Seventh Heaven

I'll be taking off July and August but I will be back sometime in September. Before I go, I hope to leave you with the sense of wonder that comes with viewing an unobstructed night sky. And, yes, the poem is a rerun.

Seventh Heaven

In wildwood clearings I linger

on the dock of midnight,

circle under the marvel of stars.

The summer sky shifts

the view I witness in winter

when Ursa Major rides low

but tonight somersaults higher

in the heavens of July.

And from his father's arms

Ursa Minor, tossed upwards

like a laughing child,

dangles the North Star on a string.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Rift in Harmony

 If anything, this life has taught me the more things change, the more they remain the same.

A Rift in Harmony

The buzz of tonight's open air concert

recalls the long ago shiver of Woodstock

glimpsed from a half a continent away.

Music and images from a rolling screen

mingled with the sounds of a newborn,

the misgivings of her young Republican father.

Snatches of "White Rabbit" and "Pinball Wizard,"

the psychedelic rock of Jimi Hendrix

and his "Star Spangled Banner" rode the airwaves,

backdrop for Vietnam and Civil Rights.

Generational tsunamis on the coasts but a reason

for channel changing in our heartland apartment.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Chief Complaint: Blurry Vision

A few weeks ago I attended a family reunion of sorts in Phoenix where I was reminded that a nephew's wife contends with multiple sclerosis on a daily basis. MS primarily affects adults but, occasionally, adult diseases present to Pediatric ERs.

Chief Complaint: Blurry Vision

The slender teen opens

her closed right eye

and sends the orbit wandering,

similar to her own weaving walk

for the past two weeks.

A head scan reveals cannonballs

scattered on the battlefield of her brain.

Not tumors but damage

from the arsenal of multiple sclerosis,

protective coating stripped

from nerves, leaving them as vulnerable

as the unsteady adolescent before me,

struggling to focus.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Mind the Clutch

Sometimes the ride is smooth, sometimes rough. It's not unusual that normal wear and tear call for readjustments.

Mind the Clutch

Random stretches of misfires,

like an engine out of sync, ping

our relationship.

Sometimes we flare, talking past

each other like cars revving

their engines, ready to burn rubber.

Sometimes we stall, walk away

fuming, struggle to recalibrate.

Mechanics 101: Assess the problem,

uncross wires of communication,

and tinker.

Even the touchiest Jaguar responds

to a gentle touch.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Seduction

My grandson is currently at an Air Force ROTC camp in Hattiesburg, MS. His first taste of military life. He has one year of college left before he leaves to serve full time. I wrote this last fall but it feels right to post it now.

Seduction

Stripes of sunbeam pierce window mornings.

Birches rustle, stretching limbs and flicking tresses.

Loons and lily pads unfold to wisps of daylight.

Autumn's oblivion blushes a maple's brow.

The hum of a small plane, the song of a Siren,

swells, promising the sky. And miles away

my grown grandson veers towards the Air Force.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Prayer in the Time of COVID

A year ago I came across a photo taken in pre-COVID times of people delighted to be cooling off in New York City, standing among spraying jets of water. This poem, as with all Found Poetry, is from words reframed and given new meaning. They come from the sidebar accompanying the photograph. And with COVID starting to ease, the prayer just might be attainable.

A Prayer in the Time of COVID

                 A Found Poem, Independence Day,

                 Amy Weiss-Meyer, The Atlantic,

                 July/August 2020

Messiah,

Bring back the jubilant highs

of carefree camera shots.

The honored tradition of standing

with strangers:

                        - the homeless,

                 the shirtless, the drenched -

those cooling-off atop fountain grates

                    in city parks.

Recall the easy sociability of others

orbiting the perimeter of urban life,

the playful water, the palpable pleasure.

Frame me joyful on a summer's night.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Wild Woods

More than once this past winter I found myself staring from a cabin window and letting my imagination rule. The scene that engrossed me wasn't nearly as entertaining with the coming of warm weather. 

Wild Woods

In the wildwood a fallen tree

     suggests a baby dino

or maybe a funky black rhino

pausing before a crossing.

Snowfall cloaks the creature's

back and brow. Or maybe it's

the prow of Paul Bunyan's

canoe, even his misplaced shoe.

A golf club thrown in frustration

or the front of a wiener dog

escaping a tangled situation.

Conceivably, a croc surfacing

from the frosty thicket. Maybe

the emergence of a hefty cricket.

Illusions firmly planted in drifts

   of the mind, a make-believe 

 pastime until harbingers of spring 

                start to sing.  

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Looking Glass Blues

It's been almost a year since my favorite stylist hung up her scissors. And still I search for someone to keep my short hair neat and trim.

Looking Glass Blues

She promised me a pixie haircut

But delivered a deranged elf effect.

It made no difference how hard I tugged,

Sawed-off bangs taunted me, haunted me.

Resembling a deranged elf, I searched

For solace in an enchanted pond and cringed

At the butchered bangs abusing me.

The stunted strands refused to stretch.

No fairytale transformation at hand.

Tried to bury my hair beneath a headband

But the stunted strands popped free.

Sighing, I decided, "It could be worse."

Restyled it and a scarecrow appeared.

Knowing time alone would address this mess,

I kept telling myself, "It could be worse,"

And fervently wished to hide inside.

I knew in time my bangs would behave

And it made no difference how hard I tugged.

If only I had been able to hide inside

With this botched promise of a pixie haircut.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor   

Scourge

It's pleasant to walk the country roads around our cabin, but warmer weather brings irritating black flies to contend with. That one 80 degree day we recently enjoyed? When I went walking I met with a contingent of their sibs, not nearly as big but just as irksome.

Scourge

Flies arranged as relay runners,

like the latest lineup of backbiting

politicians, hound me, wreathe

my head, assault my ears, slip under

my visor, and flash past my eyes.

Swearing, I swat at the tormentors

chewing my hide. The lowlands

loom. Prime breeding ground

for mites and nasty sound bites.

"Bug Off" spray simply seems

to rankle them. My only hope:

a stiff breeze to blast them 

into oblivion. Keep them at bay.

Even a passing pickup sends

the pests scrambling. But like

politicos on pause defending

past actions, they soon resume

their swarming.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Spring Saplings

Shortly after we moved into our "new" cabin in 2019, we planted two young crabapple trees of differing varieties. Here is their story so far.

Spring Saplings 

A comical brush-like crabapple

boasting straight-up branches

now buried in springtime blossoms

droops after last night's storm,

top heavy with fuchsia tints.

Across the yard, savaged by winter

and ravenous deer, a half-sib clings

to scant buds streaked shell-pink.

Undaunted, this fledgling

dressed in gossamer thin greenery

tucks the few florets into her hair,

charming as Cinderella.

Offspring of kindred stock,

one thrives and the other struggles.

In fairytales the downtrodden

triumph, stepsisters fade away, forgotten,

and Bambi doesn't shred young trees.

But these two dwell in a proper forest

where work boots trump glass slippers,

and pumpkins remain vehicles for pies.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Building Renovation

Some of the older buildings in the Twin Cities have been repurposed for other uses. Like the old Pillsbury Mill converted into apartments, and a smattering of antiquated brick and mortar schools into condos. But the original Children's Hospital? 

Building Renovation

Across the freeway

a mere home run away

from the "new" Children's Hospital

stands the old one.

Labs and wards converted to condos.

Juniper plantings, zinnia beds struggle

to soften the structure.

Tell me, who can live there

on units that housed the sickest kids

or in a repurposed operating room?

Does a whiff of phenol cling to lobby walls?

When did sadness first leach

into those dusty, coco bricks shading it gloomy

as a Charles Dickens facade?

And how can the new tenants,

even on the sunniest baseball days, not see?

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

If We Disregard the Ditches, How Can We Survive?

Melting snow has exposed winter's detritus, and it is disturbing to see along the country roads I walk. Last summer's debris lingers.

If We Disregard the Ditches, How Can We Survive?

Dips and depressions hold

runoff pockets, pesticides

and herbicides.

Tangled in goosegrass

beside thistles and ragweed

columbine plants poke through.

Scrapped plastic bags flutter

alongside the creeping vine

of Coronavirus.

Bullfrogs, tree frogs and turtles

find refuge here. Deer and fox

dart across the unmarked there.

Swales too shallow to swallow

police injustice reflect the rage

of George Floyd's murder.

Monarch butterflies, gossamer

dragonflies and uneasy neighbors

take flight.

Black-eyed Susans replace False

Indigo. Urbanites eager to escape

flock to cabin country but only add

to the cache of crumpled water

bottles hurling lasting indictments

at people with ears to hear.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

April Ablutions

I confess we drove to the cabin last week, and I forgot to bring recent poems of mine. So, what I'm posting is undoubtedly a repeat. But it's also apropos to the traces of leftover snow and the cold rain we've endured here these past few days.

April Ablutions

Like a curved blade

with shaving cream

recently scraped from a face,

a stubborn scrim of snow

hugs the ground in front

of a newly rinsed car.

The rest of the lather washed

away in a morning shower.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor   

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