If Galileo Were a Gardener

The poet, Charles Tomlinson, wrote about Bach as a beekeeper. I then speculated about Galileo as a gardener, and came up with this.

If Galileo Were a Gardener

                    after Charles Tomlinson

If Galileo were a gardener

he would have seen the sun

as a benefactor, bestowing

life and fine wines, but also

as a troublemaker spawning

heliocentric thoughts, dry days

and drought-disturbing rows

of ripening grapes, a Milky Way

of vines stretched across Tuscany,

producing withered berries

on branches good only for burning,

scorching as the rhetoric coming

from a Church condemning

his carefully made observations

concerning heaven's famed luminary.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

After an Overnight Shift

I recently read The Good Hand by Michael Smith. The memoir of a man who decided to take advantage of the boom times in the oil fields of North Dakota. It proved not as easy as he thought. Being a 24/7 operation, the various jobs demanded workers on the graveyard shift. A connection I could relate to.

After an Overnight Shift

Exhaustion

dogs my bed,

drags me from the sweet

flowing waters of oblivion,

grabs the muscles in my legs

with pointed incisors,

hauls me back to the shore

of dayshine where sleep

vanishes like water vapor,

leaving me to listen 

to garbage grinders,

back-up beeps, and barking

dogs down the street.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Soul Flying

March has a reputation for windy days, and this past weekend was no exception. A good time to fly kites for those daring enough to harness the bluster.

Soul Flying

Jacket tightening gusts

send winter dirt skittering

across empty fields

and kick up dust to smudge

the sneakers of kite runners,

bouncing on rushes of frisson.

Shouts like bubbles of champagne

rise on lusty breezes, hitch rides

on trailing tails, threads of magic.

Colors vivid as scarlet tanagers

and goldfinches at the feeder

take flight above laughing

faces, sometimes muffled

by the masks we wear. Still,

a time to crack open spring.

Kite flying and "socially

acceptable distancing" natural

as an eagle freewheeling

on the wind.  

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

In the Wake of Yesterday's Storm

This is for all of us who had to put up with yesterday's messy weather. But, looking on the plus side, we know that March snow is simply a prelude to spring.

In the Wake of Yesterday's Storm

How much hope the notes

of a songbird hold,

those first to find my ears in early March.

Enough to shrug off a windshield to scrape,

the wet shoe of slush and wonky, winter drivers.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Recipes

Recently, as I was making banana bread from a tried and true recipe, I couldn't help but remember an idea my mother put forward. Good cook that she was, she maintained her secret lay in the ability to simply follow a recipe. I now suspect it was her way of apologizing for banishing me from the kitchen when she cooked. 

Recipes

Directions for apricot souffle

or a quick cassoulet,

sticky buns, peach pies

and even 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

this 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

Elixirs, Tablets and Salves

At this point, I'm more than five years retired from the ER, and yet it is still a part of me. I see the ads for various drugs, and am glad I no longer have to deal with parents pestering me to prescribe one of them for their child. Some days it was difficult enough just to choose a simple medication.

Elixirs, Tablets and Salves.   

Cellulitis on a baby's buttocks.

His mother late for work

keys in hand, waiting

for me, the sorceress,

to settle on a fitting drug.

The book of potions grows

fatter each year

as do warnings portending

all manner of rash and tic and death.

An admonition from me

to take all medicine as instructed.

But will they?

And why

does the eye of newt

now carry a Black Box Warning?

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Command Performance

I would love to say this was inspired by a live performance sometime in my past. But, no, a magazine photo captured me, and that set me to thinking.

Command Performance

She is royalty in striped leggings,

I can tell by the tilted crown

on her head. Standing there

on a little green chair, her clear

soprano fills the enfolding space.

Before her the freckle-faced

conductor commands

a baton big for small hands

with great-hall bravado,

a bit sweeping for the sweet

voice that follows its own pace,

befitting a proper princess.

No matter. The conclusion still

brings bows and giggles, curtain

calls and clapping.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Squirrel at the Bird Feeder

Anyone who feeds the birds in wintertime has to reckon with squirrels, and they can prove to be ingenious in their endeavors to master bird feeders.

Squirrel at the Bird Feeder

Arms folded and standing upright on the snowy deck railing, he fixed me with the unblinking stare of a gambler analyzing his opponent. On second thought, the rodent resembled more of a plump cowpoke chewing over a problem. I could almost hear the whirring of small scale cogs in his nut sized brain as he planned a course of attack for the "ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET!" behind him.

