Fall Hunt

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

Fall Hunt

A glut of does, eyes vacant,

strung up by their necks,

hang shoulder to shoulder

like a scene captured in sepia

of hunting prowess circa 1880.

Only a rusty pickup in the yard

and piecemeal building wrap tacked

on a tired looking homestead

betray today's time frame.

Gutted and butchered this bounty

would more than feed a multitude

of families for the winter.

Machismo sanctioned

by the State in northern forests.

On the plains buffalo, also, roamed

too numerous to count, once.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Willows and Rain

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

Willows and Rain

Tiny beads of water cling

to the underside of thin

willow strips October bare

except for occasional

remaining petals

of burnt autumn

hanging off wispy ends

like a display tree at Tiffany's

dappled with diamonds and gold leaf.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Rootstock

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

Rootstock

His yard stretched like a piece 

of undulating prairie

without the limb-shedding oak

to anchor it until the owner,

ancient as the felled tree,

tacked the land firmly to the earth,

planting two saplings. Next door

college-age me could not comprehend

why the pensioner turned

the clay-heavy soil to settle striplings

he would never nurture to maturity.

                         *

Now beneath crisp autumn winds,

I dirty my own knees and strain

my back for a pair of young crabapples.

Breaking up ground, wrestling

with root balls, and wrapping trunks

against foraging deer.

I pause to unknot the kinks in my neck,

and glimpse a young neighbor

surveying my work, certain

of my daftness.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sunscreen

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

Sunscreen

Grease paint, war paint smeared across my face,

Ghostlike impressions linger in its wake,

SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

Summertime beckoned with a sunny embrace,

Most of us applied bronzers, unaware of the stakes.

No grease paint, war paint smeared on this face.

Then warnings and sunblock came to replace

Fairy-tale suntans. Hard to trust a remake

With SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

My fingers rub it in, try to leave no trace.

But despite being careful I still spot mistakes

Of grease paint or war paint smeared on my face.

Some days I look like a clown, a disgrace

With cheeks blotchy as a sugar dusted cake

Thanks to SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

Aging traps us all, and UV rays hold no grace.

Although I grumble, I know healthy skin takes

Grease paint, war paint smeared across my face

Leaving SPF residues of chalky-white lace.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Scattered Thickets

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

Scattered Thickets   

         from Wild Berries & Fruit

        by Teresa Marine, 2018

Urban summers, hard and green,

grow in waste grounds and vacant lots.

Climbing, vining, cutleaf. Problems

ripen and cluster. It becomes tricky

to judge rocky ground.

Foragers avoid nightshade areas

and starred people entirely.

According to the database,

they are a separate species.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

         

September 2020

 September 2020

Up north exists a panorama dipped

in the gold of coins, the orange

of sunsets, and the crimson

of royalty. Shafts of sunshine

burnish the maples and oaks,

accent the aspens. But these

vibrant stands remain powerless

before the receding light.

Bequeath, instead, memories

of change and charm to help us

navigate the dark days ahead.

So, too, with Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Graveyards of the Mind

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

Graveyards of the Mind

A cemetery lost among corporate

cornfields on prime Dakota land.

A solitary square of prairie grass

swaying above souls below.

A muddy trek on Memorial Day

for a kid prompted to place flowers

on tombs of kin. More like a chore.

                      *

My brother called it right

when he died: cremation. But

his wife hauls him with her

          unable to settle

his ashes, stashes him in a closet.

No matter. Departed family members

finally free as the wind:

my mother, a mistral, annoyed

with my dismissal of burial sites

my father, ever a zephyr promising,

           "All will be well"

and my sib, a laughing gust today,

messing with my boat on Green Lake Bay.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fool

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

Fool

Yesterday at the feeder

a newcomer: a finch

more magenta than mauve,

confused by me for a female cardinal.

On my kitchen counter:

a pristine pitcher

in the form of an orange,

a find in a second-hand store,

but not the mid-century vintage

I thought when I bought it.

