At Day's End the Forest Loomed Untamed

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

Pale Blue Dot

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

High Pressure

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 

The Masterpiece Baker

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

Fireflies

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 

Ryan at Eight

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

A Show of Respect

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

 

Wiped Clean

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

Five Years On

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

Yes, It's Still February

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

AI Misinformation

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

One Day Prior to Departure

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

Confessions of a Cranky Granny

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 

Holiday Haikus

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

 

Strike

Seeing various workers strike recently made me recall the walk-out I once was caught in. It was very disruptive, and we were all glad, both strikers and non-strikers alike, when the Union came to terms with Management.

Strike

"Patients before Profit!"

"Honk if you support nurses!"

It's not about the money.

It's always about the money.

                 * * * 

MD on my name tag: a toxic

cipher to the marchers

but a pass to cross their line.

The waiting-room slimed

with runny noses and coughs.

A single travel-nurse triaging.

"Safe staffing now!" faintly audible.

The chant mingles with the gnat-like

buzz from an aggrieved ER light.

Infant struggling to breathe placed

in Critical Room One. Oxygen started,

nasal swab sent, portable X-ray taken.

Admit with RSV. But where? Into

whose hands? Transfer. But where?

Next up: a clean cut to be stitched.

In reality: wild child vs pinch hitter

lacking savvy. No soothing words, no 

warm blanket wrap to contain wiggles.

The father faints. My bumbling sidekick

and I tend to him. Child wailing. Sterile

field broken.

New gloves. New suture. New needle.

Papa newly seated.

Outside: fireworks dampened at midnight.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

A Madhouse of Grandeur

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

What Happened?

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

Counterparts

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 

Necessary Groundwork to Weather Prairie Driven Blizzards

This week's poem is a repeat but apropos to one of my bookclubs which, unfortunately, is no more.

Necessary Groundwork

to Weather Prairie Driven Blizzards

Autumn and a stand of oaks,

summer's grande dames fading.

The visible hint a new henna rinse

in their foliage.

These trees sense the need

to conserve crucial sap, tolerate

weakened branches, and ignore

the growing hollows in their core

like time undermining

the matriarchs of my book club.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Incorrigible

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

Promoters Set Pretty Scenes

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

City Pond

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

High Pressure

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

Night Terrors

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 

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