John Mackie, Scottish Poet, Rip

Winter's the time of loss, the robber season Chilling the lives of creatures, large to least John Mackie's dead- his living poems keep touching The minds of others- his intense creation Rings in the ear, engenders transformation In any honest soul who cares to listen He'd challenge subterfuge, cause men to listen Throughout his life, from youth to the sere season From Hippy Sixties, made the transformation From media star, reached down to help the least His warmth enveloped all the world's creation John Mackie's dead- his poems, alive, still touching Black Widows. minors fleeing fear, and touching The very bottom, he'd make time to listen A Djinn whose life was always a creation In progress, like a soup his songs could season With wit, compassion, so he could at least Exhort his peers to work for transformation In holding camps, hope brings no transformation John Mackie's dead- and yet his poems keep touching Upon hard times, when Largest hammers Least Whoever let the dogs out- stop and listen He's joined the Ghost Dancers in this sere season His legacy, to seed Good in Creation All life's a circus, but his fierce creation To cut through prejudice, fire transformation Came from a climate-shift in his thought-season John Mackie's dead, his living poems still touching The knub of things. His soul sings out- oh listen! Before you call the mind police in at least Recall he loved wild jasmine, champion of the least Strove not for fame, but pure love of creation His audience, shell-eared, sat round to listen All underwent a conscience transformation His impact on the world, profound and touching Three score and ten, he'd reached the prophet season He cut through prejudice, fired transformation John Mackie's dead, his living poems still touching Three score and ten, he'd reached the prophet season