In Congress: legislation

promising to outlaw lynching,

a presumption of progress by me.

But no, this same bill proposed

over a century ago.

A north country mandate:

the removal of ice-fishing houses

'from frozen waterways by March

the 1st. Misconstrued in my view

as an end of all things winter.

And within my soul

the songs of you: our nights

of star drift and rooms of heat,

these, too, mistaken by me - this time

                                  for signs of love.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Wiped Clean

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

Wiped Clean

"Wash your hands!" tagged me

like words stitched to my shadow:

admonishments from my mother

postings in public restrooms

moralizing in med school

and now caveats about Coronavirus.

So I lathered and rinsed, soaped

and soaked. And my fingerprints slowly

sloughed off. Of dubious import to me

but not so for the Feds. A problem

for Pre-Check. A glitch in their game

plan.

After a delay, my partial prints okayed. But

in this conscious raising time white-bread me

wonders if I had darker skin would I be

at the back of the line again?

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Rend

 Rend: to rip, rive, tatter or tear

Rend

A mechanical Bobcat

growls on my neighbor's lawn.

Its maw, a baby T-rex in motion,

attacks a row of straggly lilacs

at their base. Lifting the bushes

up and away, it beetles back

to the dump truck, dangling

greens from its teeth, grass

flattened beneath its treads.

Not unlike today's talkshow

host chewing up a current

candidate holding an opposing

political position.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sky Watching

Last week we were promised a meteor shower with a three night run. Come dark on the first day, not surprisingly, the city's lights veiled the show. And out in the country the next two nights cloud cover, likewise, hid the shooting stars. But every so often things align correctly, and the night sky becomes a spectacle to behold.

Sky Watching - after Rebecca McClanahan

Needing it still, she comes

when she can, this time

to a mountain top where her chatter

brims with excitement about the cloudless

night. Cassiopea, Orion, Ursa Major

and Minor shimmer light years away,

resplendent. And tonight the chance

to inspect the planets, see Saturn's rings,

mark the moons of Jupiter

with the aid of a powerful telescope

and its astronomer owner.

        But even roses have thorns:

        the cable car ride to the summit. Fear

        of heights no help as the darkened

        mountainside dropped away. Clutching

        a pole, she fixated on the floor shrouded

        in shadows, grateful for dimness hiding

        her death grip. Halfway there a full moon

        appeared from behind the peaks, flooding

        the cabin with light, blunting her dread.

Colored bands surround Saturn

as promised, and the Galileo satellites

of Jupiter remain unchanged from 1610.

A skeptic steps away from the scope

muttering, "This stuff really exists,"

and the hours hurtle past.

The return passage forgettable

as the conference itself.

But the side trip to the heavens

worth the lifetime in the gondola.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

  

What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Medical School

The blog has a new look and address: mfamellorpoetry.blogspot.com. When setting up this format and given a chance to insert a picture, I chose our cabin. And with the changes to the blog those of you who still wish to be considered a follower must sign on once more. Should you want to access old poems, you can find them at marilynmellorintothefray.blogspot.com. Hope you like the new layout.  

The hubbub over schools reopening this fall led me to consider my own time in med school with 20/20 hindsight.

What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Medical School - after Brad Aaron Modlin 

In anatomy Dr. Fridley dissected

a broken heart after examining

a gut split by laughter, leaving

the radiologist time enough

to share the secret of x-ray vision.

A pediatrician stretched a latex

glove over his head. Shazam!

A cockscomb that be-bopped

in the breeze as he set off

for a meeting with the dean.

The usual lunchtime films

of procedures demonstrated seven

ways to watch it all go wrong.

In the afternoon we learned new

terms for old school bacteria

along with the changed names

of world cities. An orthopedist

explained how to disarm a trigger-

thumb, and unlock knock knees.

We chanted mnemonics for the XII

Cranial Nerves before ending

in biochem for a hyped-up ride

on the Kreb's Cycle.

Oh, and how to hold the hand

of a patient at the end of life.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor