Pythagorean Morning

I met a weary fellow,
Standing silent in the dawn.
His companion, dark yellow,
Was watering someone's lawn.

He yawned and shrugged and mumbled,
His canine friend did the same.
I said, "Hello!" He grumbled.
I pressed on, and asked his name.

At first, he hesitated,
Fixed his eyes upon his friend;
At last, "Damon" he stated,
As our dogs sniffed, end to end.

First, I introduced my mate,
My companion for walking.
This did not ingratiate,
And still he wasn't talking...

"What'd you call your furry chum?"
My own name I then proffered.
Still, he stayed profoundly dumb;
A sigh was all he offered.

Quick, a smile broke on his face,
"It's Pythias," he shouted.
(Ice broke in that silent place;
An outcome never doubted.)

I asked why he chose that name,
And what put him on that track.
I heard my new friend exclaim:
"Because he always comes back!"

Mick McKellar
June 2019

Storied names decorate the lives of many of our furry friends.

Mick

Early Riser

I awoke from my somnolent flight,
As morning began to devour night;
Cascades of words spilling forth so deep,
I gasped for air and couldn't sleep.

In the dim, unearthly chill and damp,
I moaned with a sharp, poetic cramp,
Struggled to focus my bleary sight,
And tapped away in my screen's harsh light.

Wan pewter light filled my window frames,
As I fought for words and thoughts and names.
Slowly my thoughts finally coalesced,
In a mind that simply would not rest.

I marshalled my sluggish, weary mind,
A writer's drive and finesse to find.
I saw my muse on a distant hill,
And beckoned her to come closer still.

Despite my efforts to wax profound,
My muse walked away without a sound.
I searched for reasons, but don't know them.
All I got was this silly poem…

Mick McKellar
June 2019

The early bird gets the worm, but all I got was Drang and Sturm.

Mick

Song of my Soul

A noisome flood of stark demands,
Wash joy from weary, startled hands;
And braying beasts, their hate replete,
Draw Earth from deep beneath our feet.
To silence wailing, frantic fear,
Sing soothing words for all to hear:

The beauty of the human soul,
Is dazzling when a heart is whole!
It's voice quakes Earth and rends the skies,
The spirit soars, the essence flies.
Such power springs from sharing of
Pure truth and life and joy and love!

Prevailing wisdom seeks to prove,
That hate has more power than love;
That fear is rational and right;
That isolation shows our might;
And profit makes the world go 'round.
Yet, silence is a lonely sound.

The triumph of the human soul
Is attained, when a heart is whole.
It shakes the Earth and rends the skies,
And spirits soar, and essence flies;
Releasing power from sharing of
Pure truth and life and joy and love!

Mick McKellar
June 2019

Hate-filled speech and demands to hide in fear, behind walls and guns, makes my soul want to sing to the world about the true sources of power.

Mick

Conversations with Cancer

Hello there Cancer, my old friend.
Shall we converse until my end?
I like to think I know your ways,
Though, we play hide-and-seek most days.
I search each crevice, bump, and crack,
And fear to find you looking back.
I swear, because you’re such a fright,
I hear you laughing in the night.
I look behind me on the stair,
To catch you following me there;
And though you’re never there, I swear
I sense your presence ev’rywhere.

Oft we have fought, and battled hard --
Old dogs who share a broken yard;
Though we will take no other lives,
Neither can win while one survives.
Yet, my facade remains serene;
Our vicious battles rage unseen.

Shadow companion, hear my voice:
Conflict with you was not my choice,
Though I am happiest, it seems,
When I defeat you in my dreams.
But, nonetheless, whilst morning dawns,
When dew bedecks the sleeping lawns
And birds and bugs fill warming air.
You, cold companion, always there.

When I stare into the abyss,
When I consider all I’ll miss,
Because you siphon strength away,
Because you take your toll each day,
Because your fingers, bloody, red,
Sate appetite that must be fed:
I wonder, do you feel remorse,
As you begin each baleful course?

I talk to you, but do you care?
Are you impossibly aware?
Do any words, when I complain,
Mean aught to thoughts on other plane?
Do silent tears shed in the night,
Mean anything to living blight?

Know this, dark pestilence obscene,
If you can garner what I mean,
Because your silence, no reply,
Mocks both my courage and my cry,
My fierce resolve will amplify,
Until the day I feel you die.
When I your savagery outlive,
There will be nothing to forgive.

As promised vengeance draws e’er near,
It’s time for you to feel the fear!

Mick McKellar
April 2019

Diplomacy doesn’t always work.

Mick

Rare Velleity

Awake, I sense that outside -- air has bite:
Icy incisors slicing through the flow.
And once again my world is cold and white,
Fortunately, I have nowhere to go.
This turn of Spring to face old Winter’s ire,
Foul aggravation to us passers-by,
Is fear of facing Summer’s coming fire --
Embracing shadows rather than the sky.
With halting steps the sun resumes her reign,
Overcoming vast, chill proclivities.
Green voices soar in warmer songs again,
And bring the long, white season to its knees.
Vast choruses of Summer sing to me,
Overwhelming Spring’s rare velleity.

Mick McKellar
April 2019

An April snowstorm is common here, and yet it always feels wrong.

Mick

Mute Fire in the Sky

Stasis is more manifest,
And visible in light,
Than in the evening shadows,
Or in the dark of night.
Silence shared for all to see,
Courage and fortitude,
Make a stout and strong redoubt,
When all are brash and rude.
To rail against the clamour,
When all are fast asleep,
Is casting sacred arrows,
In vast unmeasured deep.
To rise with watchfires blazing,
Flames silent, leaping high;
Morning minds awaking see,
Mute fire streaking the sky!

Mick McKellar
March 2019

Sometimes a whisper, or the stoicism of silence, is louder than the cacophony of the crowd.

Mick

Dust, The Gathering

Invisible, adrift upon my air,
Mounting up to the ceiling when I move
Over there -- from just about anywhere.
And yet, I do not feel my fairy shove.
I sense that I stir the air, a blithe spoon
To agitate the broth we fair inhale,
Then fouled and filtered, we share again soon,
To ripen and age, like an oft-told tale,
Released to drift and sail on currents soft,
And swiftly airborne artifacts collect.
Whilst fair suspended, they journey aloft,
Till laden all on distant shores are wrecked.
Flotsam, jetsam scattered to fade and rust,
And fain become the bane I know as dust.

Mick McKellar
March 2019

With my lung problems, a bother has become a bane.

Mick