Will Ice Fishing No Longer Be a Sport?

Bear with me. There is a connection between ice fishing and the heat we're experiencing. I blame it on the insidious warming of this world.

Will Ice Fishing No Longer Be a Sport?

The vernal equinox up north:

more mud than buds, branches

still bare. Spools of sunshine

soften crusted snow, turning it

sloppy as ice cream left out too long.

Other days clouds commandeer the sky

and unleash a numbing embrace

of winter. Both conditions standard

springtime fare: three steps forward

then two steps back. But every year

whispers earlier, each season a touch

reaches deeper.

And I worry about the ice fisherman next door.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Current Norm in Rainstorms

The short-lived downpours we experienced this past weekend reminded me of an earlier poem I had written. Enough rain fell to revive the weeds but not the grass. And still the land remains sun-baked.

The Current Norm in Rainstorms

A slash of sizzling light from the hand

of a bellicose warrior rampaging

across a raven sky rent the moonless

gloom. Lightsabers stormed.

Wrath overtook the streets, gushed

over curbs, rushed like brigand bots

spewing mayhem in a parched city

as mortals huddled behind bolted doors.

The dragoon, riding the wind, moved on,

rallying the weeds but leaving withered

grasses slammed by the downpour

and the air clammy as a damp kerchief

tossed as he withdrew.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Transitions

Thoughts of my hometown saturate me at this point in time. Last summer I visited and will do so again this year before the snow flies.

Transitions

I

 

Miasma seeps across

the South Dakota state line.

Scant water tumbles over the falls

of my birthplace. The park no longer

an oasis in this hidebound town.

Our childhood neighborhood

now a collection of seedy houses

long in need of paint.

A hot, prairie wind blows

and I cannot breathe.

II

My brother's verdant acreage,

once a thought for spreading 

his ashes, now eaten by industry.

Talk of moving more remotely

peppered his speech

long before commercial creep.

Then came the CT scan.

The gravel road leading to his place

newly paved and renamed.

His mailbox and fire number, missed

by the bulldozer, cling to the edge

of the complex like faithful lookouts.

A farmer's field flows into the sunset

across the road. The cornstalks rustle

with the sound of a spirit sighing.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Highgate cemetery, Est. 1839

It's good to be back home after six weeks of travel. First, London, then California and, finally, South Bend, IN for my granddaughter's college graduation. This poem takes me back to London with it's crowds and rich history around every corner.  

Highgate Cemetery, Est.1839

The famous ones interred here,

Michael Faraday, George Eliot,

Henry Moore and so many others,

roll their eyes at details ascribed

to them, powerless to set straight

the record.

He of the proletariat, Karl Marx,

prowls around his outsized monument,

grumpy at the grandiosity.

Members of the Dickens family

roam rudderless without Charles,

buried in Westminster's Poet Corner.

Poisoned with polonium, Sasha

Litvinenko keens for his wind blown

steppes, forever unreachable.

Plots still available for a price

amid 53,000 plus gravesites, jostling

with one another, juxtaposed randomly.

Too many tombs for this cemetery.

Too many weeping trees and voyeuristic

visitors. Too many earthbound roots

                                                       for me.  

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Death in the Family

Since one of our Chief Justices has been in the news lately, I would like to pay homage to another one. One whom I miss dearly. 

On a different note, I will be traveling to multiple places this coming month, and I will be taking a break from my poetry. Be aware that the next time I post a poem will not be until the end of May. 

A Death in the Family

Up north, a panorama dipped

in the gold of coins alongside

vistas bathed in safety-vest orange

and burning bush scarlet.

                    Ruth Bader Ginsberg. A fiery ball

                    on the High Court. Lace collar

                    in a tweed world.

Easy to grow accustomed

to vibrancy, disregard

the diminishing daylight.

But unlike the leaves of fall, RBG's judgments won't fade.

                      Her legacy marching forward

                      with coed cadets at VMI.

                      Her Solomon wisdom embedded

                      in every fair paycheck printed.

                      Her mark guaranteeing Mary Barras,

                      Sheryl Sandbergs and the like.

Justice Ginsberg's death a jolt

to activists filing their nails instead

of petitions. And Jane Roe weeps.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

             

First Gig, First Boss

I recently found an old scrapbook that I had kept during my high school years. And came across a faded photo I had forgotten about.

First Gig, First Boss

I

Old enough for a summer job

at sixteen: assistant camp cook.

