Shinto Shrine

Alright, one more poem before I leave for France and Spain. The trip to Japan and all that we did there I will remember. See you in May.  

Shinto Shrine

       The lone monk in the temple,

200 steps up, couldn't hide his beaming

       face when day trippers quietly

sprouted like the occasional wildflower.

         First a riverboat ride then a climb

that shrugs off coats. Only a handful of others

          struggled to be in this holy place.

A hermit would discourage such people:

                     dodging them.

A wise mendicant welcomed all visitors:

              listening to their stories.

Brimming with bonhomie,

         this contemplative with his chants

                                  calmed my restless spirit.

              Silence steered the watercraft back.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Moody Time

This is a typical spring, and of all months March would not be my first choice to showcase Minneapolis. On a another note, I'll be flying off to France and Spain next week which means you'll not hear from me 'til May.

A Moody Time

It's March.  In Minnesota.  One day

  sandals and straw hats, the next

           boots and earmuffs.

Always,

   bare-branched limbs and sun worship. 

Once, I discouraged my European lover

from visiting during this wild-child month.

In springtime as I boast about the state,

I'm like a proud parent showing-off

a teenager with unkempt hair and acne.

No matter how hard I brag, he or she

        forever betrays gawkiness.

Odd,

my paramour never reached out to me

again.  He vanished as snow does on a late

                                                      Easter Sunday.

He must have had other prospects.

A self-congratulatory coronation?

      A chance at the tables in Monte Carlo?

                              Hmmm . . . a younger lover?

I breathed "bon chance" and "damn you"

                                                               together.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

L.A. Fires, 2025

I remember flying into L.A. post-apocalypse, and the damage the fires brought. I was reminded again after a recent TV presentation of homeowners who lost everything.

L.A. Fires, 2025

The descent into LAX disclosed

nothing. But the cloud cover,

like a pulled-up duvet after a philanderer

has his way, shrouded it all.

Night after night on the TV news,

boomerang planes hammered the inferno

with retardant as the flames flashed,

jumping dwellings like a ping-pong ball.

It looked as if Beelzebub broadcast live

from Hades with him chortling, ravaging

structures, leaving solitary fireplaces

where homes once sheltered families.

Is it better to lose everything or have

your house survive "intact"

with a hellscape of smoldering ruins

embracing you?

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Farewell to Jade

On my last trip to Singapore I reluctantly came to the conclusion I wasn't meant to wear a jade bangle like thousands of Asian women do.

A Farewell to Jade

The stone disdains me.

These gems drooped my lobes to the size

of Dumbo ears. A solid bracelet I once

bought in Singapore shattered,

                                         slicing my wrist.

Deaf to its language, I waltzed off as it

tried to forewarn me.

On a return trip, I searched for a bangle

in Chinatown among old jewelry haunts.

Three days later I fell, fracturing my elbow

and the emerald panache I had purchased.

"Stay away form jade," my superstitious

hosts said. "There must be more harmony

with your birthstone."

Amethysts' washed-out hue frustrated

my attempts to be elegant, but they knew

it existed as more than the pale stone.

Saturated plum and rich mulberry conspired 

with my deeper desires.

I now wear a sparkly chain

                                   with February attached.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Numerology

I thought this was appropriate for the Olympics.

Numerology

Who doesn't connect with certain numbers?

All of us, fearful and favored alike, make

                                          digits into omens.

In Mandarin the numeral 4 sounds similar

to the word for death. Floors numbered 4

are absent in China, and those having

license plates ending in 4 will suffer unduly,

                                             or so they believe.

On the flip side, the numeral 8 remains

auspicious for Asians because this symbol

echos the tone for prosperity.

We Americans, not immune to superstitious

integers, cling to the awfulness of Apollo 13,

cringe when Friday the 13th unfolds, and often

discover the 13th story skipped in buildings.

The Chinese deliberately chose the 2008

Olympics to start on the 8th month and the 8th

                                                     day at 8:08PM.

They scored the most gold at those games.

No number prevails comparable in the Western

world. To us it represents a personal choice.

Typical of our individualistic culture.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Toll

This "rang" true previously as it does today.

Toll

Winter weather drives

the hefty bell in nearby trees

as I hang a tray of seeds

in stinging pre-dawn darkness.

