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