Grandpa Dreams

I dreamed of being a Grandpa.
I would wear wingtip shoes,
Brown pants, a forest green sweater,
And smell of Old Spice
And Earl Grey tea.
There would be Peanut butter cookies
And butterscotch Lifesavers.
My pockets would jingle with quarters and keys,
As I would check my grand, old pocket-watch.
I would tell sad/happy stories
About my old friend, the Footsore Fox,
And our old friend, the Ribald Rabbit.
Silly stories, perhaps,
In the grand scheme of world culture,
Or local politics...

And the kids would smile a little,
Shake their heads a little,
And feel embarrassed for me.
For quaint words that sang in my writings:
Empathy, consideration, peace, and commitment
Among them.

I would sit in my great wooden rocking chair,
And sing silly songs for them,
Or teach them to fish on a quiet morning,
At the lake,
As my Grandpas did for me.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Riding the Crazy Wagon

Aboard the crazy wagon, we go,
It squeaks and it creaks, it's quite the show.
Over bumps and lumps, the journey's fast...
Or else it's slow -- toward a future vast.

The conductor's shadow, tall and stark,
Looms near the end, where we disembark.
Yet tribulations can't make us abate
The clickety-clack rhythm of fate.

Celebrations and joy ride along,
In life's symphony, the strongest song.
A one-way ticket in my hand so tight,
From the chairman Himself -- my guiding light.

Riding the rails, through long days and nights,
My ticket offers tears and delights.
I'll cherish the ride, all that transpires,
Until the end, when my time expires.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Fox's Journey of Self-discovery

I'd settled at table, ready to eat,
When a sudden knock had me to my feet.
The Footsore Fox stumbled through the front door,
And I wondered what he had come here for.

Fox said for a cookie and Earl Grey Tea,
He would gladly explain it all to me.
With a sip of tea and hunger sated,
This was the story ol' Fox related:

"Upon the trail of life, I paused to peer,
A backward glance, in search of yesteryear.
Into the past, where paw prints mark my way,
To glean the wisdom that might guide today.

In valleys deep, where shadows hold their court,
I wandered lost, in time's relentless fort,
Whose walls of gray obscure the light of sun,
Regretting some deeds I have left undone.

Dark weeping stones and mist that swirls like fears,
A voice that echoes, falls, and disappears,
In dusk of life, where hope seems far and faint,
I stood alone, my heart beset by plaint."

Fearing this chasm, Fox leapt to the now,
Where his trials and tribulations bow
To the strength he has found in present stride,
For though the path is rough, it's here he'll bide.

No cake-walk journey, but smoother than before,
The road unfolds, less daunting than the lore
Of darker days, now shadows of the past,
Their lessons learned, their memories outcast.

For he does not dwell in what has been,
Nor does the Fox leap to futures unseen.
The oracle's vision, tempting as it seems,
Is but a siren's call, just fleeting dreams.

"The moment now is where I stand,
With lessons learned, close at hand.
From darker days, the wisdom I've accrued,
Is the lantern guiding my pursuit renewed.

So forward on this journey, I must tread,
With eyes set firm on the path ahead.
The past, a teacher stern yet just,
Instructs me in the art of trust.

To trust in steps I've yet to take,
In the promise of the dawn I'll wake.
And though the road may twist and turn,
It's here, in now, I live and learn."

The Fox sighed once and curled up on the floor,
Hugged tightly his cane and began to snore.
His journey of self-discovery done,
Peaceful sleep is a reward he's won.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

Time's Tapestry

In time's tapestry each day is a thread,
Woven with colors of joy, hope, and dread.
Each tick a stitch in the fabric of fate,
Crafting love stories, both modest and great.

The dawn ushers in a canvas so wide,
With the golden hues morning can provide.
The sun climbs high, painting aspirations,
In the firmament of life's creations.

Midday displays the true heart of the tale,
Where ev'ry plot thickens beyond the pale.
The choices we make and the paths we take,
Are powerful brushstrokes that our days make.

The afternoon light casts a solemn glow,
A gentle reminder of the tempo.
It's a pause in the verse, a soft refrain,
Before evening comes to claim its domain.

As twilight descends with a quiet grace,
Soft shadows lengthen, embracing the space.
The glimmering stars, in the night unfurled,
Whisper secrets of the celestial world.

The moon, a beacon in the dark expanse,
Guides nocturnal revelers in their dance.
It's time for reflection, for dreams to chase,
In the wee, silent hours of night's embrace.

The cycle goes on, day in and day out,
A living symphony, without a doubt.
Each day is a sonnet, each hour a line,
In poems where life and love intertwine.

For life is a poem, written anew,
With sunrise that breaks the day and the dew.
And all may be poets in this grand scheme,
Crafting new verses of the living dream.

And new verses written with hearts ablaze,
Build glorious legacies of our days.
For the poem of now is ours to pen,
In the book of life, again and again.

Mick McKellar
May 2024
 

My Favorite Season is Now

When youth did flourish, autumn was my prime,
For frost did quell hay fever's irksome time.
The trees in splendor, colors bold and bright,
The air tastes crisp, from dawn till fall of night.
No vexing swarm to mar the outdoor cheer,
In autumn's grasp, the world seemed cool and clear.