Like an unexpected gust of wind, the fluffy tailed miscreant whipped down to the ground and attempted to shinny up the pole, but couldn't get a grip. Kept sliding backwards. He either a) failed the gym class in rope climbing or b) scrapped his Weight Watcher's plan.

In either case, he would have never won an athletic competition even among friends.  He simply couldn't muster a strong performance. Not to mention the chub factor. Or so I thought. Ten minutes later I freaked at the sight of him in the middle of the tray, shoveling in the treats, fat rump towards me as my tea kettle raged behind me.

Window banging and a shriek of profanity hot as the pot roiling on my stove grabbed his attention. The brute vaulted off the feeder like a gymnast with a perfect, if untimely, dismount. That's when two of his buddies moved into my sights. They appeared to be judging his overall performance, certain they could do better. The pair scaled the pole like seasoned stuntmen as the demented lady, once again, bellowed behind the glass pane. Granted, pounding on the table added to the din, prompting those two to leap to the ground. But it also promised a beast of a bruise.

Tube of grease in my throbbing hand, I marched into the cold. Metal rod waiting. Birds observing. Squirrels reconnoitering. Opening battle to me. Flushed with success, I felt energized as Napoleon on his way to conquer the world.

And we all know how that played out.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Storm Hype 101 (Prof. Chicken Little)

This week local TV meteorologists are absorbed in talking about our extended cold stretch. They entertain us with dire possibilities all while smiling broadly like the impresarios they are. But sometimes the weather, itself, calls them out.

Storm Hype 101 (Prof. Chicken Little)

Meteorologists in San Diego

need not apply.

Nor those in Tornado Alley

or hurricane locales since adrenaline

drives a crash course.

But weathermen/women in the snow belt

welcome to register and master

the minutia of forecast fever.

Learn the art of reporting an initial

warning in the muted tones

of a mourning dove auguring,

"Snowmageddon is riding in

from the Rockies."

Study the subtle tricks of voice

intensity, growing louder 

like a locomotive drawing nearer

until the din of disaster saturates

the station.

                         *

Trailing a predicted blizzard,

dawn sometimes reveals a pristine 

counterpane only a plump comforter deep.

Henny Penny and henchmen

now quiet as the night's snowfall.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Gone

This has been a disorienting year. COVID pulled the rug out from underneath us, people have died both from the virus and for other reasons, and usual routines have been upended. These thoughts played in my mind as I gazed through a predawn window high above the city, recently.  

Gone

Disconcerting

not to locate a familiar structure

on the horizon. A landmark

disappeared.

An emptiness,

a shift in perspective, a deletion

tugging.

In reality, fogginess blankets

the night and dissolves

solid buildings into nothingness.

I know daytime sunshine

will reveal the missing architecture,

erase this mistaken loss.

But across town my daughter-in-law

holds only memories and pictures

of her deceased father

buried a COVID world away

                                        without her.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

MSP in Winter

Whenever a snowstorm hits the Twin Cities, the snowplow drivers at the airport take pride in their ability to tackle the job. And I have never doubted their skills in keeping the runways safe.

MSP in Winter

A chorus line of snowplows

takes to the airport tarmac

kicking up powder in perfect unison,

coordinated as the Rockettes.

Behind the scene, weeks of work

go into exact choreographed routines.

But all shows, sweeping or short,

call for last minute tuning: changes

in line-up, a tweak in tempo.

The crew, in sync and jazzed, commits

to the runway, sustains the rhythm despite

minor slips in the dance, drifts of snow.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Independent Streak

Tomorrow is Inauguration Day, and still the country is plagued with uneasiness. I wrote this poem between the Presidential Election and the storming of the capitol. Since then I have spotted new Trump flags on the way to the cabin. Signs of continued disquietude.

Independent Streak

Flags fly for Trump/Pence:

some MAGA cap red,

some Stars and Stripes blue.

Even in defeat the defiance

feels palpable, unshifting

in stiff winds.

A reminder of unrest

in the American psyche.

Over time these banners

planted firmly in the earth

will fade and tatter

but tenacity defines their roots.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor       

Urban Messiah

The words for the poem below were taken from a sidebar to a picture captured pre-COVID. It was a joyous summertime photo, but after the events in the news my mind simply refused to go there.

Urban Messiah

A fountain showcased in July

in New York City. A shirtless

man, drenched and homeless, atop

the grates on a hot summer night.

Others reveling in the waters

honor the easy figure in mysterious

sociability, relax with the stranger,

and seem to cool off in his orbit.

                     *

         *

                                 *        * * *

A bunch of shots recalled.

           The moment

filtered to black-and-white. The carefree

                                         high brought low.

The heat on the street returned.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Holiday Greetings for 2020

Somehow, it just doesn't feel like the Holidays. The main blame falls on COVID but the lack of snow here contributes to it, also. I will be back in mid-January after a break of sorts. Meanwhile, enjoy the Season the best that you can.

Holiday greetings for 2020

Hang high the holly, decorate the tree,

cookies to bake, friends to see.

But experts warn, "Not so fast

with travel plans or parties this Season."

The reason? COVID, of course.

But music and merriment still fill the air,

and promised vaccines are about to appear.

So, here's hoping your Holidays

will be bright, your weeks full of cheer,

and "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus . . ."

since certain people will stay away this year.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

On Hearing the Latest Stats of North American Birds

I recently heard scientists say the carbon in the atmosphere did not decrease one wit at the start of this pandemic when almost the whole world experienced weeks in lockdown. Though smog disappeared and mountains reappeared there was no measurable difference. I don't think I was alone in hoping for even the briefest of dips.

On Hearing the Latest Stats of North American Birds

Many years ago my friend

dreamt of silent skies and flyways,

                     and woke up sobbing.

Her Rachel Carson prescience

now plays out in real time.

This morning a robin scratching

for breakfast scatters lawn detritus

by himself.        A lone diner

                     in an empty eatery.

City lakes no longer beckon blue

herons and great egrets with waters

turned tanin.          The absence

                        of the cranes an ache.

The winds of the plains once carried

           the lilt of meadowlarks.

        Lately, the breezes sing solo.

But, maybe, in this time of lockdown

when the earth breathes

without inhaling human hubris,

and exposes mountains hidden

by smog, the scoldings of red-winged

blackbirds will assault my senses again.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

280,000 Dead and Counting

Coronavirus remains rampant in this country, and every day the number of those who die from the virus continues to climb at alarming rates.

280,000 Dead and Counting

Covid-19 deplaned in Seattle and deployed within an hour

of landing, jumping from one dupe to another in that hour.

Finally, it gained a foothold among vulnerable seniors

settled in assisted living. Wreaked havoc hour by hour

effectively smothering its targets by stiffening their lungs.

It didn't take long for this virus to move on, a matter of hours.

New York, top-heavy with the deaths of black, brown and older

souls cut down by Coronavirus, stacked their bodies on each hour.

The victims, old or young, healthy or not, dark-skinned or fair,

the bandwidth of life suffering without family in their closing hours.

Then cases shifted down South and out West. Many counted

on a new vaccine, but its swift release resided in Story Hour.

Next up for the virus - flyover country. Hard hats and die-hards

with a streak of bullheaded independence insisting, "It's our

right to refuse face coverings and social distancing," scarcely

recognizing these actions might lead to many more final hours.

Here in the midlands, I, Marilyn M., swear to mask, avoid peer

pressure and crowds even fatigued as I am by these endless hours.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Signs of the Season

Suddenly, I'm surrounded by not-so-subtle reminders of the upcoming holidays. Beyond the obvious twinkling lights and outdoor decorations are other things that nudge me to pay attention.

Signs of the Season

Catalogues jamming my mailbox.

Flour and sugar and chocolate

on sale at the same time.

Salvation Army Red Kettles.

Buys in cars sporting big bows.

Seasonal beers and coffee brews.

"Toys for Tots" drop-off points.

An increase in Fed Ex and UPS 

trucks cruising the streets.

Sweets for the taking or making.

Tempting deals on cashmere 

for myself.

Our money tree plant casually

relinquishing its leaves.

Must be Christmastime.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

  

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

Fall Hunt

It won't be long until deer hunting season is in full swing here in Wisconsin. I know the herd must be culled, but a sight I glimpsed a year back left me with mixed feelings.

Fall Hunt

A glut of does, eyes vacant,

strung up by their necks,

hang shoulder to shoulder

like a scene captured in sepia

of hunting prowess circa 1880.

Only a rusty pickup in the yard

and piecemeal building wrap tacked

on a tired looking homestead

betray today's time frame.

Gutted and butchered this bounty

would more than feed a multitude

of families for the winter.

Machismo sanctioned

by the State in northern forests.

On the plains buffalo, also, roamed

too numerous to count, once.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Willows and Rain

 I confess, this is a repeat from years past, but the beauty of late autumn after a rain is ongoing.

Willows and Rain

Tiny beads of water cling

to the underside of thin

willow strips October bare

except for occasional

remaining petals

of burnt autumn

hanging off wispy ends

like a display tree at Tiffany's

dappled with diamonds and gold leaf.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Rootstock

Years ago, I couldn't understand why "old folks" would expend the effort to plant striplings they would never experience as fully grown trees. Age has made me wiser. 

Rootstock

His yard stretched like a piece 

of undulating prairie

without the limb-shedding oak

to anchor it until the owner,

ancient as the felled tree,

tacked the land firmly to the earth,

planting two saplings. Next door

college-age me could not comprehend

why the pensioner turned

the clay-heavy soil to settle striplings

he would never nurture to maturity.

                         *

Now beneath crisp autumn winds,

I dirty my own knees and strain

my back for a pair of young crabapples.

Breaking up ground, wrestling

with root balls, and wrapping trunks

against foraging deer.

I pause to unknot the kinks in my neck,

and glimpse a young neighbor

surveying my work, certain

of my daftness.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sunscreen

Coppertone used to push sun-bathing products promoting "healthy" tans. The company swiftly changed to lotions and creams with various SPF ratings when the world woke up to the serious skin damage caused by the sun. And now like a faithful acolyte I buy and apply their latest potions hoping to keep UVB and UVA rays at bay.  

Sunscreen

Grease paint, war paint smeared across my face,

Ghostlike impressions linger in its wake,

SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

Summertime 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

Fairy-tale 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

Scattered Thickets

Found poetry takes words out of context and rearranges them into a new story. From a description of Eastern Black Nightshade here is a found poem marking headaches of big cities everywhere.

Scattered Thickets   

         from Wild Berries & Fruit

        by Teresa Marine, 2018

Urban summers, hard and green,

grow in waste grounds and vacant lots.

Climbing, vining, cutleaf. Problems

ripen and cluster. It becomes tricky

to judge rocky ground.

Foragers avoid nightshade areas

and starred people entirely.

According to the database,

they are a separate species.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

         

September 2020

 September 2020

Up north exists a panorama dipped

in the gold of coins, the orange

of sunsets, and the crimson

of royalty. Shafts of sunshine

burnish the maples and oaks,

accent the aspens. But these

vibrant stands remain powerless

before the receding light.

Bequeath, instead, memories

of change and charm to help us

navigate the dark days ahead.

So, too, with Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Graveyards of the Mind

Fifteen years ago this month my brother died. He left a void that time has not filled. And, obviously, I still miss him. 

Graveyards of the Mind

A cemetery lost among corporate

cornfields on prime Dakota land.

A solitary square of prairie grass

swaying above souls below.

A muddy trek on Memorial Day

for a kid prompted to place flowers

on tombs of kin. More like a chore.

                      *

My brother called it right

when he died: cremation. But

his wife hauls him with her

          unable to settle

his ashes, stashes him in a closet.

No matter. Departed family members

finally free as the wind:

my mother, a mistral, annoyed

with my dismissal of burial sites

my father, ever a zephyr promising,

           "All will be well"

and my sib, a laughing gust today,

messing with my boat on Green Lake Bay.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fool

I listen to a short, daily podcast sponsored by NPR called "Make Me Smart" hosted by Kai Ryssdal and Molly Wood. Once a week the listeners are invited to send in something he or she thought they knew but later found out they had it wrong all along. The following would only be the beginning of a list I have revised for years.

Fool

Yesterday at the feeder

a newcomer: a finch

more magenta than mauve,

confused by me for a female cardinal.

On my kitchen counter:

a pristine pitcher

in the form of an orange,

a find in a second-hand store,

but not the mid-century vintage

I thought when I bought it.

In Congress: legislation

promising to outlaw lynching,

a presumption of progress by me.

But no, this same bill proposed

over a century ago.

A north country mandate:

the removal of ice-fishing houses

'from frozen waterways by March

the 1st. Misconstrued in my view

as an end of all things winter.

And within my soul

the songs of you: our nights

of star drift and rooms of heat,

these, too, mistaken by me - this time

                                  for signs of love.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Wiped Clean

I clearly remember applying for TSA Pre-Check, and the problem my faded fingerprints posed. The frustrated agent finally sent in the partial prints she had painstakingly obtained. Apparently, that was sufficient.

Wiped Clean

"Wash your hands!" tagged me

like words stitched to my shadow:

admonishments from my mother

postings in public restrooms

moralizing in med school

and now caveats about Coronavirus.

So I lathered and rinsed, soaped

and soaked. And my fingerprints slowly

sloughed off. Of dubious import to me

but not so for the Feds. A problem

for Pre-Check. A glitch in their game

plan.

After a delay, my partial prints okayed. But

in this conscious raising time white-bread me

wonders if I had darker skin would I be

at the back of the line again?

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor