From this northern icebox I look back now and think why was I complaining about warmer autumns?
Uptick in Temps
Trailing the fall equinox
into the forest, a string
of runaway highs (like sparks
chasing an accelerant) blazes
both the bears (drooping
in black furs) and the funky
smelling hunters (dripping
in flannel shirts) aiming for game.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
King Charles III is celebrating his birthday this month. I miss his mum, Queen Elizabeth II.
Coronation Cookies
Even the tabloids didn't trumpet the event.
The only clue of the pomp to come lay
in buntings billowing above major streets.
Acclaiming him King Charles instead
of Prince would take time.
The English missed their long reigning
Queen. She embossed their hearts, still.
In the city center store owners avoided
stocking too many coaches and crowns
honoring the official induction.
But at Heathrow mementos materialized:
Spode china and Steiff Bears to keychains
and mugs, all for the target market.
A last chance for tourists, a fitful tug
for Brits on the go.
Coronation Cookies, tasting dry as discs
of sand, followed me home in a keepsake tin.
The container conveniently fitting in my carry-on.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sometime around Daylight Savings last spring, I went out early at the cabin to hang the bird feeder, and was taken by surprise. This is a poem to honor that brief interval in time.
Wonders
The hoot of an owl wide-eyed me
as I stepped into predawn dark.
Could I spot his perch in the inky
nothing? My night eyes foundered.
His call pealed his turf or perhaps
appealed to paramours, and his presence
gladdened my heart.
Jewels sparkled beneath my feet
in this frosty non-winter of a winter.
The Big Dipper spilled and Cassiopeia
rested resplendent as the unconcerned
horizon lightened,
dismissing the assembly of this sky,
this raptor.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Every time I ride with him I must be mindful to swallow my comments.
Habits
A son of Singapore, you mastered
your motor skills on short freeways
unmarred by big rigs or black ice.
On endless trips I ride with a man who
earned a driver's license on an island
in perpetual summer, navigating
stop-and-go traffic only.
In town the rebel in you lets loose,
racing past posted limits. But on four-lane
roadways
you drive slower than a slug strolling
the Yellow Brick Road
certain that the Wicked Witch of the West
will swoop down with a ticket.
I fret at the possibility of being late
because you prefer urban routes to highways
but, mostly, my lips are sealed.
I have become an inadvertent back-seat-driver.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The equinox seen in autumn took place approximately ten days ago. This poem written almost six years ago could have been penned today. It describes our situation in Minnesota almost perfectly.
Autumnal Equinox
Later sunrises and earlier sunsets
march toward one another like troops
in pincer formation
battling the muggy days that lay siege
to a usually brisk September.
Juxtaposed against public pools
padlocked and settled for hibernation,
skateboarders in shorts fly by.
Youth relishing a reprieve from jackets,
unconcerned with why. The familiar chill
of fall, lacking.
To the north
cool Canadian air hesitates to cross
the border, perturbed by political posturing.
And for the foreseeable future
more night than day.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
It's a matter of perspective. The happenings in our lives that might devastate us are a mere trifle in the grand scheme of things.
All Relative
A sore throat and a cough
woke me: suspicious for Covid.
My heart slipped as mauve
marched across the home test.
If a line of coral is lamentable,
a sea of rouge must auger disaster.
As it traveled, running ragged
into a carmine control line,
the tsunami of primrose evaporated.
* * * * *
The suggestive sign of nothing good
comes wearing scarlet: fever, flames,
blood, even sunrise.
But no army could find a telltale
strip below the crimson slash already
laid down, cheering me.
Then I read the headlines:
WAR CONTINUES IN GAZA
Battle-sweat, red, prevailing.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
There are two types of blue moons: the seasonal blue moon which occurs when a season has four full moons, and the twice-monthly full moon. I was only familiar with the second sort. But come mid-August and the fourth full moon of summer, I learned something new. I wrote this poem as we awaited the last twice-monthly blue moon. Amazingly, the color was the same.
Blue Moon
Three years in the waiting.