The filmy veil of sunup reveals

a swirl of snow burying the mix.

I tell myself descendants

of dinosaurs know how to dodge

the blows of Borealis.

The frozen buffet bothers me

more than it does the birds.

Or maybe guilt over my neglect

of their dwindling numbers

stabs like extinction.  

And in the air, a muffled knell

for a ripple turned tsunami.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Singapore: Dog Days on the Equator

It's hard to imagine, especially in this cold, that there's much difference between summer and winter in Singapore, since it lies just 1 degree north of the equator, but there is.

Singapore: Dog Days on the Equator

My umbrella and I unroll as one.

Relentless

summertime throbs,

forges lasers

which excavate glass,

even the clouds on the horizon

                                                glint.

Workers fell thousand-year-old 

                  rain forests for skyscrapers,

drag the isle into a first world country

       with Prada and Louis Vuitton.

Singaporean law retains caning for street

spitting and hanging for drug dealing.

I sweat freon, ambivalence

                             in this land of high heat.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

January at the Cabin

This poem has always spoken for itself and so it is today.

January at the Cabin

Early this morning

the sun stepped out

before it realized how frigid

the air

then tucked itself

uner a handy throw of clouds.

So far, only a lone raven

and two jays

brave the winter breezes.

Outside our window

no chickadees or finches

forage for food

despite the newly seeded feeder,

our sporadic handouts too erratic.

Two weeks of no sunflower seeds

and skepticism prevails

before they spot our time limited,

all-you-can-eat buffet.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Darkest Days

I am apt to brood this time of year because the days are so short, especially up here. Like what would become of this world if it didn't spin toward summer? 

Darkest Days

Sol snaps shut the winter solstice.

A tapered steeple on the horizon

fades into the dusk.

The shortest day sinks into inkiness

as I adjust the blinds, not to shut-out

the gloominess but to bring in the cityscape.

Thoughts of the globe stuck

                              in this position stalk me.

Would the Sahara become a zone where

flesh could ignite, and fire in the Australian

outback chew up major cities?

Would unrest spread globally and suicides

become the norm? But, no, Gaia responds

more subtly than making the earth fixed.

I straighten the shades to admit

             the glowing car lights in the distance.

Their pollution unnoticed come sunset.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fine Dining/Cash Only

I've been out of town for the past week, and, yes, we went back to Barbara's Fishtrap. It's still as I remember it with a line of people waiting to be seated but, more importantly, they now accept credit cards.

Fine Dining/Cash Only

Barbara's Fishtrap:

back door open to the ocean,

a lodestone drawing diners

strung like magnets out the front,

tolerating any type of weather

for their turn at rickety tables

and the catch of the day,

savory as any at the Ritz

just around the corner on Half Moon Bay.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fifteen Seconds of Fame

Before autumn completely turns to winter, I want to capture a moment in time as noted in a prior poem.

Fifteen Seconds of Fame

On a gray October morning

with northwest winds shifting

the contours of the sky,

the east sun emerges

through an aperture in the clouds,

spotlights a yellow drenched elm

for a fleeting few seconds

before the cover closes

and the leaves turn to fool's gold.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Black Sheep

The trees are turning, and I have always wondered about the firs that drop their needles. It wan't until I discovered this was normal for Larches, otherwise known as tamaracks. I wrote about this worry in a previous poem.

Black Sheep

I fretted for the tamaracks, naively.

Patches of yellowed pines

dropping needles on October breezes.

A study of struggle in sepia, wasteland

tableaus within evergreen forests.

Searching for bark beetles or blight,

I thumbed my Field Guide, discovered 

the truth of this imagined disaster.

Come autumn these conifers

follow a beat of their own, shedding

bow ties, cummerbunds and all,

much to the family's chagrin.  

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Spring Debris

As I look out the window on Fall and notice all the leaves that fell, I envision something comparable in Spring that I saw, as this poem notes.

Spring Debris

Wind sweeps fruit tree petals

into cordons where a sidewalk meets

grass like onlookers keen to see

a parade. Winged elm pips drift in;

fallen hulls shove to the front;

cottonwood fluff frustrates the view

of those already grounded. Seeds

and florets jockey for the runway's 

edge. A storm-march rudely scatters

the spectators, and thunder cracks

their dream. In time, the party tossed

by the rain breeches the rolling hillside.

