With apologies to those of you who already seen this, below are some of my Christmas memories as a kid. Happy Holidays, Everyone!
Remembrances of Christmas Past
The crunchier the snow the colder the air.
The month dragged i n t e r m i n a b l y.
Discovering Santa's stash early
guaranteed disappointment.
The closer the holiday
the more cookies and goodies to be found.
Midnight Mass and a choir singing
Silent Night
invited
droopy
eyelids.
Waking to the aroma of roasting turkey
produced pure olfactory pleasure.
But the house jam full of family and friends
outmatched even a stack of toys beneath the tree.
May only good memories surround you this season!
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, December 25, 2016
Sunday, December 18, 2016
How to Deal with Negative Numbers
Here in Minnesota a November with routine highs of 60 or more, spooky in its warmth, lulled us into thinking that winter would once again be a non-event like those in the recent past. Scant snow and chilly days, nothing really COLD. You know, the type of weather that comes with bragging rights. Let's just say the month of December reminded us, and not so gently, of what winter deals to those who live in the north country.
Granted, this morning's low didn't set a record, but -20 degrees, not including the windchill of -31, is not a pleasant way to greet the day. Even ensconced in the warmth of home the bitter temperature brought back memories of a very frigid weekend once spent at the cabin.
How to Deal with Negative Numbers
Sixteen below, pines up to their knees in snow,
and tucked into the trees a thin-skinned cabin.
The fire in its belly a half-lit sputter, listless
as a hibernating bear. Under comforters
hip-aching cold despite bodies close as velcro.
Come morning the siren's song
of a false sun. Snowshoes hung in the hall
hover with the reproach of friends ignored.
One night outside and our coddled car surrenders.
Next a search for jumper cables, nearby neighbors.
The price for help: a locals' jibes
as we juice the motor. "Nothin' but a bunch
of trouble ..." "If you didn't drive such a sissy import ..."
The gravelly voice no match for the twinkle in his eye.
The offer of coffee better than an extra sweater: the cold
no longer a bottomless crevasse.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Granted, this morning's low didn't set a record, but -20 degrees, not including the windchill of -31, is not a pleasant way to greet the day. Even ensconced in the warmth of home the bitter temperature brought back memories of a very frigid weekend once spent at the cabin.
How to Deal with Negative Numbers
Sixteen below, pines up to their knees in snow,
and tucked into the trees a thin-skinned cabin.
The fire in its belly a half-lit sputter, listless
as a hibernating bear. Under comforters
hip-aching cold despite bodies close as velcro.
Come morning the siren's song
of a false sun. Snowshoes hung in the hall
hover with the reproach of friends ignored.
One night outside and our coddled car surrenders.
Next a search for jumper cables, nearby neighbors.
The price for help: a locals' jibes
as we juice the motor. "Nothin' but a bunch
of trouble ..." "If you didn't drive such a sissy import ..."
The gravelly voice no match for the twinkle in his eye.
The offer of coffee better than an extra sweater: the cold
no longer a bottomless crevasse.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, December 11, 2016
Winter Port
I have long been fascinated by trans-Atlantic ships traveling from Rotterdam or Gdansk or any European port across the ocean, down the St. Lawrence Seaway, through a string of Great Lakes, and on to their final destination at the western tip of Lake Superior - Duluth, Minnesota. An inland waterway journey over 2400 miles long.
The Great Lakes, especially Superior, tend to ice-up in winter, closing down far northern shipping for about three months of the year. Though my travels have not taken me to Duluth in December, I once saw a photo of one of these "salties" materializing from a snowstorm, crusted in ice, and headed for her winter's berth. December snow never fails to remind me of that breathtaking image.
Winter Port
The iron ore freighter burdened
with frozen rime sprayed thick
by Superior's water and set
by December's cold emerges
from a stinging fog. Three throaty
blasts announce her late arrival.
The empty canal walkway covered
in ankle-deep, blowing snow
no longer harbors
greeting committees of waving
kids and curious tourists.
Only the lone operator of the lift
bridge the ship must clear
for a safe haven smiles in welcome.
He sounds a matching trio of salutations
as great heaps of splintered ice
close in behind her.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The Great Lakes, especially Superior, tend to ice-up in winter, closing down far northern shipping for about three months of the year. Though my travels have not taken me to Duluth in December, I once saw a photo of one of these "salties" materializing from a snowstorm, crusted in ice, and headed for her winter's berth. December snow never fails to remind me of that breathtaking image.
Winter Port
The iron ore freighter burdened
with frozen rime sprayed thick
by Superior's water and set
by December's cold emerges
from a stinging fog. Three throaty
blasts announce her late arrival.
The empty canal walkway covered
in ankle-deep, blowing snow
no longer harbors
greeting committees of waving
kids and curious tourists.
Only the lone operator of the lift
bridge the ship must clear
for a safe haven smiles in welcome.
He sounds a matching trio of salutations
as great heaps of splintered ice
close in behind her.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Christmas Gift
This week holds the birthday of my mother, and if she were still alive, she would be very old, indeed. Never one to reveal how many years she actually had lived, Mom responded to more than one query with "A gentleman never asks a lady her age." And I will honor that.
She emigrated to this country as an adolescent with her parents, and, unfortunately, lost her own mother to a fast moving cancer within a year of their arrival. I'm sure December remained a bittersweet month for Mom throughout her long life.
Christmas Gift
A forgotten photo
now reproduced, enlarged, found in a box
saggy with age, dampens your creased cheeks.
"It's my mother," you explain, unwrapped,
as if I didn't know. Her funeral held
in early December on your fourteenth birthday.
Like the scattered Russian
nesting dolls underfoot
how do we fit together?
Grandma
forever young,
you unguarded as a child
absorbed with your present,
me now feeling like your mother
in this stack, somewhere, my own daughter.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
She emigrated to this country as an adolescent with her parents, and, unfortunately, lost her own mother to a fast moving cancer within a year of their arrival. I'm sure December remained a bittersweet month for Mom throughout her long life.
Christmas Gift
A forgotten photo
now reproduced, enlarged, found in a box
saggy with age, dampens your creased cheeks.
"It's my mother," you explain, unwrapped,
as if I didn't know. Her funeral held
in early December on your fourteenth birthday.
Like the scattered Russian
nesting dolls underfoot
how do we fit together?
Grandma
forever young,
you unguarded as a child
absorbed with your present,
me now feeling like your mother
in this stack, somewhere, my own daughter.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Victorian Lady
I confess. I was out of town for an extended Thanksgiving Holiday in northern California. Even with the population density around San Francisco you don't have to travel far to find rugged, tree filled terrain. The height of the redwoods remains forever astonishing to me as does the pounding Pacific Ocean far below wooded hills along the coastline.
Closer to home there stands a tree in my old neighborhood that routinely catches my attention but for entirely different reasons.
Victorian Lady
Hewn from a hundred year oak
she stands impossibly elegant,
carved from the trunk of a tree
firmly grounded in the present.
Poised in bustling skirts
and commanding hat, she carries
a parasol fully open but lowered
as if lingering, listening to echoes
with head turned and chin tilted.
Her stance suggests
a resigned waiting for someone
who disappeared down the streets
of a different century.
But hers is a tight-lipped demeanor,
an unhappy tree spirit caught out.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Closer to home there stands a tree in my old neighborhood that routinely catches my attention but for entirely different reasons.
Victorian Lady
Hewn from a hundred year oak
she stands impossibly elegant,
carved from the trunk of a tree
firmly grounded in the present.
Poised in bustling skirts
and commanding hat, she carries
a parasol fully open but lowered
as if lingering, listening to echoes
with head turned and chin tilted.
Her stance suggests
a resigned waiting for someone
who disappeared down the streets
of a different century.
But hers is a tight-lipped demeanor,
an unhappy tree spirit caught out.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, November 20, 2016
Precipice
Cold weather finally caught up with us two days ago. Yesterday's stiff breezes brought biting wind chills in the teens. A shocking difference from the 60 degree highs that dominated the past week.
Even as late as Thursday morning a flock of inland gulls continued to gather at dawn and leisurely ride the air currents. Circling, gliding, they reveled on the warmth of an extended autumn. Had they been paying attention, perhaps their departure wouldn't have been so hasty.
Precipice
A gathering of gulls
wheels, luxuriates in thermal edges.
But lengthening shadows
cut short the light, and the egrets have fled.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Even as late as Thursday morning a flock of inland gulls continued to gather at dawn and leisurely ride the air currents. Circling, gliding, they reveled on the warmth of an extended autumn. Had they been paying attention, perhaps their departure wouldn't have been so hasty.
Precipice
A gathering of gulls
wheels, luxuriates in thermal edges.
But lengthening shadows
cut short the light, and the egrets have fled.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Too Far North
Sixteen years ago Andrew bought a cabin in far northern Wisconsin. Being a native of Singapore, he held no preconceived ideas about what "cabin life" should look like. He had never heard of septic systems or well-water. Couldn't understand why people scoffed when he placed a trolling motor on his canoe. Then one day he decided to plant a fruit tree in a climate where they generally don't do well.
The crabapple thrived. In springtime its blossoms of deep pink surrounded by a forest of evergreens makes it the most stunning planting on the lake for a brief few days. But that was not the main reason for his foray into horticulture.
