John Mackie, Scottish Poet, Rip Poem by Sheena Blackhall

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