Fancy cakes and icings laced

my thoughts: dreams in overdrive.

Plain brownies and dishwashing:

the reality.

A salary of $100 total: checks

cut for the season at the wrap up.

That paystub: scotch-taped

alongside a snapshot of my boss.

II

A farmwife in a washed-out apron,

escaping into the background

like a cheshire cat without the grin.

I never knew, or more likely, never

held, Cookie's real name. I never saw

her taste a smile even on picture day.

In her fifties or forties? A son fighting

in Viet Nam? Why the need for extra

cash? Unpaid bills? Widowed? Children?

An authority figure soon forgotten by this

teen. But her photo, haunting the adult me,

offers only a figure in shadow.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

The Great Salt Lake

Recently, I read about the problems the state of Utah is encountering with the Great Salt Lake. And that prompted a memory of mine from long ago.

The Great Salt Lake

beckoned my mother like a siren's

song.  Her fear of water receding

in the warm embrace of a desert lake

famous for buoyancy.   Eyes closed.

But I submerged below its surface.

                    Eyes open.

Her warning about saltwater roared

in my ears, echoed my throb,

shot eight-year-old me skyward.

Rubbing my stinging gaze

and flailing towards shore, I swore

I glimpsed gremlins smirking.

The same trolls causing havoc

with arsenic blowing

from the drying lakebed today.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Tesla Techies

For those of you who don't know, I now have a Tesla. Ordered before Elon Musk even made the slightest move to buy Twitter. To be honest, I don't know if that would have made any difference in the end. EVs are like driving computers on wheels. Like one of my sons said, "If Mom can figure it out, then we should have no problems." Or something to that effect. 

Tesla Techies

Taken hostage by the prestige

of working for Tesla.

Given the title of Advisor instead

of Sales Rep prevents smarmy smile

overkill, promises minimal interaction.

My "Advisor," rapidly listing bare

essentials when I take delivery,

concludes with "Any questions?"

I smooth my creased brow trying

to appear confident. Deny ignorance.

He assures me I can find all answers

needed in the Owners Manual.

Onscreen in the vehicle. Online.

He shifts his feet and checks his watch.

Glances over my shoulder. Total time

with me: 15 minutes.

Not tech savvy, I leave the lot slowly,

curse the spitting rain as I fumble looking

for the wiper control - onscreen.

Tesla "Advisors" could learn a lesson

or two from the dissed car salesmen

down the road.

And I don't mean parking the inventory.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Concepts atop Constructs - 24 February 2022

One year ago today Putin's troops invaded Ukraine. Tens of thousands have died and still the fighting continues. I know this poem is a repeat but I feel that it remains appropriate. 

Concepts atop Constructs

       24 February 2022

Putin mirrors Ted Hughes' "Tractor"

frozen in time, in snow and ice.

"Hands like wounds inside armor gloves . . ."

The despot's battery, the need to regain

Russian glory, "hammering and hammering"

until it "jabbers . . . mockingly / Into happy

life.  And stands / shuddering itself full

of heat . . ."  Vladimir triggers his troops

". . . vibrating condemned obedience

Of iron to the cruelty of iron,"

and sends his hubris rumbling into Ukraine.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Persian Feminist

Another poem in my series of people pursuing professions other than what made them famous.

Persian Feminist

             after Carl Tomlinson 

If Scheherazade were a seamstress

she would have enchanted a magic

carpet for a misogynistic monarch

with threads of gossamer, adorning it

with traces of thieves skimming gold,

sailors shipwrecked on foreign shores,

a young lad with his lamp-living genie,

and fabricating tableaus suffused

with swashbucklers clashing against

marauders, completing her task

with feminine subtlety under the aegis

of candlelight in a thousand and one nights.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Winter Reckoning

Take it from me, do not put your mobile phone in your back packet when going out for a walk in winter conditions. Yes, this poem is a repeat but apropos for the season.

Winter Reckoning

Once, I would have shown off

my bruises, badges of honor

bestowed by harsh winters.

Now, I wish to avoid talk

                      of broken bones

from icy sidewalks and grass

slippery as glass.        Or

                              the advice

to hike the halls of shopping malls.

          Boring as a treadmill.

Like a kid, I hid

              shin-swirls of blueberry

under my jeans until a pedicurist

spied them, evidence

of a misstep into a klutzy fall.

A balm of words bubbled-up,

           soothing as the warm water

                                massaging my feet.

