At my Age I'm Disinclined to Dash

Many of you know that my daughter and her family live in London, and I try to trek over there annually. Here is what I learned on last year's visit.

At my Age I'm Disinclined to Dash

By foot : the best way to master London. Yes, there's always the Underground or a bus, double-decker and red, of course, or a personal car. But I'm suggesting ambulating only one, maybe two miles. However, not at the antelope clip set by my college-age grandson, and who is game for Tube Challenges with his mates. His idea of recreation. By the way, it involves sprinting. Let's keep it simple and say, I am the millstone that curbs his pace whenever he walks with me. Good news: I conquer the uphill part with ease. Bad news: it's becoming harder to breathe while climbing said hills. And downhill, mismatched cog wheels grind away in my bum knee. The solution lies before me - avoid any hills! Or, literally, stop and smell the flowers Londoners enjoy showing-off in their front gardens. Before an outing, the four of us (my daughter and son-in-law, my grandson and me) agree on what to them rings ho-hum: parade lap speed. But somewhere along the way, they morph into the raceway vehicles they are, leaving me in my pedal car barely within hailing distance. I've perfected the art of hollering.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Captured

No matter how long between trips to the cabin, we always find dead bugs and/or mice on the premises. This oldie says it all.

Captured

A spider belly-up in the water pitcher.

A horsefly garroted in a skylight web. 

A chipmunk snookered by a mousetrap

                guarding the garage.

A smattering of Asian beetles like currents

                   dotting the floor.

Two hornets commiserating after attempts

             to dissolve a pane of glass.

But a crush of frogs caught "in flagrante delicto"

           croak delight in a springtime rite.

           The workaday carnage of critters

        and the blues of daily news disappear.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Boy Not To Be Discouraged

I have watched my grandson play soccer since he was one of a clump going after the ball. This poem honors a game that will stick with me always because of one score made by a teammate. By the way, my grandson is now in high school and still playing the game. 

A Boy Not To Be Discouraged

The parents of both teams united

in their smiles and applause

for the preschool boy with a grin

wide as the Mississippi, and arms 

raised like a superstar

as he ran back to midfield

after freeing the ball

from churning feet and whomping

it into the net . . .

         of the wrong goal.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stonehenge at Dusk

A contest absconded with three new poems of mine. A caveat warned not to publish them anywhere, not even in a blog. Instead, today's poem repeats one set in England, a delightful country to visit this time of year. Also, in honor of my "English" grandson's 21st birthday today.

Stonehenge at Dusk

Raven scores

alight for vespers, chatting

as they settle on lintels

draped across shoulders

of blue stone monoliths

dragged from faraway Wales.

Placed with an eye to sanctify

the sun - that wanderer

in bitter northern climes - 

the ancient boulders resonate

with evensong even now

a cantos across flaxen fields.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Unaccompanied Minor

Loons know when a lake becomes free of ice because within 24 hours they return to their old haunts. Spring is upon us, and I celebrate with an old poem appropriate for the season.

Unaccompanied Minor

The vernal equinox come and gone

yet nighttime frosts persist,

winter's dunning agents.

A flash of white like a message

from a signal light

rides the waterline - the loon returned.

But the size is wrong, more of a liner

than a tug. Black eyes instead of red,

and, once unfurled, a long goose-shaped neck.

The bird, a singleton, glides off,

unaware of fading ugly-duckling coloring,

head held as if royalty, 

bearing the favor of spring: a cygnet on the cusp.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Shinto Shrine

A year ago we took a tour of Japan which included lots of Shinto Shrines and Buddhist Temples. Towards the end of our trip the group descended on this monk, genuinely happy to see us.

Shinto Shrine

    The lone monk in the monastery, 

200 steps up, couldn't restrain beaming

        when day-trippers sprouted

       like the occasional wildflower.

First a riverboat ride then a climb

that shrugs off coats. One or two

other suppliants joined us 

                                  in this holy place.

A true hermit discouraged such people:

dodging them.

A wise mendicant welcomed visitors:

listening to their stories.

Brimming with bonhomie, this monastic

     with his temple chants, hushed me,

                comforted my core.

      Silence steered the watercraft back.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sauntering through Utopia

I am out of sync for any number of reasons, and Singapore clings to my brain. I hope you don't mind a repeat of a ghazal - a certain poetry form - about that island nation. 

Sauntering through Utopia

Winter's stole falls from my shoulders in Singapore.

Unwrapped, my pores open to drink-in Singapore.

Hawker stalls sizzle.  Chili crab and pepper crab 

fill my mouth with sensuous tasting Singapore.

No gum beneath my feet - by decree - no graffiti

but caning stripes for rebellious Singapore.

I find fading remnants of British forts and thousand

year-old rain forests once covering Singapore.

Casinos rim the bay but on the dock the hood

of the hangman shadows drug deals in Singapore.

The world's busiest port, the world's brightest students

except for those who are not.  Now what, Singapore?

"Invited guests" clean up after me, hammer rivets,

lade cargo, drop sweat on the wealth of Singapore.

I see no sounds of the artist's soul, the discord

of a Picasso in buttoned-up Singapore.

No place of unorthodoxy, this.  Peacocks, papaya, 

Prada, more.  I can't wait to leave you, Singapore.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor 

Imoverished Retirees

I am back from my trip to Singapore. I looked forward to the food but faintly dreaded going to the hawker stalls because the pensioners always swarmed me, one at a time, mind you. But, oddly, at no time when I was there did they appear. Talk about losing one's job.

Impoverished Retirees

In Singapore strict laws

block beggars, but peddlers

swarm hawker centers

where no napkins are found.

Always

          Someone sells tissue

          for messy hands.

Always

          someone's grandma

       or grandpa peddles wipes.

Always

        the cost stays the same:

  three packets for pocket change.

These mosquitoes sting stealthily,

        leaving a welt of guilt.

When a shake of the head dismisses

them I feel like a grinch, but when 

buying this service I fear everyone

         sees me as a soft touch.

Easy enough to steal away like

a disinterested cat until mealtime

             beckons, again.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

KIcking and Dragging of Feet on the Way to Net Zero

There is still much more that can be done to reclaim the earth as we once knew it, if people are willing.

On a side note, I will be traveling in February so I won't burden you with poems that month.

Kicking and Dragging of Feet

     on the Way to Net Zero

Earth-friendly garbage bags split

en route to the chute, releasing

your own trashy words.

You describe the "trickle" from a water-

saving shower-head in similar terms.

Recycled paper products not as thirsty,

napkins not thick enough, too rough

on your face.

Nor will reclaimed paperwork serve

                  for the printer.

Apparently, only eco-friendly TP tissue

                   poses no issue.

You defend your Jeep like it's a beloved

   family member even though it chugs

         fossil fuel and farts carbon.

And yet you willingly toss old clothes

            into the Good Will bag.

A compromise:

for you - patently plastic rubbish bags

for myself - reprocessed paper towels

for us - a give-and-take on environment

Then I remember:

              first steps are always the hardest.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Denial

I will never forget my first encounter with a patient who had cancer. As an inexperienced neophyte it left a lasting impression on me.

Denial

A stalker found harbor in the breast

of a young farm woman,

grew silently until the alien burst

through her skin, leaking, reeking

like a cesspit.

She could no longer ignore the specter.

The farmer's wife spoke of spring

calving, of two unexpected breeches,

almost in apology for inattention to herself.

But the disease had moldered far longer

than the heifers giving birth.

At twenty-six, I smiled at her and stifled a gag.

Her oozing mortality sent cracks

through my own safety shield, her presence

pointing to the fallow field that awaited me.

I repackaged her wound. My mind whirled

with making an escape for a hasty self-exam.

The woman's husband sat dazed ---

like a storm had just wiped out his crops ---

and fiddled with his worn baseball cap, mutely.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Signs of the Season

It wouldn't be Christmas without my acknowledging the season. Granted, this is a repeat but it still holds true.

Signs of the Season

Deals flooding my e-mail.

Catalogues jamming my snail-mail.

Salvation Army Red Kettles.

Buys on cars sporting big bows.

Seasonal beer and coffee brew options.

Toys for Tots drop-off points.

An increase in Fed Ex and UPS trucks.

Flour, sugar, and chocolate on sale.

Sweets for the taking or making.

Tempting steals for myself.

Our Money Tree plant dropping its leaves.

It must be Christmastime.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Uptick in Temps

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

Coronation Cookies

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 

Wonders

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

Habits

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

Autumnal Equinox

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

All Relative

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 

Blue Moon

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

Wisconsin Dog Days

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 

The Year of the Dragon

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

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