voice.
Although the chorus wrapped about me sings,
We do the best we can with Hobson's choice.
The audience might notice we are there,
If once the featured singers took a breath,
Or noticed us, and just because they care,
Paused their constant, scripted shibboleth.
How can the grand assembly understand,
The beauty and emotion in our cry;
If amplified lead voices and the band,
Leave us unseen, unheard, an alibi?
Let us loose, and as our throng rejoices,
We will shake the rafters with our voices!

Mick McKellar
November 2016

Voices unseen and unheard can suddenly rock your world.

Mick

Wisdom of the Wildwood

Wisdom of the Wildwood

Far under the deep forest canopy,
Within the bright haze of the morning mist.
I dream of the light that I cannot see,
As sunbeam and forest begin their tryst.
Souls of the deep woods and wraiths of the trees,
Move through the greenwood as wistful dark dreams.
Arboreal titans bend with a breeze,
That ruffles their coverlet with its streams.
With daunted wonder, at reverent pace,
I silently tread the cathedral floor;
And whispering stillness imparts its grace,
As trees share memories of brake and moor.
Woodland and grove only slowly impart,
The ancient wisdom of the wildwood's heart.

Mick McKellar
September 2016

I have always loved long, slow walks through the green peace of the deep woods.

Mick

To Sing The Story of the Night

To Sing The Story of the Night

    Are all dark nights truly empty?
    Soundless skies say nothing to me.
    Perhaps they are only waiting:
    For patient hand, or restless mind,
    To sow amid the sweet silence,
    To write upon velvet softness;
    For willing arms to reach out, and
    Gather harvest from out the stars.

    Does timid silence rule the night?
    As fleeting thoughts dance, dart, and play
    Mid lights — of silver, blue, red, gold,
    I climb the towering darkness.
    I glean the precious, fabled fruit;
    To hoard, to cherish, then to share.
    Saved in my sweet, elusive dreams,
    Such grandeur, idle fantasy.

    To free my mind is all I ask —
    To hear sweet music in each light,
    And courage to complete my task:
    To sing the story of the night.

Mick McKellar
September 2016

I love to gaze at stars in a velveteen sky, and see the serenade, the majestic music of starlight in the darkness. What I capture and share is but a pale portrait of colors without name and music that moves the spirit.

Mick

Reflecting Pool

Reflecting Pool

    As generous softness of sunlit waves,
    Traces a tender touch dance on the wall,
    Their simple serenity soothes, and saves
    A worried mind driven nearly to fall.
    The wonder of water — to bathe in light,
    Borrowed so freely from afternoon sun,
    All things of shadow, or covered by night,
    Or hiding in twilight barely begun.
    I gaze at the flickering tongues of flame,
    So energetic they might be alive;
    They call to my soul, they sing my true name,
    And they warm the garden where my dreams thrive.
    Their golden caress upon shadows cool:
    Stirs the magic of the reflecting pool.

Mick McKellar
August 2016

Watching light dance upon water and then reflect upon a wall or a window, has a magic all its own — that can bring peace and quiet to a mind troubled and fretful.

Mick

Becoming

At first, I stood alone on the bare hill;
All around me was blasted and laid waste.
I gasped, my eyes swimming, I stood stock-still
For a moment, and turned to leave in haste.

But the path that my old life had followed,
Was in darkness, or was no longer there.
I looked up to the sky and I swallowed,
Then I cried in fear — and shattered the air.

I fell, I screamed, and I pounded the soil.
The curse from my doctor's lips I denied.
I grew angry till I felt my blood boil;
When it cooled, I collapsed, and simply cried.

Deep inside, a small voice: "You're not dead yet!"
A whisper emerging from inner void?
I gathered what courage I still could get
From my self-respect, so nearly destroyed.

Still shaking, I stood and I faced ahead:
A new path, challenging, rocky, and steep
Presented itself, but not where it led.
It was full of ravines that I must leap.

I noticed a small bench, off to one side,
Hidden in shadow and offering rest.
At once, I knew t'was a place I could hide
And wait for the end, a painless quest.

I almost sat down there, but then I thought:
"Why just wait with my mind shut and numbing?"
I began walking, though fearful and fraught,
To find out just what I was becoming.

Mick McKellar
August 2016

I was asked to write about some aspect of living with cancer. I remember the trauma of receiving the diagnosis and then the apparent failure of chemotherapy. Finally, I remembered having to decide whether to pursue a blood and marrow stem cell transplant, or opt for home hospice care till the end.

Mick