Sympathy in a nail salon. What took

me so long?     The indignities

                   already past their peak. 

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Open Question

It's always dicey flying in winter in snow country. The recent Christmas delays because of bad weather had me thinking back to another "fingers crossed" flight.

Open Question

My visitors pace, radar concerns.

Only star-shine and frostbite lace

these windows, but lake effect snow

forecast to the east.

Christmas week played out.

Time to reverse the sleigh, fly back

through the night.

The winter storm musters,

casting shadows across packed bags

and family members, weather apps

and advancing clocks.

Happy chatter from the youngest,

but the rest sit in silence. All caught

in thoughts of "What if . . .?"

until their flight gets a green light.

Umpteen fingers crossed as they lift

towards Orion, including this grandma here

and the other grandma there.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Newgrange

I will leave you with a Solstice Poem instead of a Christmas one, and see you in the New Year. Happy Holidays!

Newgrange

In late December

on crystal Irish mornings

a shaft of light will sweeten

a cave-like structure mounded

millennia ago by people like us.

Not for them endless moaning

about black nights

seeping into foreshortened days.

Rather, an undertaking to construct

an outsized earthen sanctuary

honoring light and life to come,

a dwelling for a burst of sunbeams

during the year's nadir.

Master builders these stone age

farmers, these Paleolithic artisans,

these Druids disdainfully dismissed

as primitives focused on the dark arts.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Toll

Last week there was an all day snowstorm at the cabin. It buried the seed left out for the birds that over-winter in the north country.

Toll

Winter weather drives

the hefty bell in nearby trees

as I hang a tray of seed

in stinging pre-dawn darkness.

The filmy veil of sunup reveals

a swirl of snow burying the mix.

I tell myself descendants

of dinosaurs know how to dodge

the blows of Borealis.

The frozen buffet bothers me

more than it does the birds.

Or maybe guilt over my neglect

of their dwindling numbers

stabs like extinction.

And in the air, a muffled knell

for a ripple turned tsunami.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Northwoods Sunday

Autumn at the cabin has taught me some people see no need to wait for hunting season. Need I say more?

Northwoods Sunday

Quiet as an empty church

without congregants.

Party-going crickets, leftovers

from an all-nighter, hum in their cups.

A coiled snake on a paver soaks up

contentment.

Remnants of faraway forest fires

cloud the vault.

Unseen midnight deer strip

crabapple branches bare.

Notes of geese flying high haunt

in the air.

Rifle retorts shatter my reverie,

flip-flop my stomach

in this cathedral without sanctuary.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Navigating London

I'm off to Singapore early tomorrow which had me thinking about my last trip to London. Masks were still mandated and became uncomfortable after wearing one for several hours. Thank goodness the flying time was under ten hours. Unlike what awaits me come the morning.

Navigating London

Power walking with and without

the pooch: small terrier with a big

personality, a pub dog, a diva who

prances off when called.

Skin rubbed raw on my wee toe,

blood stiffening the side of my sock.

But I don't want to slow down

my daughter, doyen of big city trekking

or admit to faulty footwear

or advancing arthritis

or being out of breath

or even the appearance of age spots.

The dog has it right, collapsing

onto her throw as I sigh into a chair,

and the speed walker hotfoots it

to the corner store.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Undercut

I had my hair cut last week, and it reminded me why I don't like going to the salon. The truth is sometimes hard to swallow.

Undercut

Tendons now rule the terrain

and "old lady" veins claim coulees

adjacent to bases of knuckles

grown prominent. The knob

beneath my thumb throbs

with a pendulum pulsing ache.

I glimpse my hands in the mirror

before slipping the snitches

under cover like culprits in hiding.

Feign interest in the casual chatter

of hairdressers everywhere.

But my "tell all" neck, peering

over the cinched cape, wobbles

like a turkey's wattle.

The truth trips me whenever I step

into the beauty salon, and short hair

means more potshots to a war-weary ego.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

24 February 2022

Each time Russia's war against Ukraine comes on the news I can't help but compare Ted Hughes' poem "Tractor" with Putin and his invasion of that country.

24 February 2022

Putin mirrors Ted Hughes' "Tractor"

frozen in time, in snow and ice.

"Hands like wounds inside armor gloves. . ."

The despot's battery, his need to regain

Russian glory, "hammering and hammering"

until it "jabbers . . . mockingly / Into happy

life. / And stands / shuddering itself full

of heat . . ."  Vladimir triggers his troops,

". . . vibrating condemned obedience

Of iron to the cruelty of iron. . ."

and sends his hubris rumbling into Ukraine.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

July the 5th 2022

The world as I know it is definitely changing. The death of Queen Elizabeth will bring profound shifts to England, and here in the US the ground is altering beneath us, too.

July the 5th 2022

Fog lies outside my windows

and inside my mind.

Last night's firework's display

watched with delight.

But what were we celebrating?

A country stepping backwards

with removal of a basic right

affecting women?

The loosened liberty to clutch

an AR-15 with its specter of death?

The rulings of this Supreme Court

Session hound me like unwanted smog.

No matter how hard I try to see

clearly, it clings to my surroundings

and will not dissipate.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Mind the Specters

When I returned to London for a visit post-Covid, I noticed a change in the din produced while riding the Tube System. The good news was the noise abatement worked on the upper lines. The bad news being that it came at the expense of the lowest line.

Mind the Specters

Banshees haunt the deepest train lines

on London's Underground with flickering

lights and earsplitting complaints.

Layer upon layer of civilizations

agitated by mechanical worms now

grubbing the earth with passengers

across bone orchards long crumbled,

returned again to black dirt and dross.

Noise abatement on the upper lines

provokes deafening dins on the lowest.

175 feet down the ancients cry out anew.

The riders nettled, but carriage operators

hurtle on, sporting newly issued ear plugs.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Recipes-III

 Here is one more poem in a series about my mother.

Recipes-III

Mom sliced apples into a pie,

added sugar, cinnamon and butter by rote,

blotted her eyes and got on with crimping

                                                         the crust.

Concerns about my brother

              being kicked out of college

                                    latticed into the pastry.

Kneaded bread absorbed hassles

      over adolescent curfews,

           access to car keys.

She ruled in the kitchen. When Mom

wished to discuss curfew violations

or had concerns about our wanderings

she did so in her realm. Her patience

usually measured.

But once I saw her smack my sister

with a cookie sheet for talking back.

Cookbooks laced with recipes

and memoirs fascinated her.

A stockpot for emotions

               frowned upon as a child

                                  and stifled as an adult.

Her teardrops

             salting more than one batch

                                                  of brownies. 

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor    

Vaccination Hesitation

With the hubbub over Covid and now monkeypox it is easy to lose sight of viruses that are already part of our world until they hit home.

Vaccination Hesitation

What nasty rash skirted my eye?

The fates against falling ill had

favored me: no shingles shot marred

my schedule. But blotches now sullied

my visage and panicked my partner

to the clinic where we both tried to needle

the varicella virus from scoring again.

In the wake of my mistaken calculation,

I swear I heard an oddsmaker snicker,

and I swallowed days of misery.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Attitude Adjustment

I recently took a trip back to the town where I was raised. My brother's once country acreage is now an Amazon Fulfillment Center on the edge of an ever expanding city.

Attitude Adjustment

As a kid the comics came first

although they hung out in back.

Now I save them for last after plowing

through stories of war in Ukraine

and the latest mass shooting.

My brother, the firstborn, sported

an easygoing attitude while I, the final

child, carried the albatross of seriousness.

A mix-up by the birthing genie

leading my sib to overnight shifts, freeing

his days for more appealing pursuits like

bowhunting, studying biomes and birds,

romping with his dogs. Hard news drew

me, he scrapped the daily paper. I formed

a few strong friendships, he had scores.

A host of them celebrated his life

as he, in a sweatshirt grown baggy, held

court under July skies.

The carefree have always had it right:

eat dessert first, the Good Humor Man

lives, and start with the funnies

even when blinders blur the words.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

If Machiavelli Were a Musician

Here is another in my series of historical people in different occupations than for what they are remembered. 

If Machiavelli Were a Musician

                           after Carl Tomlinson

If Machiavelli were a musician

he would have held first chair

in the violins, tuning all the string

sections to his timbre preconcert

before sitting and interpreting

the score with the orchestra under

the eyes of the maestro, sometimes

bowing the melody alone before fading

into the background, but always

controlling the other instrumentalists

with his tempo, and never once

forgetting to applaud the conductor

after a performance.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stalwart Sentries

On the drive to and from the cabin, we go past a scattering of small town cemeteries. In the Midwest the graveyards always give themselves away by the kind of trees planted there.

Stalwart Sentries

A willow guarded my childhood

backyard on the Dakota plains

with elms embracing out front.

On the edge of town a cluster

of cypresses graced the cemetery.

But less than a mile into the country

trees turned scarce as the land rolled

sea-like to infinity.

On Sunday drives to my bachelor-

farmer uncles, a group of graveyard

evergreens broke the horizon.

Landmarks on that ocean grassland

denoting burial grounds 

not unlike the one now holding 

my father and his brothers.

Hard for a young girl to contemplate

death; easier for her to dismiss

the soldier-straight markers fading

in the mirror.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Perspective

Late spring and people gather at the park. A stopover for migrating birds. A place of contentment until it isn't.  

Perspective

Reams of yellow police tape flutter

fitfully. The usual park-goers gone,

only EMTs pacing.

At a distance, a string of searchers

like cut-out paper dolls holding hands

scuff through brush and cattails.

The grounds without visitors

restyled into a resort-like spot

for migrating flocks

unperturbed by the rumbles

of a circling helicopter

and a boat trolling the lake.

But the thrumming holds unease

for those of us blurring the periphery.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Eco-Worrier's Creed

The planet is changing, and this is a statement about how I feel.

Eco-Worrier's Creed

I believe in Mother Nature,

Governess of heaven and earth,

and in the planet, itself, born

in chaos and tamed with time

until crucified under human

hands with runaway firestorms,

furious downpours, and the hell

of summer's scorching. After

years of warnings, Gaia comes

now to judge the damage done

from fossil fuels, deforestation

and drainage of ancient aquifers.

I believe in one sustainable

world, in composting and

recycling, in the work of wind

and sun, in creating wildlife

corridors, in driving electric cars,

in skipping the burger in favor

of chicken, in sweating more

in summer and layering on clothes

in winter, in buying from local

shops and supporting farmers'

markets, in limiting plane trips,

and carting reusable bags to stores

to hack at tendrils of complicity.

                                                Amen

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Seduction

This is a repeat of a poem from a few years ago when my grandson joined ROTC in college. This weekend he is graduating from Notre Dame and heading off for flight training in San Antonio as a Lt. in the Air Force. Here's to you, Paul.

Seduction

Stripes of sunbeams pierce window mornings.

Birches rustle, stretching limbs and flicking tresses.

Loons and lily pads unfold to wisps of daylight.

Spring blushes dawn's horizon.

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

swells, promising the sky and more. Miles away

my grown grandson veers toward the Air Force.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

The Clock

London has Big Ben striking on the quarter hour. And in my living room stands a grandfather clock with similar Westminster Chimes tolling the same fifteen minute intervals. On one hand, a beloved inheritance and, on the other, a reminder of my daughter and her family living in England.

The Clock

The grandfather clock tolled

thirteen, and I bit my lip bloody.

An heirloom resonating

the vibrato of mismanagement.

Late autumn, and I had cranked

its hands in reverse, falling back

into standard time

instead of stopping and waiting

for the world to catch up.

Like a surly sergeant it complained

with crusty language.

I wanted to right the error right away.

But deep in my gray matter I heard

my father sigh, "Leave it alone.

Within an hour it will be fine on its own."

Doubting Thomas me disputed

the memory. Fretful me impassioned

action. Mortified me agreed with speed.

In the end, I laced my fingers, ignored

the urge for correction, and cringed over

wrong cadences marking the quarter hours.

After 60 minutes of purgatory, the timepiece

finally rang true. Impassive as a Royal

Guard standing watch.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

   

Ryan at Eight

I am about to leave for London, and will be away from this blog for the coming two weeks. I will admit that today's poem is a repeat. The grandson in the poem is about to turn 18, and will be off to University this fall.

Ryan at Eight

Backlit with the wonders

of his world - inchworms, trains,

stink bugs, fresh rain -

his open face

disappears in increments

as boys in upper grades slip him

streetwise wisdom

on the playground, snigger profanity

and swear sotto voce.

Some of this he shares with his Gran.

"They say Tom's mom is a lush."

A frown frames his question.

"What exactly is that?"

Then the worried follow-up, "If you drink

wine at dinner or beer in the pub,

is that too much?"

But his grownup mien,

the one without a smile, doesn't hold

in London's Underground. He leans

toward the tunnel

eyes alive as sparks on the rail,

little boy grin as he spots a headlight

advancing through the lampblack,

a rush of wind ruffling his hair.

I blink and a young man waits down the line.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor