Last Thoughts for RoseAnn

We buried a favorite cousin of mine last week, and the world will not be as bright without her.

Last Thoughts for RoseAnn

We worried COVID

would catch you, especially 

here in the Heartland,

invade the senior home where

you lived, and lay claim to you.

Instead, a fall left

you senseless, breaking bones once

more, and in your core

you breathed, "Enough!" clearing out

briskly, grabbing a night train.

Journeyed to the stars,

sprinkled them with laughter and

matched their radiance

with the sparkle in your eyes,

knowing your mate waited there.

"A Long Life, Well Lived"

an apt epitaph for you,

your optimism,

and unfailing charity

from a heart twice normal size.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Bogeyman

Just two days ago we started feeding the birds again. Anytime before winter hibernation the mixture attracts bears. 

This morning the feeder sits empty on the ground, knocked down by a sizable critter. But what? The incident not dissimilar to an episode I experienced this past autumn.

Bogeyman

The fugue of sleep muffled

the mumbles and grumbles 

leeching through condo walls

before I blinked and had to rethink

the source of the sounds

since cabin shadows surrounded me.

My partner producing odd snores?

An animal beneath the floor? Or

something out for a midnight walk

a wall away - a Yeti, an axe murderer?

Come daytime my mate humored me.

Checked beneath the deck, nothing

but wind blown leaves, the crawlspace

still snug.

No lairs, no bears, no nightmares

discounting, of course, two circling

vultures. Their wrinkled, alien heads

liver-colored and protruding

from vampire capes of dark feathers

cursed me with shivers on an otherwise

mild morning.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

  

The Vehicles Follow a Social Distancing of Their Own

With the surge in Covid cases comes the threat of another lockdown. Hopefully, not as draconian as the first one which emptied both streets and highways. And made me feel like a scofflaw.

The Vehicles Follow a Social Distancing of Their Own

I feel like a sneak evading

the law, traveling between the city

and rural retreat.

From a building with 140 units

to a lakeside cabin for two

in a region turned suspicious

of outsiders.

A breathing space

in these times of sheltering-in-place.

A haven lessening the risk of lungs

stiffening overnight.

Truckers still trucking but traffic

strung out like beads of sweat

on a feverish forehead.

And every time

I check the rearview mirror

the spiky virus reappears,

dimming another light behind me.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Mitch McConnell's Hands

 A poem for Election Day, 2020.

Mitch McConnell's Hands

Hands say so much,

unwittingly.

Health gauge,

clue giver of day jobs,

generation revealer.

Ropey veins snaking

between knuckles

on those of a certain age

or the tattoo of a snake

disappearing up a sleeve

on an arm of rebellion.

Fingertips barely-blue,

pasty-white or nicotine-yellow.

Telltale nails bitten or chipped

or those finely manicured.

A sweaty handshake or the dry

grip of rawhide. The smooth,

soft clasp of the privileged.

Calluses. Scars. Liver spots.

And now a leading Senator's

bruised and bandaged hands signaling,

"Something's amiss here, folks."

As if we didn't know.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor