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
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