Yet now, within these walls, my days are spent,
Each precious, like jewels that once were lent.
No longer do I claim a favored time,
For each day's a stanza in life's grand rhyme.
Whether it's rain or snow, or skies of gray,
Each sunrise brings a gift, a brand new day.

Alive, I stand amidst the tempest's roar,
Feeling its might, its power to my core.
What season do I cherish? None, you see,
For 'now' is all the time there needs to be.
Each moment is a lifetime, full and pure,
A chance to love, to learn, and to endure.

So ask me not of autumn's golden hue,
For 'now' is ever fresh and ever new.
For rain or shine, or snow's white tapestry,
Alive am I, and that's enough for me.

Mick McKellar
May 2024
 

Crimson Dreams

Dream the First

Upon the crimson plain I dash,
With heart alight and spirit brash,
Leaping high with joyous thrall,
Beneath the moon's cerulean shawl.
Its azure glow casts shadows long,
While restless birds croon jazzy songs.

The wind, a dancer, twirls with glee,
A joyful, wild, and free marquee,
Otters glide through dust-laced streams,
In this land of waking dreams.
Cloud whales drift in skies so vast,
Their hues of white and green amassed,
And olive trees, in orange flame,
Stand proud and tall, ever the same.

A sun of black draws forth the night,
Its absence of light a curious sight,
My hand, it quakes with a sword that hums,
A numbing tune to which it succumbs.
I sprint with purpose, my goal defined,
By phantasms guarded, through mists entwined:

A jewel of worth, closely kept.
Through shadowed plains, I've deftly stepped.
Battles fought in the darkened expanse,
Each move, each parry, an intricate dance.
Stymied, halted, yet I persist,
With life near spent, I clench my fist.

The treasure gleams within my sight,
Its guarded shimmer a beacon bright.
Yet as I near, my heart does scream,
For reality shatters this wondrous dream.
A clarion, a harsh awake,
From epic quests, I must now break.

But fear not, for dreams do weave,
Into our souls, they never leave.
The crimson plains will call once more,
For epic tales and mythic lore.
So hold fast to dreams of jeweled delight,
For in our hearts, they burn ever bright.

Dream the  Second

In dreams' embrace, we find retreat,
From life's swift pace, its drumming beat.
The crimson plains stretch wide and far,
Beneath the watch of every star.
And there I stand, with treasure bright,
Within my weary, grasping sight.

The guarded gem, with luster keen,
Amidst the shadows, barely seen.
A phantasm's ward, a spectral guise,
Obscures the prize from prying eyes.
Yet onward still, my spirit yearns,
For questing's fire within me burns.

Through trials many, and dangers vast,
Each moment fleeting, each breath my last.
The blackened sun withdraws its glow,
As if in mourning, or in woe.
The humming sword, now still and cold,
Has tales of valor, yet untold.

The otters' dance, a dusty swirl,
In twilight's grasp, they twist and twirl.
The wind dancers, with joyous cries,
Beneath the vast, unending skies.
Cloud whales sail, with grace they roam,
Within this dream, their airy home.

The olive trees, their branches spread,
Stand sentinel as I tread.
Their fiery hues, a beacon's call,
Within the dream, they never fall.
And I, a dreamer, bold and free,
Chase the jewel that beckons me.

The shadowed plain, a challenge wrought,
With every step, a battle fought.
Again, again, I'm pushed to brink,
Yet from the quest, I do not shrink.
Life's essence drains, but hope remains,
Within the dream, it still sustains.

A scream, a shout, a call to wake,
From slumber deep, a harsh, rude shake.
The telephone, its chime, a knell,
That breaks the spell, with jarring swell.
Yet still I know, when night does fall,
The crimson plains will softly call.

For dreams are more than fleeting shade,
They're where our deepest hopes are made.
And in that realm of endless night,
Our fantasies take winged flight.
So hold them close, those dreams of yore,
Deep in our hearts, they're something more.

A treasure trove of tales untold,
Of crimson plains and jewels bold.
Of moonlit nights and shadowed lands,
Where dreamers reach with outstretched hands.
And though the call may come to wake,
Those dreams are ours, and ours to make.

We need but dream, both you and I,
To share the ever-dreaming sky.
For in our hearts, these tales reside,
With each new dream, they're amplified.
In dreams where we are truly free,
To leap for joy, to dance, to be.

Mick McKellar
May 2024

The Fire Within

In this pursuit, where many might succumb,
I rise, a phoenix, from the ashes gray.
For every step feels like a beating drum,
That echoes with the life I'll seize today.

My lungs, though frail, are warriors at heart,
They fill and fall, a testament to strive.
In every breath, a work of living art,
A sign that hope and I are still alive.

Though malady may claim my flesh as due,
My spirit fights, a flame that burns still bright.
Each breath reclaimed, a victory anew,
A testament to unseen, inner might.

For in that fight, where weakness may be found,
A fiercer strength within us is unbound.

Mick McKellar
May 2024