The gloaming
now inky enough to pen night's coming,
underscore moonrise.
Which shade will she wear -
winter-sky pastel or lily pond wash?
Off to the East
behind trailing scarves of clouds
her unhurried ascent:
a stunning blood-orange.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Chicago was pounded with rain from Beryl even though it sits nowhere close to the ocean. Sometimes we, too, get the moisture associated with remnants of a hurricane this far north and this far inland.
Wisconsin Dog Days
A deck wet not with the dregs
of an overnight shower but simply
the humidity. Too far removed
from the rain tentacles of the season's
first hurricane - Beryl. Dew point
at dawn over 70. An Eastern Wood
Pewee languidly greets the day.
On my right, a sweating sun dipped
in molten gold emerges past
the horizon. To my left, wildfire haze,
drifting from half-a-continent away,
advances with the wind.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I initially wrote this poem 12 years ago, and it's as applicable today in this Year of the Dragon as it was then. The only difference is that California's the state I decided upon.
The Year of the Dragon
Fireflies patrol the woods
like members of a signal corps.
But, as of now, no hint
of a fire-spewing dragon
despite dragonflies dining lakeside.
This is not to say
one may not be slumbering
off the old logging road
grown brittle with underbrush.
The lightening of July jumping
the horizon, August's heat
pushing it forward,
and his beast of a brother
already stomping through California
with an eye to other states,
his greedy breath licking mountains
of forested land.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I remember the relief of daybreak when all seemed right with the world after spending a night camping outdoors.
At Day's End the Forest Loomed Untamed
A giant claw, pointy, witchy, reaches
through the underbrush, snagging
whatever it can. Unseen water raking
shoreline stones, or a fish showering shards
breaching, raises gooseflesh on necks,
startles city dwellers more in tune with night's
madness in an urban center: car alarms, sirens,
cat howls.
The "old" hands chuckle at the innocents,
inflate tales of marauding bears.
Early morning aura dispels the tarriness
that cloaks objects. Billowy clouds
no longer sinister, pines and oaks sober,
the bay subdued.
The talon? A wind driven branch fallen,
innocent in daylight turned menacing fodder
for campfire teasing.
But fresh paw prints renew sundown's vagary.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I am inspired by the picture taken by Voyager I as it was set to exit our solar system. Each time I see it, the photo stops me. Below are thoughts that came to me as I stood admiring it.
Pale Blue Dot
Reflected in light's narrow shaft
between two voids:
our planet caught on camera
from the stage of the galaxy's
embrace.
So slender the sunbeam.
So inconsequential the globe.
So like a mote in the satellite's eye.
And when death decrees that I
become one with the earth
And when radio signals no longer
hum the birth of the universe
And when new stars stagnate,
fresh realms refuse to rise
And when our sun implodes
five billion years from now
And when this world flares
into chimera, once more, I will be
home.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Fortunately, Minneapolis is at the far edge of the "Heat Dome." And we are not currently at the cabin but the sentiment remains the same.
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 retreat 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 to cool me
I purchase something bigger
without a thought for those who cannot.
The disabled, the elderly, my neighbor's
brother, Bernie, put on shorts,
pull the shades, and down a tepid drink.
Privilege buys me ignorance.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
This is the latest in a series of historical figures choosing another occupation instead of the one that made them famous.
The Masterpiece Baker
after Carl Tomlinson
If Botticelli were a baker, he would
have selected prized hives of honey
and a king's ransom of wheat,
not the commoner's rye and barley,
for his bread loaves, created panettone
studded with jewels of candied light,
concocted cannolis with ends dipped
in springtime, formed half-shell meringues
wispy as vapor, generated panna cotta
smooth as the satin gowns of noblewomen,
created biscotti tasting as scandalous
as bedding a bargirl, and attracted
the attention of the Medicis, known
for their appetites and for bankrolling
favored sons of Florence.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Since I have more than one grandchild, five to be exact, I thought I'd reprint a poem written years ago to balance the one about the grandson in London. This granddaughter is planning on entering Law School in the fall. None of them stays little for long.