"Weeds not trees,"

              grouse the park groundskeepers.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Mid-Autmn Delights

Having had Andrew's relations from all over but mainly from Singapore for a week, I thought about the Lantern Festival which is a big deal in Chinese culture.  I came across an older poem that I wrote which pays homage to that celebration.

Mid-Autumn Delights

Around the curve of a night road

surfaces a rising moon

wide as the street-way, itself,

golden as the mooncakes in the box.

A harvest treat filled 

with lotus paste, a taste of your past,

a foreign flavor on my tongue.

A total turnabout

from yesterday's apple pie.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Denizens

I worry about the herons and egrets in a nearby pond which in recent summers has posted warnings about the toxic water as the dog days of August emerge.

Denizens

An egret paraglides from autumn's sky,

descends to a pea-green liquid scullery.

His ally, the heron, already on scene,

swivels his neck like a scout decoding

                                                    shadows.

They hide among the reeds, freeze

motionless as marble at footfalls.

They share a common enemy: humans.

But marksmen no longer hunt the birds.

Now, people marvel at these long-legged

beauties, then unwittingly undermine them

with runoff from treated lawns.

Neither crane can read the language:

warnings about toxic algae in the pond.

Desperate for rations, they return

to ransack this back kitchen.

When these two finally head south, behind

the lines, and can eat what they like,

they may find Charon cooking their food.

Thanks to their summer's deployment.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Laugh Lines and Crazing

When I look at pictures of myself I wonder, "When did I grow so old?" As I was sifting through some  poems, this one felt appropriate to my state of mind. You may have seen it before.

Laugh Lines and Crazing

Facial creams and time machines

fail me, but in the mirror

my mind takes up the slack,

possesses the knack

of air-brushing contours.

Not until I view photos of myself

or glimpse my reflection aslant

does an image of a frayed

interloper ambush me,

like a replay of Dorian Gray.

But no deal with the devil exists,

I retain only my smile as antidote.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sunday Morning

Every once in a while I think about organized religion and realize it's not for me. That's the story behind this poem.

Sunday Morning

A handful of gulls,

wings white as virtue,

tug at my soul.

              Soar

Circle                 Glide

Once, twice

A simple call and response

Echo of devotion

Their maneuvers needle

this non-churchgoer,

A reminder of what I once

                                believed.

Chants now

freewheel above me.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Essential Jazz

I heard my first cicada last week. They're not as noisy or as many as last year. I always know the end of summer is coming with their appearance. These are the cicadas that I'm used to, not the lesser numbers this year.

Essential Jazz

Overpowering even the sound

of semis, cicada cacophony rules:

midsummer a festival.

Their cousins, the crickets, continue

to thrum counterpoint.

The katydids' blare barely extends

beyond the siesta stretch. Short lives

(smoking? drinking? risky actions?)

mean these players perform 

                   fettered by a tight schedule.

The brassy headliners dominate

with their lusty tremolo during daylight

                                                   hours.

The grasshoppers, reclaim the main

stage overnight, play back-up resonance

for these bassists while they fiddle.

Come mid-August and contented

that the racketeers have vacated the venue,

the hoppers will continue to riff into late fall,

                                                               sedately. 

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Land of the Rising Sun

We traveled to Japan last year, and I didn't recognize how lucky we were to see Mt. Fuji on a bright, beautiful day. Nor did I realize that it rained there as much as it did in England.

The Land of the Rising Sun

Mountains, rain and bullet trains sketch

the landscape of Japan.

In and out of tunnels - light, dark,

light - like taking turns at a game

of Blind Man's Bluff.

Mt. Fuji, capped in opals and pearls

for most of the year, shakes off winter,

emerges the color of cognac in summer.

The massif dominated as envisioned:

snow-crowned and silhouetted

against an abandoned cerulean sky.

I didn't recognize my good fortune

as moisture commonly veils the top.

A weather hint, if I'd paid attention:

the numerous parasols to use by every

merchant's door.

But the Japanese never insist. To impose

is impolite, and an umbrella remains

a suggestion even in downpours.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unnerving

We spent the last week at the cabin and I heard the most terrifying noise. As a matter of fact, it continues to haunt me, and deserves a repeat of my original poem.

Unnerving

Dawn spreads like a freshly

cracked egg over the rim of the world.

A red-bellied woodpecker tattoos

a tired oak, a pair of trumpeter swans

                                          pulsate contentment

and the surreal calls of loons croon.

Above all this

                             the wailing cry

                                                           of a siren

sends shivers pulsing. From my days in the ER

          too many minutes choke the clock

             in the wake of a rural calamity.

That wavering hum,

                        the deadliest sound in the forest.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

At my Age I'm Disinclined to Dash

Many of you know that my daughter and her family live in London, and I try to trek over there annually. Here is what I learned on last year's visit.

At my Age I'm Disinclined to Dash

By foot : the best way to master London. Yes, there's always the Underground or a bus, double-decker and red, of course, or a personal car. But I'm suggesting ambulating only one, maybe two miles. However, not at the antelope clip set by my college-age grandson, and who is game for Tube Challenges with his mates. His idea of recreation. By the way, it involves sprinting. Let's keep it simple and say, I am the millstone that curbs his pace whenever he walks with me. Good news: I conquer the uphill part with ease. Bad news: it's becoming harder to breathe while climbing said hills. And downhill, mismatched cog wheels grind away in my bum knee. The solution lies before me - avoid any hills! Or, literally, stop and smell the flowers Londoners enjoy showing-off in their front gardens. Before an outing, the four of us (my daughter and son-in-law, my grandson and me) agree on what to them rings ho-hum: parade lap speed. But somewhere along the way, they morph into the raceway vehicles they are, leaving me in my pedal car barely within hailing distance. I've perfected the art of hollering.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Captured

No matter how long between trips to the cabin, we always find dead bugs and/or mice on the premises. This oldie says it all.

Captured

A spider belly-up in the water pitcher.

A horsefly garroted in a skylight web. 

A chipmunk snookered by a mousetrap

                guarding the garage.

A smattering of Asian beetles like currents

                   dotting the floor.

Two hornets commiserating after attempts

             to dissolve a pane of glass.

But a crush of frogs caught "in flagrante delicto"

           croak delight in a springtime rite.

           The workaday carnage of critters

        and the blues of daily news disappear.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Boy Not To Be Discouraged

I have watched my grandson play soccer since he was one of a clump going after the ball. This poem honors a game that will stick with me always because of one score made by a teammate. By the way, my grandson is now in high school and still playing the game. 

A Boy Not To Be Discouraged

The parents of both teams united

in their smiles and applause

for the preschool boy with a grin

wide as the Mississippi, and arms 

raised like a superstar

as he ran back to midfield

after freeing the ball

from churning feet and whomping

it into the net . . .

         of the wrong goal.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stonehenge at Dusk

A contest absconded with three new poems of mine. A caveat warned not to publish them anywhere, not even in a blog. Instead, today's poem repeats one set in England, a delightful country to visit this time of year. Also, in honor of my "English" grandson's 21st birthday today.

Stonehenge at Dusk

Raven scores

alight for vespers, chatting

as they settle on lintels

draped across shoulders

of blue stone monoliths

dragged from faraway Wales.

Placed with an eye to sanctify

the sun - that wanderer

in bitter northern climes - 

the ancient boulders resonate

with evensong even now

a cantos across flaxen fields.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Unaccompanied Minor

Loons know when a lake becomes free of ice because within 24 hours they return to their old haunts. Spring is upon us, and I celebrate with an old poem appropriate for the season.

Unaccompanied Minor

The vernal equinox come and gone

yet nighttime frosts persist,

winter's dunning agents.

A flash of white like a message

from a signal light

rides the waterline - the loon returned.

But the size is wrong, more of a liner

than a tug. Black eyes instead of red,

and, once unfurled, a long goose-shaped neck.

The bird, a singleton, glides off,

unaware of fading ugly-duckling coloring,

head held as if royalty, 

bearing the favor of spring: a cygnet on the cusp.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Shinto Shrine

A year ago we took a tour of Japan which included lots of Shinto Shrines and Buddhist Temples. Towards the end of our trip the group descended on this monk, genuinely happy to see us.

Shinto Shrine

    The lone monk in the monastery, 

200 steps up, couldn't restrain beaming

        when day-trippers sprouted

       like the occasional wildflower.

First a riverboat ride then a climb

that shrugs off coats. One or two

other suppliants joined us 

                                  in this holy place.

A true hermit discouraged such people:

dodging them.

A wise mendicant welcomed visitors:

listening to their stories.

Brimming with bonhomie, this monastic

     with his temple chants, hushed me,

                comforted my core.

      Silence steered the watercraft back.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sauntering through Utopia

I am out of sync for any number of reasons, and Singapore clings to my brain. I hope you don't mind a repeat of a ghazal - a certain poetry form - about that island nation. 

Sauntering through Utopia

Winter's stole falls from my shoulders in Singapore.

Unwrapped, my pores open to drink-in Singapore.

Hawker stalls sizzle.  Chili crab and pepper crab 

fill my mouth with sensuous tasting Singapore.

No gum beneath my feet - by decree - no graffiti

but caning stripes for rebellious Singapore.

I find fading remnants of British forts and thousand

year-old rain forests once covering Singapore.

Casinos rim the bay but on the dock the hood

of the hangman shadows drug deals in Singapore.

The world's busiest port, the world's brightest students

except for those who are not.  Now what, Singapore?

"Invited guests" clean up after me, hammer rivets,

lade cargo, drop sweat on the wealth of Singapore.

I see no sounds of the artist's soul, the discord

of a Picasso in buttoned-up Singapore.

No place of unorthodoxy, this.  Peacocks, papaya, 

Prada, more.  I can't wait to leave you, Singapore.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Imoverished Retirees

I am back from my trip to Singapore. I looked forward to the food but faintly dreaded going to the hawker stalls because the pensioners always swarmed me, one at a time, mind you. But, oddly, at no time when I was there did they appear. Talk about losing one's job.

Impoverished Retirees

In Singapore strict laws

block beggars, but peddlers

swarm hawker centers

where no napkins are found.

Always

          Someone sells tissue

          for messy hands.

Always

          someone's grandma

       or grandpa peddles wipes.

Always

        the cost stays the same:

  three packets for pocket change.

These mosquitoes sting stealthily,

        leaving a welt of guilt.

When a shake of the head dismisses

them I feel like a grinch, but when 

buying this service I fear everyone

         sees me as a soft touch.

Easy enough to steal away like

a disinterested cat until mealtime

             beckons, again.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

KIcking and Dragging of Feet on the Way to Net Zero

There is still much more that can be done to reclaim the earth as we once knew it, if people are willing.

On a side note, I will be traveling in February so I won't burden you with poems that month.

Kicking and Dragging of Feet

     on the Way to Net Zero

Earth-friendly garbage bags split

en route to the chute, releasing

your own trashy words.

You describe the "trickle" from a water-

saving shower-head in similar terms.

Recycled paper products not as thirsty,

napkins not thick enough, too rough

on your face.

Nor will reclaimed paperwork serve

                  for the printer.

Apparently, only eco-friendly TP tissue

                   poses no issue.

You defend your Jeep like it's a beloved

   family member even though it chugs

         fossil fuel and farts carbon.

And yet you willingly toss old clothes

            into the Good Will bag.

A compromise:

for you - patently plastic rubbish bags

for myself - reprocessed paper towels

for us - a give-and-take on environment

Then I remember:

              first steps are always the hardest.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Denial

I will never forget my first encounter with a patient who had cancer. As an inexperienced neophyte it left a lasting impression on me.

Denial

A stalker found harbor in the breast

of a young farm woman,

grew silently until the alien burst

through her skin, leaking, reeking

like a cesspit.

She could no longer ignore the specter.

The farmer's wife spoke of spring

calving, of two unexpected breeches,

almost in apology for inattention to herself.

But the disease had moldered far longer

than the heifers giving birth.

At twenty-six, I smiled at her and stifled a gag.

Her oozing mortality sent cracks

through my own safety shield, her presence

pointing to the fallow field that awaited me.

I repackaged her wound. My mind whirled

with making an escape for a hasty self-exam.

The woman's husband sat dazed ---

like a storm had just wiped out his crops ---

and fiddled with his worn baseball cap, mutely.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor