Mind the Specters

I have been sending out too many old poems and not enough new ones. I figure it's time.to wrap this up. That isn't to say there won't be any further poetry coming, not just as usual. With that I will leave you with a Halloween poem, although it was never intended to be one.

Mind the Specters

Banshees haunt the deepest train lines

on London's Underground with flickering

lights and earsplitting complaints.

Layer upon layer of civilizations

agitated by mechanical worms now

grubbing the earth with passengers

across bone orchards long crumbled,

returned again to black dirt and dross.

Noise abatement on the upper lines

provokes deafening din on the lowest.

175 feet down the ancients cry out anew.

The riders nettled, but carriage operators

hurtle on, sporting newly issued ear plugs.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Accidental Coffin Maker

My sister died Monday. Just last week this vibrant woman told me she had Stage 4 lung cancer and she wasn't going to do chemo. Too little reward for too much misery. And then she surprised us by up and dying three days later. I found this poem in my archives. 

The Accidental Coffin Maker

The north woods whiskey-swilling

carpenter builds wicked good cabinets

when not nursing a grudge

or in the thick of a bar-provoked fight

over some perceived slight.

His neighbor wedded to a woman

with cancer looks beyond the bluster.

Commissions a handcrafted box, cross

planed on the lid, sized to fit on a dresser,

contain a bag of ashes.

Somehow, word will leak out,

and woe to the local who snickers.

Marilyn Ascoff Mellor

(In)significance

I was looking at the moon the other night and the thought came to me of how I take myself too seriously. In the grand scheme of things, it is nothing. I felt that way in 2021 and I feel that way now.

(In)significance  

The night sky a reminder

of unknown worlds light-years

                                        distant

The star scape a redemption

from the overbearing sun.

Our own burning luminary,

mastermind behind the Aurora.

Despite its confidence in being

the center of the universe, it remains 

a trivial flame, ablaze in a forgotten 

                                            outpost.

An "en passant" solar system

in the Milky Way, itself a bantam galaxy

nestled between billion of others

with Sol only a provincial official

                                         

on the periphery. But I puzzle how this 

can be, since the cosmos clearly revolves 

                                                     around me.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

An Ominous Mass of Clouds

Pretty soon we"ll be complaining about the winter weather. Since the high was 93 degrees yesterday, I hope it will be sooner rather than later. For a sneak preview, see the poem below.

An Ominous Mass of Clouds

As if Borealis wants to muzzle us.

As if Mother Nature wants to chasten us.

As if a giant hand means to smother us

     by dragging a cowl across the sky.

Too soon the cabin moans.

Too soon a merciless throw envelopes the sky.

Too soon the wind attacks the heavy bell to ring

                                                          relentlessly.

The indoor lights flicker against a leaden day.

Winter in Wisconsin.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Optics

During this summer's heat, I thought I'd rerun this poem. A reminder of the summertime night sky. 

Optics

The planet shine of Venus studs

the brightening sky, but nowhere

do I spy the wisp of a waning moon,

fellow traveler of this morning star.

I scan my windows without luck, reach

for an astronomy app certain to pinpoint

her. But nothing lights up.

Earth's satellite slipped away.

Her presence enlivens midnight's vault,

and retreat implies a curtain of clouds

or a crescent gone early to bed.

But no, this day she simply doesn't show,

vanishes like a lady in a magic act.

My dusty handbook of the heavens 

concedes her disappearance once each 

lunar month.

Then "Sin Sala Bim" and she's back 

as a silvered bow, ready to set, stage right

the following night.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Sunscreen

I thought this poem would be appropriate to rerun.

Sunscreen

Grease paint, war paint smeared across my face,

Ghostlike impressions linger in its wake,

SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

Summer once beckoned with a sunny embrace,

Most of us applied bronzers unaware of the stakes.

No grease paint, war paint smeared on this face.

Then warnings and sunblock came to replace

Fairytale suntans.  Hard to trust a remake

With SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

My fingers rub it in, try to leave no trace,

But despite being careful I still spot mistakes

Of grease paint or war paint smeared on my face.

Some days I look like a clown, a disgrace

With cheeks blotchy as a sugar dusted cake

Thanks to SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

Aging traps us all, and UV rays hold no grace.

Although I grumble, I know healthy skin takes

Grease paint, war paint smeared across my face,

Leaving SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Coaching from Mother Nature

For some reason it seems I get placed with a friendly voice, not human, asking me my choices when making business calls. None which they offer, I might add. It's frustrating.

Coaching from Mother Nature

I step outside into early hour darkness

to hang the bird feeder. All but the brightest 

constellations have fled.

Later, new stars: finches and chickadees

flit like sunshine through the leaves, sing

on sunflower seeds. 

Bigger birds and pointed beaks attack the food

next: jays, woodpeckers, and pocket-size

nut hatches.

Some of the meeker warblers defer to the bullies,

ceding their dignity at the swaying container,

but the more daring dart.

A threat of blood from a sharp poke for them.

A lesson for me in not surrendering as I cope

with canned calls found in "customer service."

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

  

Recipes

My mother passed away 15 years ago this month. I wanted to honor her by reproducing this poem. She was not a demonstrative person, but her gift came from what she loved - cooking.

Recipes

Directions for apricot souffles

or a csssoulet, sticky buns, peach

pies, and oven baked French Fries.

"If you can read," assured my mother,

"you can cook." And with that she

handed me a daunting tome,

an unopened book free of any dog-eared

pages or telltale drips that might guide

the new bride on a lifelong journey.

                         *

Decades later with both covers gone,

batter spots and sauce spills speckling

the pages, it dwells unused on a shelf.

Too many gelatin concoctions,

too heavy on the cream and butter,

too old school.

And yet I cannot trash it for what it

imparts: memories of a gift given

from my mother's heart.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Late Night Squall

Whenever I get up in the morning I am greeted by weather. Some mornings are nicer than others, this Tuesday being one of them.

Late Night Squall

A bruised dawn awakens puffy and purple,

                   the corner of the horizon sanguinary

                                             and

Sol struggling to peer through slits

                                                     in the overcast.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Blindspot

I wrote this because of my frustration with how my partner was handling his PSA. Enough said.

Blindspot

My partner knows death comes for us all,

but please, do not remind him.

La La La La La .  . .

As close friends died he managed a few

tears. Those confidants must have moved,

neglected to phone or write at Christmas.

His idolized mother met Charon when he

was an adult, but at the end he left her care

up to his niece.

He "claims" that he acknowledges dying,

but his only sibling's death couldn't induce

him to write a will. He ignored a rising PSA

until he could produce no pee.

With that crisis over he reverted to becoming

an ostrich agin.

Alakazam! the difficulty disappeared. Until . . . 

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Spring Love Songs

 This poem is self-explanatory, and appropriate for this time of year.

Spring Love Songs

The thrumming of the frogs attracting

mates in the countryside: a balm to winter-

                                                      weary souls. 

In this cityscape my ear catches unfamiliar

humming. An early batch of cicadas?

For years the run-off pond behind

our condo had been wronged until it

scored the label of a small lake.

An eco-friendly outsider would now

tend to it. Frogs once made this waterhole

                                                       home.

Their country cousins consider anything

a predator, quiet their partying when I pass.

"Townie" frolickers show no inhibitions,

whooping it up despite my nearby footfalls.

Part of a city's overflow now a restored abode

                        for amphibians and their tunes.

An urban indicator of spring.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Europe 2026, 30 Years Later

I'm back from my European vacation. Europe is "different" but the same as it was 30 years ago when I first went. Now I understand why they protest the crowds - throngs of people everywhere and it isn't even summer yet.

Europe 2026, Thirty Years Later

The French tolerate foreigners, not rolling

their eyes as much. The Europeans have

relaxed their rules: skirts no longer mandatory

                                           to enter churches.

I spotted shorts, and that didn't stop anybody.

All they expect is silence as a sign of deference

             from everyone - hard to attain.

Self-respecting restaurants now open at 7:00PM

instead of 8:00PM. As for the dinner cruise boats

that ply the Seine, they exist as whales: enormous

       in size along with the charge for the meal. 

The Continentals protest the hoards of tourists.

Too many people crowd their haunts, and many 

                   speak American-English.

In Barcelona a repeat performance: people

everywhere. But they are much more voluble,

especially in the Basilica of La Sagrada Familia:

almost complete 100 years after the architect's death.  

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

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