Fireflies
(or Elizabeth at Six)
On a muggy Indiana night
my granddaughter filled her hand
still sticky from cobbler
with sluggish bugs blinking their way
above new mown grass.
Her fist clamped tight.
Sent to wash off the gooey mess
she pouted in protest, unfurled her fingers,
and loosed nine tiny twinkling lights
like a handful of stardust onto the breeze.
Not an injured wing among them.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I recently visited London, and my grandson there is now in his 2nd year of university. Yesterday he celebrated his 20th birthday but I remember the boy he was.
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,
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 and 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 stands waiting.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I am thinking about Elizabeth II. Perhaps because I'm working on another poem about the Royals or maybe because I'm on my way to London later this week. Whatever the reason, I'm simply reminded of her.
A Show of Respect
Scolded into listening to an ancient
radio airing solemnity and pomp,
a lad of ten fiddled with a homemade
rubber-band gun, refought WWII
and stopped the Japanese invaders.
A day off from school more valued
than the coronation of a Queen
half-a-world away.
Singapore, a British colony, still
dotted with dirt floor huts and wads
of spittle on the street.
After the Brits pulled out
and a refashioned flag waved,
after teardown of tottering kampongs,
after Prada, Coach, and Tiffany opened,
after his committed move to America
allegiance to this Monarch persisted
like a whisper's shadow.
When Elizabeth II died at 96, he roused
himself predawn, groaned-off his own
telltale aches of aging,
and honored the Queen by marking
her funeral in real time streamed live
from London.
iPad fixed in his hands, morning paper
beside him. This time he paid attention.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
On our trip to Japan I was again reminded of the biometrics that come into play, especially my fingerprints. I know the poem is a repeat but it remains apropos.
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 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 glitch
in their game plan.
After a delay, my partial prints okayed. But
in these cynical times white-bread me
wonders if I had darker skin would it be
more problematic?
Marlyn Aschoff Mellor
We took a two-hour drive to our old cabin to see if things had changed since the flood. It was a sorry sight.
On a happier note, I will be in Japan for the next few weeks. See you in April.
Five Years On
I.
Our property still swallowed
by lake overspill.
Bathtub rings wrap
the abandoned cabin.
II.
Aspens, willows and firs turn ghostly,
wallow knee deep in water,
stand guard.
Unapproachable, unattractive,
unwelcoming.
III.
Enough to invade my sleep with nightmares.
Enough to dissuade me from entering.
Enough to persuade me a fresh retreat waits.
IV.
No more summer people grilling.
No more cannonball splashes off docks.
No more little ones laughing, playing tag.
No more campfires to disturb the ducks.
V.
Only lapping water against a raised road,
an oversized sink without a drainpipe,
a lopsided bowl without a crack.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
This week's blog is a repeat but it captures what I feel mid-winter.
Yes, It's Still February
In this mini-month
the days drag their feet
beneath clouds of wet wool
velcroed to the sky.
They schlep carryalls filled
with sniffles and coughs
and their own guarded secret
which I deciphered:
each of them is 36 hours long
like the Dantesque days
of my medical residency.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sometimes it's the little things that get me.
AI Misinformation
Nary a flake falling but
my smartphone insists otherwise.
Maybe I carry a "not-so-smart"
phone. It's forever changing words
like "Marilyn" to "Marinate"
"Biscuit" to "Brisket"
"Binhammer" to "Ben Hammer"
"Semi" to "Semite"
turning messages into messes,
sending drivers down swampy roads,
losing signals in enchanted forests,
allowing spam with hidden scams,
ending conversations with ghosting,
flaring the flashlight without warning,
claiming sun when gloominess won.
Precipitation may appear on the app
but below the clouds lies only
the rust of winter.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The aches and pains of growing older are hard to deny, try as I might to downplay them. The last time I traveled to Singapore, I clearly remember problems with my back.
