Not an autumn passes that one branch or another cannot wait to turn color. It always seems maples are involved, but never the same tree.
Incorrigible
Back of the cabin
breathes a full grown maple
who streaked some branches
crimson red.
Tosses them
to contrast her birthright green.
Flouts her defiance
before old firs and hardwoods.
Not for her
the group makeover in October,
marching lockstep to winter.
Rather, a rebel's sauciness
before shortened days and north winds
bend her will.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
As a child on vacation local kitsch fascinated me. Some of it still does, truth be told.
Promoters Set Pretty Scenes
Snow Globes gracing gift shop shelves
create winter's spin without the wind.
The firs do not bend or suffer rusty branches,
and neither people nor cars nosedive on ice.
And unlike blizzards the squall flakes out
in seconds.
Desert Globes sizzle like Southwest fry bread.
Sand swirls over imitation cacti and small
plastic skulls. No water worries, no vehicles
pancaked by a sky full of grit, no dirt creeping
under sills. And unlike dust storms the brownout
fades fast.
City Globes boast iconic buildings, flourish
in Visitor Centers. An illusion of grass painted
somewhere. No small figures seen panhandling
nor sleeping under bridges. No swirling fog,
no snow, no parched earth. And unlike the others
only clear vistas on pristine streets.
People will buy anything.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
A letter was circulated by a Neighborhood Watch Group advising us to steer clear of a near-by lake. That's all well and good for us humans but what about other critters?
City Pond
Earlier and earlier in summer
a cauldron of vichyssoise
thick with pea-green algae appears.
Ducks on logs preen, clean
feathers dripping with chlorophyta.
Turtle hatchlings dragging slime
slip and slide on rocks.
From a willow a kingfisher
watches the water below, flies away.
No fish? Poor visuals?
Parks and Rec pound
"Toxic Algae Warning"
signs into the ground.
But the wildlife can't read.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The high temps we've been experiencing and the number of deaths due to the heat make me realize I am so lucky in any number of ways.
High Pressure
Heat smothers the days,
the wind chimes silent.
Mirages scuttle away useless.
The scorpion sting of summer threatens
me in a cabin without AC,
a get-away deep in the north woods.
In cramped flats and in single-wides
neglected neighbors sweat in silence,
count on modest fans to provide
the remedy.
But when small blades do not stir enough
air, I purchase something bigger
with nary a thought for those who cannot.
The disabled, the elderly living alone
in airless lodgings suffer another misery
and privilege buys me ignorance.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Summer at the cabin and no AC. The only way to sleep at night is with an open window which worries me being a woman hearing all kinds of ghastly news stories.
Night Terrors
Silence reigns beyond
the inkiness of cabin screens.
No thrum of crickets. No hoot
of an owl. No moon to brighten
the shadows.
No vehicle noise on the country
road. Blood pounds in my ear.
My bedroom window ajar.
Sheets kicked to the end of the bed.
A loser with a gun and a grudge
slips between my half-dreaming
neurons.
Ads selling security with cameras
and motion detectors entice me,
and I bite.
But my heart lurches with every
attention-seeking flash tripped
by critters or absentminded leaves.
Snags the sleep just out of my reach,
still.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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 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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