One Day Prior to Departure
First back massage, ever. In a foreign country. Pummeled by a woman who spoke little English. Not my choice but my host's when back pain bent me into a distorted comma. Again. This time in southern Asia. Thank the gods for muscle relaxants in my make-up bag. Part of my fixed stash. Woozy with altered judgment I agreed to the massage. Face in a black hole. Arms dangling. Paper panties only. A wisp of a woman, actually a well disguised Sumo wrestler, pinned me. Trapped animal snarls escaped my clenched teeth. Blinded by darkness and "seeing" no other way to count down 60 minutes of agony, I gave up at fifty-Mississippi, resigned to my fate. But torture eventually ends. She concluded the session with a question. "Massage painful, no?" A weary smile my only reply. The next day a Kafkaesque flight home: flashes of light caused by a flickering console two seats over in a nighttime cabin; weird laughter punctuating the silence; ghost-like attendants calling out "Water" before slipping from sight. Exiting the plane, I floated almost pain free. All that mashing had actually helped. But will I seek out a masseuse in the future? NOT FOR ALL THE TEA IN CHINA! (Or Singapore, for that matter.)
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Men become distinguished as they grow older. Women, on the other hand, become invisible.
Confessions of a Cranky Granny
Same store, same day, two men
independently jammed access
to aisle entrances/exits.
Muted oaths by me then
"Meekness be damned!"
I aimed my shopping cart
at the entrance, jostling through
dawdling wildebeests. They gawked.
Being female and "old" marked me
unseen but I advanced, freeing myself
to claim the approach, and leaving
them pushed aside like scraps
of cowhide.
As Meryl Streep once said,
"We're here now . . . and we will not
be bullied."
Rueing my deeds only when driving off,
I still pumped my fist in celebration!
My bad.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I couldn't let this time of year pass without writing something to mark the Season. As someone once sang, "May your days be merry and bright."
Holiday Haikus
Elves on the shelves move
themselves as if animate.
Magic in the air.
Peppermint sticks, pies,
cookies - some nutty, some not.
Treats that tempt a lot.
In preparation
I concoct goodies to spare,
and always new sweets.
But the best of all
remain the people who show,
whom I love and know.
Tradition: the thing
that forms lasting memories.
Happy Holidays!
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
My daughter in London sends me pictures of beautiful hardwoods, full of golden leaves, found on Hampstead Heath. For the most part, our trees are now bare. But before we withdraw from this season of color, here is an homage to autumn.
A Madhouse of Grandeur
A kaleidoscope
of clarets and mauves,
tangerines and saffrons run amok,
flashing against indigos and sages.
But now, dullness drugs
the eyes, segments mock time, forever
pushing.
Too soon this panache of autumn
finds itself underfoot,
resplendent until brittleness creeps in.
Where, today, the variegated jazz,
the funhouse colliding mirrors?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I used to watch, annually, inland gulls come together one by one on the empty parking lot of the mall across the way before its stores opened. This occurred over several weeks before the birds took off as a flock for warmer wintertime weather. But not this year.
What Happened?
Scavenger gulls vanished from the landscape.
I tumbled to their autumn antics in the empty
mall lot where they mulled and mustered,
lifted and dropped.
Scavenger gulls: cancelled.
Morning assemblies: no more.
I stared out my window craving to see them
on their inland climb out of wintertime.
But scavenger gulls faded, evaporated
from my denim-jacket days.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Hamas and Israel have hogged the headlines recently. But there is another war going on, and a final victory will be long in coming. Even at the cabin I am reminded of this.
Counterparts
I
No longer afraid of humans and
their shouts, the does back away
but don't back down, their fawns
stock still, ears perked.
Images from Ukraine show women
scolding enemy soldiers, nose to nose
as their offspring, rubble-coated,
peer from troubled doorways.
Hardened troops ignore the rebukes,
scan the area, fingers trigger-ready.
II
Late winter stars glow into morning
but lose to the advancing haze.
Birdcall echos like children begging
for breakfast. Meals: a pocketed crust.
The glazed snow deep enough
for desperate deer to upend bird feeders
and besieged mothers to ferret out
blackmarket hustlers.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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