Too Far North
September roots of a young crabapple
grapple with dirt and the mirth of woodsmen.
"Deer will make lunch of its trunk,"
they chuckle, "or winter will break its back."
The newcomer nods, continues to shovel,
city-hands freshly calloused.
Late May a raiment of rouge
debuts in the pines, quiets the naysayers.
By summer, berry-sized apples produce grins
again from locals. "We told you
no good eatin' could come from that tree."
But woodpeckers and grosbeaks disagree.
Behind autumn binoculars the rookie smiles,
"Bird-Friendly Plantings" dog-eared on a catalog pile.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The crabapple thrived. In springtime its blossoms of deep pink surrounded by a forest of evergreens makes it the most stunning planting on the lake for a brief few days. But that was not the main reason for his foray into horticulture.
Too Far North
September roots of a young crabapple
grapple with dirt and the mirth of woodsmen.
"Deer will make lunch of its trunk,"
they chuckle, "or winter will break its back."
The newcomer nods, continues to shovel,
city-hands freshly calloused.
Late May a raiment of rouge
debuts in the pines, quiets the naysayers.
By summer, berry-sized apples produce grins
again from locals. "We told you
no good eatin' could come from that tree."
But woodpeckers and grosbeaks disagree.
Behind autumn binoculars the rookie smiles,
"Bird-Friendly Plantings" dog-eared on a catalog pile.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Longest Growing Season on Record
This past week has been impossibly warm with temps running 15 to 20 degrees above normal. Daytime highs have topped out in the upper 60s and yesterday a record set at 73 in November, in Minneapolis. Had this extended warmth been a one-off occurrence I wouldn't be as concerned, but I fear this is the new normal as each autumn grows longer and milder. There remains a niggling worry in the back of my brain about the future and climate change.
By the way, if we don't dip below freezing at least once in the next four days, and no forecasts predict that, another record will be shattered: the longest growing season on record this far north.
Longest Growing Season on Record
Ginkgo gold a dull mustard,
sugar maples babushka dowdy,
and yet they linger.
Weather reporters channel
Bobby McFerrin, "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
Predict an abbreviated winter.
On the map a high-riding ridge of warmth,
no mention of mittens, no talk of cold fronts.
Precipitation? A slight chance of rain
so keep the umbrella handy, put away the ski wax.
Plenty of time left to dine al fresco.
And the elephant in the room eyes the spin masters.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
By the way, if we don't dip below freezing at least once in the next four days, and no forecasts predict that, another record will be shattered: the longest growing season on record this far north.
Longest Growing Season on Record
Ginkgo gold a dull mustard,
sugar maples babushka dowdy,
and yet they linger.
Weather reporters channel
Bobby McFerrin, "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
Predict an abbreviated winter.
On the map a high-riding ridge of warmth,
no mention of mittens, no talk of cold fronts.
Precipitation? A slight chance of rain
so keep the umbrella handy, put away the ski wax.
Plenty of time left to dine al fresco.
And the elephant in the room eyes the spin masters.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Royalties
Clouds and intermittent rain showers have dogged us this past week, damping the beauty of autumn. Still, when I turn a corner and drive down a block of red maples, I can't help but think "fantabulous!" Of all the color changes in fall, it is the scarlet leaves I love the most.
I once lived where these trees dominated my yard, suffusing my kitchen with a rosy hue for two or three weeks each October. And I marveled daily to see them.
Royalties
My backyard is not filled
With the shifting gold
Of coins or cottonwoods
Nor does the bright
Yellow gingko drop.
The scarlet cloak
Of a Crimson King maple
Lies folded ankle deep
In chocolate tipped cherries
Ruby slippers and port wine.
Luxury.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I once lived where these trees dominated my yard, suffusing my kitchen with a rosy hue for two or three weeks each October. And I marveled daily to see them.
Royalties
My backyard is not filled
With the shifting gold
Of coins or cottonwoods
Nor does the bright
Yellow gingko drop.
The scarlet cloak
Of a Crimson King maple
Lies folded ankle deep
In chocolate tipped cherries
Ruby slippers and port wine.
Luxury.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Monday, October 24, 2016
A Taxing Situation
This week's excuse for being late falls under travel. I spent an extended weekend with my son and his family in Indiana. He and his wife are committed Fit Bit wearers, striving for 10,000 steps on a daily basis and, more days than not, achieving their goal. It has become part of their routine, and being a walker myself, I felt right at home.
There is a difference in neighborhoods, however. I live in a high-rise on the divide between a busy commercial district and acres of city park, preceding a residential area. I've walked both, but it isn't hard to determine which way I usually turn when I reach the corner.
A Taxing Situation
In between
a crisscross road six lanes deep
and close to city hall
live reconfigured lights,
pedestrian friendly stripes.
But cars continue to muscle through
and vehicles still rule
in a dicey game of dodge 'em.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
There is a difference in neighborhoods, however. I live in a high-rise on the divide between a busy commercial district and acres of city park, preceding a residential area. I've walked both, but it isn't hard to determine which way I usually turn when I reach the corner.
A Taxing Situation
In between
a crisscross road six lanes deep
and close to city hall
live reconfigured lights,
pedestrian friendly stripes.
But cars continue to muscle through
and vehicles still rule
in a dicey game of dodge 'em.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Fifteen Seconds of Fame
I love the play of sunlight on partly cloudy days. The way it randomly hot lights an object, a towering glass building, a tableau of trees, a distant church spire, against a backdrop of dark clouds. Ephemeral, magical, and impossible to capture on film, at least with my humble camera. The experience intensified by autumn's colors and the transience of the moment.
Fifteen Seconds of Fame
On a gray October morning
with northwest winds shifting
the contours of the sky
the east sun emerges
through an aperture in the clouds
and spotlights a yellow drenched
elm for a fleeting few seconds
before the cover closes
and the leaves fade to fools gold.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Fifteen Seconds of Fame
On a gray October morning
with northwest winds shifting
the contours of the sky
the east sun emerges
through an aperture in the clouds
and spotlights a yellow drenched
elm for a fleeting few seconds
before the cover closes
and the leaves fade to fools gold.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, October 9, 2016
A Little Off the Sides
How I know autumn has arrived: the shortened day length, a frost not that far north of us, the orange/gold/red of the leaves, the Twin Cities Marathon, the Apple Fest at Bayfield. On our way to the cabin last weekend I also noticed fields of soybeans now like bright yellow coverlets flung across the land, and more than one farmer harvesting a corn crop.
A Little Off the Sides
The tractor lumbers
down an arrow straight row,
corn spitting from picker
into the open bed of a truck.
Behind them they leave
the earth looking like
an upswept Mohawk:
blonde stalks next to stubble
with roots of dark brown.
I know this. Just yesterday
I saw it on a boy's head back in town.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
A Little Off the Sides
The tractor lumbers
down an arrow straight row,
corn spitting from picker
into the open bed of a truck.
Behind them they leave
the earth looking like
an upswept Mohawk:
blonde stalks next to stubble
with roots of dark brown.
I know this. Just yesterday
I saw it on a boy's head back in town.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Monday, October 3, 2016
Campaign 2016
Yes, we traveled north again, spending time at the cabin. A welcome break from all the political hype which only intensifies as the election looms closer. I admit I watched the first debate between the presidential candidates, but the substance and rhetoric underwhelmed me. It seemed to be only more of the same. I doubt if I will tune in future debates.
The peace and quiet of the cabin, on the other hand, was a delight. I am so thankful that retreat exists.
Campaign 2016
Pushed into the political funhouse
without a way to dodge
d I s tor T e D mirrors of half-truths
Twitter BLASTS of hot air
a revolving barrel of he said/she saids
undulating of negative
walkways ads
and a two-story
slide of
innuendoes
I search for the exit sign
spot it blinking dimly, w_e_e_k_s away.
The clamor of glad-handing clowns
swallowing my sigh.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The peace and quiet of the cabin, on the other hand, was a delight. I am so thankful that retreat exists.
Campaign 2016
Pushed into the political funhouse
without a way to dodge
d I s tor T e D mirrors of half-truths
Twitter BLASTS of hot air
a revolving barrel of he said/she saids
undulating of negative
walkways ads
and a two-story
slide of
innuendoes
I search for the exit sign
spot it blinking dimly, w_e_e_k_s away.
The clamor of glad-handing clowns
swallowing my sigh.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, September 25, 2016
And That Worries Me
The past few Septembers have felt more like the waning days of August with highs in the 70s, sometimes more. Very few Canadian cool fronts have blown through, reminding us of the change of season, that the Autumnal Equinox has already come and gone.
I suspect this is the new normal, and should probably enjoy the lingering warmth since winter waits just around the corner. Instead, this weather makes me somewhat uneasy. Not unlike dancing on the Cliffs of Moher.
And That Worries Me
Toxic Algae Warning signs
sprouted around a city lake just today.
An upshot of flawless lawns,
fertilizer run-off, and warming summers.
But young boys no longer fish the rickety pier,
and no one wishes to swim slime-green waters
except the ducks and they can't read.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I suspect this is the new normal, and should probably enjoy the lingering warmth since winter waits just around the corner. Instead, this weather makes me somewhat uneasy. Not unlike dancing on the Cliffs of Moher.
And That Worries Me
Toxic Algae Warning signs
sprouted around a city lake just today.
An upshot of flawless lawns,
fertilizer run-off, and warming summers.
But young boys no longer fish the rickety pier,
and no one wishes to swim slime-green waters
except the ducks and they can't read.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Who Will Note
Earlier this summer I traveled back to my hometown in South Dakota. My father came from a farm family of twelve siblings, and many a summer as a child I spent time on that farm with my Aunt and Uncles. None of the three married and all remained to work the land. Theirs was not an easy life but I always eagerly looked forward to spending time in the country with them. The days there were filled with freedom to roam and bounded by their love.
Who Will Note
two brothers and a sister
who farmed the 20th century in eastern Dakota?
Their dry-land crops and skinny livestock?
The Dust Bowl dirt that sifted over
their own childhoods?
The grasshoppers that once ate skivvies
and everything else off laundry lines?
The hollyhocks climbing a rickety trellis,
the tire swing in the side yard?
The tornado that repositioned their barn?
The rosaries prayed during fierce storms
on the midnight Plains?
The fat years with bumper yields of corn?
The annual table full of threshers
downing chicken and gravy, pies and coffee?
The small town bartending job worked weekends
when summer hail shredded the fields?
The pint of whiskey stashed in a bureau drawer?
The Sunday dinners crowded with siblings
and their offspring now moved to the city?
No prodigy of their own
nor flashy heroic deeds claim them.
Only their photos, fading in shoeboxes
of scattered nieces and nephews,
and three simple tombstones, side-by-side,
starting to list in a country graveyard
mark their presence on the prairie.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Who Will Note
two brothers and a sister
who farmed the 20th century in eastern Dakota?
Their dry-land crops and skinny livestock?
The Dust Bowl dirt that sifted over
their own childhoods?
The grasshoppers that once ate skivvies
and everything else off laundry lines?
The hollyhocks climbing a rickety trellis,
the tire swing in the side yard?
The tornado that repositioned their barn?
The rosaries prayed during fierce storms
on the midnight Plains?
The fat years with bumper yields of corn?
The annual table full of threshers
downing chicken and gravy, pies and coffee?
The small town bartending job worked weekends
when summer hail shredded the fields?
The pint of whiskey stashed in a bureau drawer?
The Sunday dinners crowded with siblings
and their offspring now moved to the city?
No prodigy of their own
nor flashy heroic deeds claim them.
Only their photos, fading in shoeboxes
of scattered nieces and nephews,
and three simple tombstones, side-by-side,
starting to list in a country graveyard
mark their presence on the prairie.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Photo Finish
The cool nights of autumn have definitely arrived and, for whatever reason, I find myself thinking of the past. Maybe it's the fleet of yellow school buses or the excitement of a new school year for so many kids. But mostly, I think, it's because my brother died a few Septembers ago. Whenever I see fields of soybeans turning yellow prior to harvest, I am reminded of him.
I have a photo of Steve taken a couple of months before he passed away, and it haunts me still. In my version of a perfect world that last image of him simply doesn't fit.
Photo Finish
I possess a picture of my brother
too painful to place in an album:
a once full face
now like an apple doll's,
collapsed inward
a weary smile
to oblige the photographer
a winter sweatshirt
worn over faded blue jeans
in mid-July heat.
Not wanting to stash it away
nor willing to expose it
I slipped it back into its envelope
and kept it on my table
as if Snapfish could refinish the photo,
recover a healthy image,
stem the flood threatening my eyes.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I have a photo of Steve taken a couple of months before he passed away, and it haunts me still. In my version of a perfect world that last image of him simply doesn't fit.
Photo Finish
I possess a picture of my brother
too painful to place in an album:
a once full face
now like an apple doll's,
collapsed inward
a weary smile
to oblige the photographer
a winter sweatshirt
worn over faded blue jeans
in mid-July heat.
Not wanting to stash it away
nor willing to expose it
I slipped it back into its envelope
and kept it on my table
as if Snapfish could refinish the photo,
recover a healthy image,
stem the flood threatening my eyes.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Videos
Back to the north woods for an extended weekend. It's good to get away from the electronic world for a while: no TV, no internet connection. The only video we watched, all of three or four minutes, came from a trail camera in the forest and a little gizmo set up in the cabin while we were away. You never know what you might see when it's played back.
The weather proved perfect, sunny and 70s in the daytime, thundershowers at night. OK, maybe too much with the rain. An inch and an half Sunday followed by three inches Monday night, making for a humid and soggy Tuesday morning. And the lake level keeps inching higher.
Videos
From a game camera fixed to a fir:
an image of you, checking the lens,
nary a bear or deer,
not even a flock of turkeys.
But from the pocket-promo inside:
daddy-long-legs sauntering away,
Asian beetles monstrous as sci-fi bugs,
creeping closer, body-blocking the aperture.
You don't hunt. I don't wish to watch
insects cavort on the counter. And the awe
from real time wildlife overshadows
any found on film.
The marketers had you clearly in their sights.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The weather proved perfect, sunny and 70s in the daytime, thundershowers at night. OK, maybe too much with the rain. An inch and an half Sunday followed by three inches Monday night, making for a humid and soggy Tuesday morning. And the lake level keeps inching higher.
Videos
From a game camera fixed to a fir:
an image of you, checking the lens,
nary a bear or deer,
not even a flock of turkeys.
But from the pocket-promo inside:
daddy-long-legs sauntering away,
Asian beetles monstrous as sci-fi bugs,
creeping closer, body-blocking the aperture.
You don't hunt. I don't wish to watch
insects cavort on the counter. And the awe
from real time wildlife overshadows
any found on film.
The marketers had you clearly in their sights.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Target Bargains - $9.99
I recently returned from London, spending time with my daughter and her family. I couldn't help but notice the new pair of flip-flops she sported, breezily covered in summertime polka dots.
It took me back ten years to when I fell in love with something similar. Though I wore through them in only one season, they always brought a smile to my face when I slipped them on. Enough for me to pen a poem about this happy-go-lucky footwear. As can be plainly seen, the cost of living was a teensy bit less back then.
Target Bargains - $9.99
Nine ninety-nine at Target
For a tank-top and black flip-flops
With rainbow colored polka dots.
A handful of coins
For a sack full of sunshine
Hip-hop and soda pop
All for nine ninety-nine.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
It took me back ten years to when I fell in love with something similar. Though I wore through them in only one season, they always brought a smile to my face when I slipped them on. Enough for me to pen a poem about this happy-go-lucky footwear. As can be plainly seen, the cost of living was a teensy bit less back then.
Target Bargains - $9.99
Nine ninety-nine at Target
For a tank-top and black flip-flops
With rainbow colored polka dots.
A handful of coins
For a sack full of sunshine
Hip-hop and soda pop
All for nine ninety-nine.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Stonehenge at Dusk
My last Sunday in London for a while, and all is well. This late summer season has produced blue skies on a daily basis, moderate temperatures, and multitudes of people enjoying the parks at any given time.
A few years ago we took a day trip to Stonehenge, and the calm that surrounded the monument contrasted sharply with the busy-ness of London. I discovered some of that same peace in the vast green spaces of the city this time around.
Stonehenge at Dusk
Raven scores
alight for vespers, chatting
as they settle on lintels
draped across shoulders:
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
A few years ago we took a day trip to Stonehenge, and the calm that surrounded the monument contrasted sharply with the busy-ness of London. I discovered some of that same peace in the vast green spaces of the city this time around.
Stonehenge at Dusk
Raven scores
alight for vespers, chatting
as they settle on lintels
draped across shoulders:
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
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Arrival Hall, Heathrow
Yes, I'm back in London, and will be here for the next ten days or so. Coming through customs into the UK frequently proves to be an interesting and lengthy proposition. Normally, I find myself in a queue with "helpful" signs indicating wait times spaced at ten minute intervals, telling me how long until I reach the head of the line. I know at least four of them exist, and who knows how many more might be behind closed doors. On the other hand, there have been those rare occasions when I have zipped through multiple retractable belt barriers without pausing to stop.
I will admit, however, that the most interesting time I spent waiting to gain admittance to the country occurred when I joined a queue that snaked, I swear, almost back to my plane. It provided plenty of opportunity to people watch, always a great way to amuse oneself.
Arrival Hall, Heathrow
Hundres of travelers
queue in Customs lines zigzagged:
a proper British maze
edges raw with children.
Ahead a phalanx of stands
like guard towers, drawbridges
bulwarking London still. On the perimeter
a Pakistani paces like a panther trapped,
shouts at a border agent
as if he could ride righteousness
into England. From an unseen scarp
a Queen's envoy, a Lancelot in coat and tie,
bears down on him prepared
to protect the kingdom from Visigoths
and holders of falsified visas.
An officer waves me forward,
peruses my own papers. Up front
nary a crossbow among the lot of them.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I will admit, however, that the most interesting time I spent waiting to gain admittance to the country occurred when I joined a queue that snaked, I swear, almost back to my plane. It provided plenty of opportunity to people watch, always a great way to amuse oneself.
Arrival Hall, Heathrow
Hundres of travelers
queue in Customs lines zigzagged:
a proper British maze
edges raw with children.
Ahead a phalanx of stands
like guard towers, drawbridges
bulwarking London still. On the perimeter
a Pakistani paces like a panther trapped,
shouts at a border agent
as if he could ride righteousness
into England. From an unseen scarp
a Queen's envoy, a Lancelot in coat and tie,
bears down on him prepared
to protect the kingdom from Visigoths
and holders of falsified visas.
An officer waves me forward,
peruses my own papers. Up front
nary a crossbow among the lot of them.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Monday, August 8, 2016
Sideshow
Back again from time spent up north. This time around the weather was close to perfect, and I would almost describe the days as halcyon. Except for those pesky mosquitoes. Not their size, mind you, but their numbers. We have had so much rain this summer that new crops of the buggers seem to hatch on a daily basis. Deet is the answer or I would never be lakeside.
Every trip to the cabin calls for a stop at a locally famous candy store which just happens to be on our way. It caters to tourists and remains open nine months of the year. When it closes in January for the winter I am always hugely disappointed. Somehow, candy brought up from the Cities never tastes quite as good.
Sideshow
The small town Sweets Shoppe crammed
with smiling parents and excited kids
carries a carnival vibe
as a contortionist stretches towards taffy
a weight lifter picks up rock candy
Siamese-like twins grab at jelly beans with four grubby hands
Godiva chocolate beckons a bareback rider
a slight-of-hand artist palms a wallet
the fire-eater searches for wintergreen
an animal handler leaves with peanut pockets
the high-wire worker sticks with toffee
some clown asks for free refills
gummi bears slip from the bag of the big game man
and Ring Master fathers finally marshall their troops out the door
ready to get the show back on the road for a weekend at the cabin.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Every trip to the cabin calls for a stop at a locally famous candy store which just happens to be on our way. It caters to tourists and remains open nine months of the year. When it closes in January for the winter I am always hugely disappointed. Somehow, candy brought up from the Cities never tastes quite as good.
Sideshow
The small town Sweets Shoppe crammed
with smiling parents and excited kids
carries a carnival vibe
as a contortionist stretches towards taffy
a weight lifter picks up rock candy
Siamese-like twins grab at jelly beans with four grubby hands
Godiva chocolate beckons a bareback rider
a slight-of-hand artist palms a wallet
the fire-eater searches for wintergreen
an animal handler leaves with peanut pockets
the high-wire worker sticks with toffee
some clown asks for free refills
gummi bears slip from the bag of the big game man
and Ring Master fathers finally marshall their troops out the door
ready to get the show back on the road for a weekend at the cabin.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, July 31, 2016
City Map - Chicago
This week I spent time at the Wisconsin Dells with my grandchildren and their parents. Part of us traveled east from Minneapolis, the other group headed west from northern Indiana which meant braving Chicago traffic. The trick to making reasonable time through the Windy City rests with avoiding rush hour both coming and going.
Their trip out proved successful, the drive back turned into a different story. A four and a half hour journey expanded to six and a half hours. Even with GPS advising them on the fastest route they did no better than my well worn map used for years before Siri had a voice.
City Map - Chicago
Riding shotgun or in my glove box,
useless. Your streets show no
escape routes during rush hour
but force me into the flow
of your car-clogged arteries.
Bumper to bumper
from the Edens
east to the Indiana Skyway,
squeezed between eighteen-wheelers
and cell phone screamers
all caught in a slow moving
tango of vehicles.
From you I learned: NPR
repeats itself every two hours,
Fast Pass stickers become oxymorons
and flipping through iTunes may result
in missing a crucial exit.
Still, I scan your fan-folded pages
searching for a time warp portal,
a gun-your-engines run
on a thruway to elsewhere.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Their trip out proved successful, the drive back turned into a different story. A four and a half hour journey expanded to six and a half hours. Even with GPS advising them on the fastest route they did no better than my well worn map used for years before Siri had a voice.
City Map - Chicago
Riding shotgun or in my glove box,
useless. Your streets show no
escape routes during rush hour
but force me into the flow
of your car-clogged arteries.
Bumper to bumper
from the Edens
east to the Indiana Skyway,
squeezed between eighteen-wheelers
and cell phone screamers
all caught in a slow moving
tango of vehicles.
From you I learned: NPR
repeats itself every two hours,
Fast Pass stickers become oxymorons
and flipping through iTunes may result
in missing a crucial exit.
Still, I scan your fan-folded pages
searching for a time warp portal,
a gun-your-engines run
on a thruway to elsewhere.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, July 24, 2016
City Pond
Even this far north there is no escaping the season's heat. When I walk for exercise this time of year it becomes imperative to do so early in the morning or I find it intolerable. There's a reason I live in Minnesota, especially when it comes to hot weather.
My usual walking course takes me through a wooded city park, around a lake, and past a handful of ponds. A great place to hear birds singing and frogs croaking, to visualize herons and egrets. But the increasing warmth of summer alters the composition of the smaller bodies of water. I don't know if this is problematic or simply a typical response.
City Pond
A cauldron of vichyssoise
thick with pea-green algae.
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 off.
No fish? Poor visuals?
Parks and Rec unconcerned.
Should I be?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
My usual walking course takes me through a wooded city park, around a lake, and past a handful of ponds. A great place to hear birds singing and frogs croaking, to visualize herons and egrets. But the increasing warmth of summer alters the composition of the smaller bodies of water. I don't know if this is problematic or simply a typical response.
City Pond
A cauldron of vichyssoise
thick with pea-green algae.
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 off.
No fish? Poor visuals?
Parks and Rec unconcerned.
Should I be?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Fireflies
I realize this posting is overdue, and I know my travels initiated the delay but the airlines prolonged it. Something about a mechanical problem which repeatedly pushed back our departure time. Always a tad unnerving and more than slightly aggravating for those making further connections.
In any case, I'm back home after visiting my son and his family. Come nighttime fireflies lit up the backyard, a pleasure forgotten when living in a high rise. Their graceful meandering reminded me of another summer evening watching my then six-year-old granddaughter and these magical insects.
Fireflies
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
In any case, I'm back home after visiting my son and his family. Come nighttime fireflies lit up the backyard, a pleasure forgotten when living in a high rise. Their graceful meandering reminded me of another summer evening watching my then six-year-old granddaughter and these magical insects.
Fireflies
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
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Eulogy to a Primary School
Back to my hometown for a high school class reunion the past few days. So many faces, so many changes. It always amazes me how time marches on for all of us. Doesn't leave anyone behind even those who remain fixed in our minds at age 18 or whenever we last saw them. Yes, they have aged, too.
Upheaval in the old order can sneak up on a person, especially, when one is not paying attention. Seven years ago the news that my grade school permanently shut its doors jolted me, caused me to remember those kid crammed classrooms, consider how nothing remains static. Which brings me back to my reunion this weekend, and how fortunate we are to be able to reestablish connections that could easily slip away given the years and distance between all of us.
Eulogy to a Primary School
They're closing my grade school:
the one next to the Cathedral
that bulged with kids fifty to a room,
run by nuns in white habits and starched
black veils, masters in the art of yardsticks.
They're closing my grade school:
where they tried vainly to teach me
cursive, told me to mouth the words
during singing, and displayed drawings
of mine only out of compassion.
They're closing my grade school:
established in 1905 in the North End
where Victorian homes once housed
lawyers and doctors generous
with fund raisers and collection plates.
They're closing my grade school:
sitting on a lot across from the convent
where I took piano from Sister Felicitas,
her voice icy when she caught me playing
pop and not Bach in the practice room.
They're closing my grade school:
the one granting diplomas to over
a hundred students in my eighth grade
class but in its last year graduated
less than twenty.
When did it grow so small?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Upheaval in the old order can sneak up on a person, especially, when one is not paying attention. Seven years ago the news that my grade school permanently shut its doors jolted me, caused me to remember those kid crammed classrooms, consider how nothing remains static. Which brings me back to my reunion this weekend, and how fortunate we are to be able to reestablish connections that could easily slip away given the years and distance between all of us.
Eulogy to a Primary School
They're closing my grade school:
the one next to the Cathedral
that bulged with kids fifty to a room,
run by nuns in white habits and starched
black veils, masters in the art of yardsticks.
They're closing my grade school:
where they tried vainly to teach me
cursive, told me to mouth the words
during singing, and displayed drawings
of mine only out of compassion.
They're closing my grade school:
established in 1905 in the North End
where Victorian homes once housed
lawyers and doctors generous
with fund raisers and collection plates.
They're closing my grade school:
sitting on a lot across from the convent
where I took piano from Sister Felicitas,
her voice icy when she caught me playing
pop and not Bach in the practice room.
They're closing my grade school:
the one granting diplomas to over
a hundred students in my eighth grade
class but in its last year graduated
less than twenty.
When did it grow so small?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Saturday, July 2, 2016
Intermezzo
Because of summer travels I'm a day early with this week's blog and already know I'll be a day late next time. So, I figure this evens things out, nicely.
Until three years ago I resided in various places where pleasant sounds of the night drifted through open, summer windows. Frogs and crickets lulled me to sleep, chick-a-dees and robins roused me in the mornings. That changed when I moved into a high rise. As we all know, builders tend to locate them in high density areas which usually means almost constant TRAFFIC NOISE.
Having lived here for a while, I notice that on weekends and holidays this annoyance decreases dramatically, at least for a few hours early on. And, occasionally, if I wake soon enough on an average day, I can still hear birds singing their way into the dawn. But the nighttime hooting of the owl no longer reaches my ears.
Intermezzo
Unadorned melodies of the night
rain washing the world
a concert of crickets
the wind holding court
swallowed by scores
of mufflers and motors and horns
ten stories down.
The unmetered run of darkness
echoing hot rods and half-wits.
But sometimes predawn
the chance for birdsong
in the hush between movements.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Until three years ago I resided in various places where pleasant sounds of the night drifted through open, summer windows. Frogs and crickets lulled me to sleep, chick-a-dees and robins roused me in the mornings. That changed when I moved into a high rise. As we all know, builders tend to locate them in high density areas which usually means almost constant TRAFFIC NOISE.
Having lived here for a while, I notice that on weekends and holidays this annoyance decreases dramatically, at least for a few hours early on. And, occasionally, if I wake soon enough on an average day, I can still hear birds singing their way into the dawn. But the nighttime hooting of the owl no longer reaches my ears.
Intermezzo
Unadorned melodies of the night
rain washing the world
a concert of crickets
the wind holding court
swallowed by scores
of mufflers and motors and horns
ten stories down.
The unmetered run of darkness
echoing hot rods and half-wits.
But sometimes predawn
the chance for birdsong
in the hush between movements.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Faithful Servant
Solstice arrived this past week and brought along a full moon to the celebration. Almost half a century gone since its last invitation. I admit this was the first time I heard of a Strawberry Moon. Harvest Moon, Hunter's Moon, Blue Moon, those I know but never considered the possibility of others. Surely, if some have names, all of them must.
They do, and have for thousands of years. The names come from those people who relied on the moon and its cycles to track the seasons. Not unlike us with today's calendars. Next one up, according to Native American lore, the Buck Moon. Meanwhile, this orb continues to inspire stories of all manner in imaginations everywhere, including my own.
Faithful Servant
I looked on a gibbous moon
and the night disclosed softened
features on a pockmarked globe.
A scarred follower pulled
by the charm of the planet it shadows,
Sancho to Don Quixote,
subtly tugging, asserting gentle influences.
But from all reports
the master remains self-absorbed
and mostly oblivious.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
They do, and have for thousands of years. The names come from those people who relied on the moon and its cycles to track the seasons. Not unlike us with today's calendars. Next one up, according to Native American lore, the Buck Moon. Meanwhile, this orb continues to inspire stories of all manner in imaginations everywhere, including my own.
Faithful Servant
I looked on a gibbous moon
and the night disclosed softened
features on a pockmarked globe.
A scarred follower pulled
by the charm of the planet it shadows,
Sancho to Don Quixote,
subtly tugging, asserting gentle influences.
But from all reports
the master remains self-absorbed
and mostly oblivious.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Monday, June 20, 2016
Edgy Colors
Up to the lake again this past week, and even there the temperature surpassed the 90 degree mark. Keep in mind this was northern Wisconsin. All the while, the heat played footsie with a surge of humidity to the point of making our floor weep. On our final day a thunderstorm rolled in and disrupted the affair, clearing the air of all unpleasantness.
This morning we left a perfect day behind us: 72 degrees, clear skies, and a breeze ruffling the water. And now we're back to this island of heat we call home. I shouldn't complain; we could be living in Phoenix.
Edgy Colors
On plasma screens
the weather map lights up
with yellows and reds,
crabbing from west to east
along an unstable line.
A towering thunderstorm forms
a front on summer's brink.
But it is my old black and white TV
that has it right: gray on gray.
Outside
no bright candy color scenes,
only somber-suited clouds
and a hint of Oz-like green.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
This morning we left a perfect day behind us: 72 degrees, clear skies, and a breeze ruffling the water. And now we're back to this island of heat we call home. I shouldn't complain; we could be living in Phoenix.
Edgy Colors
On plasma screens
the weather map lights up
with yellows and reds,
crabbing from west to east
along an unstable line.
A towering thunderstorm forms
a front on summer's brink.
But it is my old black and white TV
that has it right: gray on gray.
Outside
no bright candy color scenes,
only somber-suited clouds
and a hint of Oz-like green.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Egret
I am fortunate to live within walking distance of a city lake and wooded hiking trails, both a draw for many different species of birds: herons, chick-a-dees, and red-winged blackbirds, kingfishers and cardinals, mallards, geese, and gulls start the list, nicely. But my favorite remain the egrets with their dazzling white plumage and elegant movements. Many times I have spotted one fishing on the far side of the lake. More than once I have come within a stone's throw from another on the near shore. Both of us startled, me holding stock-still, the egret taking to the air. Mostly, though, I am too far away to pose any kind of a threat.
Egret
White-hot
spotlit against the dark summer reeds
that curtain the shore
and prying eyes of soft-pawed predators
the long-legged bird electrifies my gaze.
Unperturbed
grown too large for eagles
no further worries water-side
he dips his head to fish.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Egret
White-hot
spotlit against the dark summer reeds
that curtain the shore
and prying eyes of soft-pawed predators
the long-legged bird electrifies my gaze.
Unperturbed
grown too large for eagles
no further worries water-side
he dips his head to fish.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Service for Two
Sunday mornings have always been a refuge for me from the tedium and trepidations of daily life. A time set aside to enjoy a stack of papers, leisurely drink a latte, and discuss the state of the world with more irony than rancor, more humor than heated dissent. A few sacrosanct hours to kick back and relax on a routine basis. Hopefully, my attempt at replicating a cup of coffee comes through.
Service for Two
Coffee
and crosswords
as in puzzle,
toes touching,
Etta's voice still smoky
with Saturday's songs
now on the radio, low
and reverent as any
"Come to Jesus"
choir down the block.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Service for Two
Coffee
and crosswords
as in puzzle,
toes touching,
Etta's voice still smoky
with Saturday's songs
now on the radio, low
and reverent as any
"Come to Jesus"
choir down the block.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, May 29, 2016
The Beltway
This year of political upheaval underscores the many different views held by Americans. Some of them so diametrically opposed as to inspire violence. Daily, the media brings these disagreements to our attention, fuels the fire of dissent. Reasonableness suddenly passe. Hot rhetoric the latest buzz.
I enjoy the luxury of living ten stories up with incredible views outside my windows. Thickly treed neighborhoods to the west, city street scenes on the east. One evening I realized this vantage point demonstrated the gestalt of politics.
The Beltway
Come nighttime
a river of crimson and cream
split by a sorcerer to stream side-by-side
Above
luminescence crowns
the brows of buildings unworthy
Below
streets set in black-wash
flare like jewels fallen
Steady lines of light pulsing stop-and -go
Which flows forward?
Which ebbs back?
Different perspective, same milieu
driven/riven by their views
Neither, both
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
I enjoy the luxury of living ten stories up with incredible views outside my windows. Thickly treed neighborhoods to the west, city street scenes on the east. One evening I realized this vantage point demonstrated the gestalt of politics.
The Beltway
Come nighttime
a river of crimson and cream
split by a sorcerer to stream side-by-side
Above
luminescence crowns
the brows of buildings unworthy
Below
streets set in black-wash
flare like jewels fallen
Steady lines of light pulsing stop-and -go
Which flows forward?
Which ebbs back?
Different perspective, same milieu
driven/riven by their views
Neither, both
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Falling Barometer
It's the season of thunderstorms and tornadoes. Having grown up on the plains and threatened by these weather patterns every summer, I empathize with those caught in the destructive path of any storm. And annually rejoice that I have moved farther away from the heart of tornado alley, albeit still on the northern fringe.
Thankfully, rainstorms predominate and not cyclones throughout the targeted states, despite what you might see on the news. But rain clouds can harbor lightening, dangerous in its own right, along with the menacing sound of thunder. And I had an aunt terrified by them, especially in the black of night.
Falling Barometer
Farmland Dakota flat
and wide to the weather.
My uncle concerned only
if the sky turned sickly with hail
but my aunt skittish
as a horse during summer storms.
Dark prairie midnights
roused with lightening strikes
yawned us into the front room
to pray for deliverance. Every tempest
we mumbled the rosary by rote.
Come fall and football I pictured
lucky game-day jerseys spun from prayers
like those: talismans both
frequently charmed but sometimes crushed
by thundering forces.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Thankfully, rainstorms predominate and not cyclones throughout the targeted states, despite what you might see on the news. But rain clouds can harbor lightening, dangerous in its own right, along with the menacing sound of thunder. And I had an aunt terrified by them, especially in the black of night.
Falling Barometer
Farmland Dakota flat
and wide to the weather.
My uncle concerned only
if the sky turned sickly with hail
but my aunt skittish
as a horse during summer storms.
Dark prairie midnights
roused with lightening strikes
yawned us into the front room
to pray for deliverance. Every tempest
we mumbled the rosary by rote.
Come fall and football I pictured
lucky game-day jerseys spun from prayers
like those: talismans both
frequently charmed but sometimes crushed
by thundering forces.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Monday, May 16, 2016
Fairy Tale Adjusted
A long weekend at the cabin sans internet connection. A welcome reprieve from the world at large. Each spring we try to time our May trip north to coincide with seeing our crabapple tree in all its rose-infused glory, surrounded by the green of the forest. In the last ten years we have only managed this once. Many a time we have come close but something always seems to trip us up. A work schedule. A long, chilly spring. Obligations here in the Cities. A warmer than normal winter. For whatever reason, the tree's springtime beauty eludes us on a regular basis.
This year, sad to say, followed the same pattern. The buds were set but not yet plump enough to even consider opening. We missed the blossoms by a good week to ten days. Meanwhile, I console myself with those trees and bushes here at home filled with all the pinks and purples and whites that grace too brief a period each May.
Fairy Tale Adjusted
There is a crabapple tree
on my block easily missed
in passing. Her stepsisters
overshadow her with willowy
grace but a Fairy Godmother
blesses her each spring.
For two days the shy tree
dresses in fragrant, pink
blossoms, a regal princess
come out of hiding, dazzling
all who see her. A short lived glory
while others tarry longer at the ball.
Unlike Cinderella she has no
glass slipper but her liverymen,
the bees, act as go-betweens.
And the prince knows
where to find her.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
This year, sad to say, followed the same pattern. The buds were set but not yet plump enough to even consider opening. We missed the blossoms by a good week to ten days. Meanwhile, I console myself with those trees and bushes here at home filled with all the pinks and purples and whites that grace too brief a period each May.
Fairy Tale Adjusted
There is a crabapple tree
on my block easily missed
in passing. Her stepsisters
overshadow her with willowy
grace but a Fairy Godmother
blesses her each spring.
For two days the shy tree
dresses in fragrant, pink
blossoms, a regal princess
come out of hiding, dazzling
all who see her. A short lived glory
while others tarry longer at the ball.
Unlike Cinderella she has no
glass slipper but her liverymen,
the bees, act as go-betweens.
And the prince knows
where to find her.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, May 8, 2016
My Mother the Cook or How I Learned about Spontaneous Combustion
Mother's Day today and, of course, my thoughts drift to Mom. Born and raised in Switzerland she emigrated to America as an adolescent. When I think of her life, apart from her husband and children, two things made her the most proud: her Swiss heritage and her reputation as a fabulous cook. Among her hobbies she loved collecting cookbooks and recipes of any kind. Enough to fill shelves and sacks, boxes and cartons of them.
At the same time she was both intuitive and inventive with her cooking/baking skills. These additions or subtractions, for the most part, improved whatever she prepared. But sometimes she became a tad too generous in altering a recipe. Here's to you, Mom.
My Mother the Cook or How I Learned about Spontaneous Combustion
Ten minutes into bake time
a faint smell of smoke and telltale
tendrils drifted from the oven door.
A peak inside revealed pure blue
flames wafting over a brandy laced
pound cake. In a mini-whirlwind
she whipped open the window
and fanned the frantic alarm.
Her dessert black as bituminous,
a lush apricot liqueur wasted, guests
due to arrive shortly, and a dumbstruck
child present when she least needed it.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
At the same time she was both intuitive and inventive with her cooking/baking skills. These additions or subtractions, for the most part, improved whatever she prepared. But sometimes she became a tad too generous in altering a recipe. Here's to you, Mom.
My Mother the Cook or How I Learned about Spontaneous Combustion
Ten minutes into bake time
a faint smell of smoke and telltale
tendrils drifted from the oven door.
A peak inside revealed pure blue
flames wafting over a brandy laced
pound cake. In a mini-whirlwind
she whipped open the window
and fanned the frantic alarm.
Her dessert black as bituminous,
a lush apricot liqueur wasted, guests
due to arrive shortly, and a dumbstruck
child present when she least needed it.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, May 1, 2016
Magic Carpets
Spring has always been my favorite season. The reasons are legion: longer days and abundant sunshine, the earth returning to life, countless shades of green, fruit trees dressed in stunning blossoms of pinks and reds and whites, lilac bushes heavy with perfume and purple, even the perky/pesky dandelions scattered across playing fields loud with sporting exuberance.
Then there is this year. Recurrent leaden skies and almost daily rains have been the recent norm, and they do nothing to promote the joie de vivre usually found in abundance come April and May. On the other hand, the forecast calls for sunny days ahead and a jacket-free week, starting today. Something I must take on faith given the disappointing cloud cover from horizon to horizon present this morning. But what is spring, if not a time of hope?
Magic Carpets
The elusive rug maker
is showcasing
his wares this week:
cherry blossoms
grounded after April's party,
a Persian covering
apple tree petals
fallen like a picnic blanket,
steadied by morning's dew
and if you're early enough
a saffron runner of seeds thrown
over cars parked street-side,
edges sunning the cement.
I blink and they take to the sky.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Then there is this year. Recurrent leaden skies and almost daily rains have been the recent norm, and they do nothing to promote the joie de vivre usually found in abundance come April and May. On the other hand, the forecast calls for sunny days ahead and a jacket-free week, starting today. Something I must take on faith given the disappointing cloud cover from horizon to horizon present this morning. But what is spring, if not a time of hope?
Magic Carpets
The elusive rug maker
is showcasing
his wares this week:
cherry blossoms
grounded after April's party,
a Persian covering
apple tree petals
fallen like a picnic blanket,
steadied by morning's dew
and if you're early enough
a saffron runner of seeds thrown
over cars parked street-side,
edges sunning the cement.
I blink and they take to the sky.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Performance on the Prairie
All this week the unexpected death of Prince dominated the news, especially here in his home town of Minneapolis. It made me pause, consider what I knew of him, of his music. Not much, I'm embarrassed to admit. His crossover genres were not mine, but still I can appreciate his creativity, his musical genius. At the very least, I know "Purple Rain" and "When Doves Cry," and probably a few more that I didn't realize were his creations.
In any case it started me thinking about music in general and the first concert I ever attended with an internationally recognized headliner. It's probably not what you're thinking.
Performance on the Prairie
At nine my very first concert.
Cellos, flutes and fancy fiddles heard
on the Dakota plains.
Yehudi Menuhin soloed on his violin.
A New Yorker performing there, a maestro
trailing bright lights and Carnegie Hall cache
alongside pastures and cow pies.
Why this journey to a sea of grass
labeled "Empty Lands" by mapmakers?
A son's sense of duty to the underserved?
A chance for prairie winds to catch classical scores?
A desire to trade big city clamor for the music
of meadow larks?
A child doesn't care.
My body hushed as a pianissimo,
my mind cartwheeling through wildflower notes.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
In any case it started me thinking about music in general and the first concert I ever attended with an internationally recognized headliner. It's probably not what you're thinking.
Performance on the Prairie
At nine my very first concert.
Cellos, flutes and fancy fiddles heard
on the Dakota plains.
Yehudi Menuhin soloed on his violin.
A New Yorker performing there, a maestro
trailing bright lights and Carnegie Hall cache
alongside pastures and cow pies.
Why this journey to a sea of grass
labeled "Empty Lands" by mapmakers?
A son's sense of duty to the underserved?
A chance for prairie winds to catch classical scores?
A desire to trade big city clamor for the music
of meadow larks?
A child doesn't care.
My body hushed as a pianissimo,
my mind cartwheeling through wildflower notes.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, April 17, 2016
London to Minneapolis: Economy
In a few hours I'm off to Heathrow and then home. Of course, my last morning in London dawned bright and sunny without a single cloud to be seen, unlike the usual rainy days that marked most of my stay in the city. But so it goes.
If my upcoming flight holds true to form, it will be comparable to past travels back to the States. Simply replace London and/or Minneapolis with the names of any other long-haul destination cities and the journey is easily recognizable.
London to Minneapolis: Economy
Hours e x p a n d, wArP
A robin-egg sky too big for any nest
A monotony of mallow-cream clouds below
Time butts the jet stream to a tidal crawl
Once, a contrail starboard:
And I watch as we pull ourselves
Hand over hand on its fraying lanyard
Until the distance closes, the connection drops
And Virgin Atlantic slips beneath us
No sleep
Wadded pillow jammed against the fuselage
No sleep
Attendants hawking, "Duty free, shop duty free"
No sleep
A cackling movie watcher close enough to smack
And how do people two sizes too big shoehorn into the loo?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
If my upcoming flight holds true to form, it will be comparable to past travels back to the States. Simply replace London and/or Minneapolis with the names of any other long-haul destination cities and the journey is easily recognizable.
London to Minneapolis: Economy
Hours e x p a n d, wArP
A robin-egg sky too big for any nest
A monotony of mallow-cream clouds below
Time butts the jet stream to a tidal crawl
Once, a contrail starboard:
And I watch as we pull ourselves
Hand over hand on its fraying lanyard
Until the distance closes, the connection drops
And Virgin Atlantic slips beneath us
No sleep
Wadded pillow jammed against the fuselage
No sleep
Attendants hawking, "Duty free, shop duty free"
No sleep
A cackling movie watcher close enough to smack
And how do people two sizes too big shoehorn into the loo?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, April 10, 2016
London Gallery
April in London resembles springtime anywhere - warm, sunny days interspersed between rain showers and gloomy clouds. Eager trees already leafed-out stand alongside reluctant neighbors still bare and boney-branched. Daffodils everywhere, tulips ready to bloom, but also winter's detritus occasionally visible in back gardens.
New to the city a few April's ago I visited those places newbies need to see, including St Paul's Cathedral. Outside its massive front doors we sat on the broad stairs leading up to the church, the sunshine more than welcome. Our ten minute break proved a great place to watch the individuals that call London home.
On a wider format than this blogs permits the very last word of the poem would extend the last line making a sideview of a grand staircase. In this instance you will have to use your imagination.
London Gallery
The stone steps of St Paul's:
a casual gathering place for foot sore
tourists seated by Gothic clad youth adjacent
to missing office workers relaxing with others fed up
with heavy metal skies, reveling in sunshine, people watching.
Curbside a bridal couple bubbles up. She wobbly in heels, white fur
stole over gooseflesh arms, holds her groom, smile fixed. Whistles, claps
bounce off the great oak doors, a lone camera-toting friend scattering the pigeons.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
New to the city a few April's ago I visited those places newbies need to see, including St Paul's Cathedral. Outside its massive front doors we sat on the broad stairs leading up to the church, the sunshine more than welcome. Our ten minute break proved a great place to watch the individuals that call London home.
On a wider format than this blogs permits the very last word of the poem would extend the last line making a sideview of a grand staircase. In this instance you will have to use your imagination.
London Gallery
The stone steps of St Paul's:
a casual gathering place for foot sore
tourists seated by Gothic clad youth adjacent
to missing office workers relaxing with others fed up
with heavy metal skies, reveling in sunshine, people watching.
Curbside a bridal couple bubbles up. She wobbly in heels, white fur
stole over gooseflesh arms, holds her groom, smile fixed. Whistles, claps
bounce off the great oak doors, a lone camera-toting friend scattering the pigeons.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Commuter
Transportation in London is a story unto itself. First of all, there are the iconic double-decker red buses found everywhere in the city. This time here I noticed new ones in service, an updated design, actually sleek in appearance given their behemoth size. How they manage to maneuver through warrens of narrow streets crammed with cars both parked and moving is a testament to the patience and abilities of the coachmen, themselves.
Then there are the Underground, the Overground, and the Thames Link systems, all various forms of rail transportation. These trains carry the bulk of the commuters. Any of them provide fascinating people watching on a regular basis. One morning on the Overground a particular rider held not only my attention but also the notice of others in the carriage. And it was obvious to us all that he hadn't expended any money for a ticket.
Commuter
Late morning, sparse crowds
and a pigeon
hops on the train
confident as any habitué
strutting the speckled floor,
checking for stray crumbs,
dodging a well aimed foot.
One round of the carriage
and flawless timing
makes him first off
come the next stop,
squawking to his buddies
already arrived at Gospel Oak
the old fashioned way - by flying.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Then there are the Underground, the Overground, and the Thames Link systems, all various forms of rail transportation. These trains carry the bulk of the commuters. Any of them provide fascinating people watching on a regular basis. One morning on the Overground a particular rider held not only my attention but also the notice of others in the carriage. And it was obvious to us all that he hadn't expended any money for a ticket.
Commuter
Late morning, sparse crowds
and a pigeon
hops on the train
confident as any habitué
strutting the speckled floor,
checking for stray crumbs,
dodging a well aimed foot.
One round of the carriage
and flawless timing
makes him first off
come the next stop,
squawking to his buddies
already arrived at Gospel Oak
the old fashioned way - by flying.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 27, 2016
The Underground
I am in London visiting my daughter and her family for the next three weeks, and my posts will reflect that. On the flight here I couldn't help but mull over the recent events in Brussels, and lest we forget, England has also been a target of the terrorists in the past.
The Tower of London has fascinated my grandson ever since they moved here. When he was younger he overheard a discussion about bombings at the affected Underground Station and the double decker bus on the street above. Over the course of a few days he processed this information in reference to the things he knew, one of them being the Tower of London. Now a tourist mecca and no longer the formidable prison of earlier centuries. This poem is a result of one of his thoughts.
The Underground
we are going to take
this train this train
to visit
the fabled
Tower of London
my grandson guide
face pressed against pane
watching the platforms
checking graffiti framed posters
a pony-tailed man limping
away the Jubilee Line down
change at Baker Street
thirteen color coded lines
crossing, adjoining, diverging
tunneled like the ant farm
in his room plumbed through history
we pull out, plunge deep
into darkness the window
reflects his trusting eyes every
route burned into his brain
he counts the stops from here to Aldgate
bombings
"Did Bobbies take
the terrorists
to the Tower of London
on this train?"
this train this train
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The Tower of London has fascinated my grandson ever since they moved here. When he was younger he overheard a discussion about bombings at the affected Underground Station and the double decker bus on the street above. Over the course of a few days he processed this information in reference to the things he knew, one of them being the Tower of London. Now a tourist mecca and no longer the formidable prison of earlier centuries. This poem is a result of one of his thoughts.
The Underground
we are going to take
this train this train
to visit
the fabled
Tower of London
my grandson guide
face pressed against pane
watching the platforms
checking graffiti framed posters
a pony-tailed man limping
away the Jubilee Line down
change at Baker Street
thirteen color coded lines
crossing, adjoining, diverging
tunneled like the ant farm
in his room plumbed through history
we pull out, plunge deep
into darkness the window
reflects his trusting eyes every
route burned into his brain
he counts the stops from here to Aldgate
bombings
"Did Bobbies take
the terrorists
to the Tower of London
on this train?"
this train this train
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Salty Language
Once a week I consider two or three options for stay-at-home dinners. A seafood choice is always a given since Andrew comes from Singapore, an island surrounded by oceanic waters and abundant crustaceans, his favorite type of food. It doesn't help that we live 1500 miles from the nearest coastline. But this is America and most everything is available, even shellfish flown in daily.
Apparently, I'm enough of a regular at the seafood counter that I was once asked how I fix the mussels I routinely buy. When I mentioned steaming them in wine, the fish-monger/meat-butcher nodded knowingly. Perhaps he hoped for a different take. Maybe a recipe for combining them with scallops in a black bean sauce which is equally tasty but much more complicated. Me? I'll stick with delicious and easy every time, if I'm the one in the kitchen.
Salty Language
The mollusks were talking last night. They remained mum in their mesh bag on the trip back from the market but started a sotto voce chatter in the 'frig. They clammed up tight when I rinsed them and scrubbed them and put them in a strainer. Restless, the pile shifted, squeaked, and caught the smells of a wine laced broth drifting overhead. Lulled by the warmth as if on a beach, they relaxed their jaw-clenched shells. And, I swear, one stared me in the eye, accusingly, as I upended them all into the boiling pot.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Apparently, I'm enough of a regular at the seafood counter that I was once asked how I fix the mussels I routinely buy. When I mentioned steaming them in wine, the fish-monger/meat-butcher nodded knowingly. Perhaps he hoped for a different take. Maybe a recipe for combining them with scallops in a black bean sauce which is equally tasty but much more complicated. Me? I'll stick with delicious and easy every time, if I'm the one in the kitchen.
Salty Language
The mollusks were talking last night. They remained mum in their mesh bag on the trip back from the market but started a sotto voce chatter in the 'frig. They clammed up tight when I rinsed them and scrubbed them and put them in a strainer. Restless, the pile shifted, squeaked, and caught the smells of a wine laced broth drifting overhead. Lulled by the warmth as if on a beach, they relaxed their jaw-clenched shells. And, I swear, one stared me in the eye, accusingly, as I upended them all into the boiling pot.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Morning Rituals
Up to the cabin this weekend, and a day spent reading outside in balmy sunshine. The weather warm enough to ignore stubborn patches of snow still clinging to low lying areas. Moderate temps and clear skies meant reveling in midnight's star filled heaven, undiminished by city lights. It's so easy to forget what incredible beauty hovers above us nightly. That alone was worth the journey.
Morning Rituals
Coffee black, muffins steaming.
Disagreements and stubborn streaks
with cream and sugar.
Conversation drifts
like a lily pad unmoored:
neighbor's politics but not our own,
the lake level and loons, weather a given,
comments on food from yesterday's gathering
called pot luck for a reason,
opinions about chancing a second bird feeder
versus tempting another bear.
Breakfast at home - hit or miss
but at the cabin - sacrosanct.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Morning Rituals
Coffee black, muffins steaming.
Disagreements and stubborn streaks
with cream and sugar.
Conversation drifts
like a lily pad unmoored:
neighbor's politics but not our own,
the lake level and loons, weather a given,
comments on food from yesterday's gathering
called pot luck for a reason,
opinions about chancing a second bird feeder
versus tempting another bear.
Breakfast at home - hit or miss
but at the cabin - sacrosanct.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Growing Pains
Many years ago a cousin of mine who lives in Zurich suggested that he would like to visit Minnesota on his down-time in March. And I dissuaded him.
Of all the months to choose from he picked the one with mounds of dirty snow melting in mall lots, with trees still bare-boned and without buds, with wild weather swings from days in the 60s to plowable snowstorms, with winter's detritus of food wrappers and cups and cigarettes freshly exposed and not yet swept away.
In my opinion Minnesota is an incredibly beautiful state 11/12 of the year. And then there is March.
Growing Pains
March in Minnesota:
a junior high collection
of bad haircuts, forgettable
photos, and unhappy skin.
Hedging toward change,
it wears a winter coat
two sizes too small,
knobby wrists exposed.
New growth stumbles in boots
suddenly grown tight.
One ear flinches from winter,
fearing another swipe
but the other strains to catch
summertime blues playing
around the corner.
A time of brooding, a month of angst.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Of all the months to choose from he picked the one with mounds of dirty snow melting in mall lots, with trees still bare-boned and without buds, with wild weather swings from days in the 60s to plowable snowstorms, with winter's detritus of food wrappers and cups and cigarettes freshly exposed and not yet swept away.
In my opinion Minnesota is an incredibly beautiful state 11/12 of the year. And then there is March.
Growing Pains
March in Minnesota:
a junior high collection
of bad haircuts, forgettable
photos, and unhappy skin.
Hedging toward change,
it wears a winter coat
two sizes too small,
knobby wrists exposed.
New growth stumbles in boots
suddenly grown tight.
One ear flinches from winter,
fearing another swipe
but the other strains to catch
summertime blues playing
around the corner.
A time of brooding, a month of angst.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 28, 2016
The Problem with Bananas
I have long complained about "fresh" fruits and vegetables found in grocery stores with the onset of shortened days and frigid weather. Most of the produce trucked or flown a thousand miles and more to local stores. Strawberries come to mind, grapes, green beans, tomatoes, too. The list gets long.
Winter drags its feet at this time of year, making it difficult to visualize farmer's markets emerging on concrete still suffused with February cold. Meanwhile, I will have to rely on the consistency of bananas. With a caveat.
The Problem with Bananas
No matter how fresh
or firm they feel
as soon as I turn my back
brown spots pop up
on the sunny yellow fruit.
Before you know it
the guilty decision
not to bake banana bread
once again
dooms an entire bunch.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Winter drags its feet at this time of year, making it difficult to visualize farmer's markets emerging on concrete still suffused with February cold. Meanwhile, I will have to rely on the consistency of bananas. With a caveat.
The Problem with Bananas
No matter how fresh
or firm they feel
as soon as I turn my back
brown spots pop up
on the sunny yellow fruit.
Before you know it
the guilty decision
not to bake banana bread
once again
dooms an entire bunch.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Out for a Walk
A water pipe broke in the ceiling of the condo's gym, causing major damage to many of the machines, and a month long closure of the facility. An inconvenience in the middle of February when indoor treadmills are more appealing than a hike in the elements. But I have convinced myself that a windchill above zero remains acceptable to brave a walk as long as I'm wearing the right clothes.
A lesson learned years ago when I moved to Minnesota for my Pediatric Residency. Early on, one of the docs informed us there were only two reasons to be cold in winter. "Either a person is too poor to dress correctly or they are too dumb." Then he looked at us pointedly and said, "I know none of you are penniless." With that he effectively dismissed our complaints about the morning's glacial weather. More temperate conditions can be found in the poem below.
Out for a Walk
I turn north and neglect the known.
Stumble upon a neighborhood
of tear-downs and rebuilds:
Gullivers on Lilliputian lots
shoulder to shoulder, brooding
over holdouts stubborn as native grasses.
On the street thirty-somethings
jog to a pace pulsed by earbuds;
afghans and labradoodles
fresh from obedience school, trotting in sync.
I picture my dog, if I owned one,
bounding as a springer, curly as a terrier,
schnoz like a hound's,
dragging me to Instant Messages at tree bases,
sleuthing the scents of entitlement,
straining to stay while I attempt to double back
and search for the lone road out.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
A lesson learned years ago when I moved to Minnesota for my Pediatric Residency. Early on, one of the docs informed us there were only two reasons to be cold in winter. "Either a person is too poor to dress correctly or they are too dumb." Then he looked at us pointedly and said, "I know none of you are penniless." With that he effectively dismissed our complaints about the morning's glacial weather. More temperate conditions can be found in the poem below.
Out for a Walk
I turn north and neglect the known.
Stumble upon a neighborhood
of tear-downs and rebuilds:
Gullivers on Lilliputian lots
shoulder to shoulder, brooding
over holdouts stubborn as native grasses.
On the street thirty-somethings
jog to a pace pulsed by earbuds;
afghans and labradoodles
fresh from obedience school, trotting in sync.
I picture my dog, if I owned one,
bounding as a springer, curly as a terrier,
schnoz like a hound's,
dragging me to Instant Messages at tree bases,
sleuthing the scents of entitlement,
straining to stay while I attempt to double back
and search for the lone road out.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Squatters
Just returned from a weekend up North. The thermometer registered -16 degrees yesterday morning, and during the night the bedroom's baseboard heating conked out. Snuggling becomes imperative in situations like that even with heat in the rest of the cabin.
Out on the lake hardy souls went ice-fishing all day. Not for me, thank you, nor the snowmobiles. Who knows how low the windchill when flying on one of them. A warm fire and steaming cup of coffee, books and writing material held me captive and content. And now I'm back in the city, looking forward to next month's trip without the teeth chattering cold.
Squatters
On the unsullied banner of winter's lake
two forms hunker down: vagrants?
No, not human but animal.
Bodies rounded like rolled bales of hay
and dark as mama bear's fur.
Too small for Big Foot progeny.
Diminutive, milk-jug heads
tucked against the wind. Aberrant wolves?
Before I can raise my eye-piece
they unfold, shape-shift:
a duo of bald eagles free-riding an updraft.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Out on the lake hardy souls went ice-fishing all day. Not for me, thank you, nor the snowmobiles. Who knows how low the windchill when flying on one of them. A warm fire and steaming cup of coffee, books and writing material held me captive and content. And now I'm back in the city, looking forward to next month's trip without the teeth chattering cold.
Squatters
On the unsullied banner of winter's lake
two forms hunker down: vagrants?
No, not human but animal.
Bodies rounded like rolled bales of hay
and dark as mama bear's fur.
Too small for Big Foot progeny.
Diminutive, milk-jug heads
tucked against the wind. Aberrant wolves?
Before I can raise my eye-piece
they unfold, shape-shift:
a duo of bald eagles free-riding an updraft.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 7, 2016
On Loan
It pains me to show my ignorance but sometimes it's unavoidable. All along I assumed that both my musings and my poetry would stay in cyberspace in perpetuity. This week I realized my error. Hence, the change in format.
We finally received a typical Minnesota snowfall a few days back. Seven to twelve inches depending on where you were in the metro area. The kind of snow that quiets everything, slows people down, leaves a breathtaking landscape. Too soon the swath of white is sullied by snowplows and shovels and everyday life. If we're lucky, the magic lasts a few hours, sometimes overnight.
On Loan
Snowfall
satin-glossed, pristine gesso
overlays town and drive alike
My footprints
reveal the rube trashing a Rauschenberg
left at the doorstep
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
We finally received a typical Minnesota snowfall a few days back. Seven to twelve inches depending on where you were in the metro area. The kind of snow that quiets everything, slows people down, leaves a breathtaking landscape. Too soon the swath of white is sullied by snowplows and shovels and everyday life. If we're lucky, the magic lasts a few hours, sometimes overnight.
On Loan
Snowfall
satin-glossed, pristine gesso
overlays town and drive alike
My footprints
reveal the rube trashing a Rauschenberg
left at the doorstep
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, January 31, 2016
The Spider (After Calder's sculpture of the same name)
Suspended in space
dangles
a
daddy
long legs
of fairy wing grace,
black dancing shoes splayed
ready to jive
and
sway
on its fine metal lace.
Lean closer and see
some feet oddly shaped,
a thorax, a head
not really there.
An
idea
stirring the air.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
dangles
a
daddy
long legs
of fairy wing grace,
black dancing shoes splayed
ready to jive
and
sway
on its fine metal lace.
Lean closer and see
some feet oddly shaped,
a thorax, a head
not really there.
An
idea
stirring the air.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Star Wars Defense
There is a black and white photo
of my fourth grade class with me,
hands folded politely as directed,
sitting in a coveted front seat. I count
five rows lined straight for fifty-two
students. These were days of ducking
under furniture when air-raid sirens
sounded. But our school was ancient
and we only had old-fashioned desks
connected to each other like rigid
railroad tracks: cast iron and wood.
They were so cramped that precious
time would have been lost attempting
the impossible. Instead, we were shielded
by the heavens above. Even God wouldn't
dare defy Sister Mary Joseph as she led us
in prayer for protection from our enemies,
yardstick propped against the wall.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
of my fourth grade class with me,
hands folded politely as directed,
sitting in a coveted front seat. I count
five rows lined straight for fifty-two
students. These were days of ducking
under furniture when air-raid sirens
sounded. But our school was ancient
and we only had old-fashioned desks
connected to each other like rigid
railroad tracks: cast iron and wood.
They were so cramped that precious
time would have been lost attempting
the impossible. Instead, we were shielded
by the heavens above. Even God wouldn't
dare defy Sister Mary Joseph as she led us
in prayer for protection from our enemies,
yardstick propped against the wall.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, January 17, 2016
The Lions in Winter
We would pelt the frosty glass
with snowballs to hear their roars
mingle with our shrieks
as we skidded down the slippery
service road certain they were
bounding behind us
escaped from their prison
of quartzite block, barred doors
and windows thick as fists
only to turn around at the far end
with frosty breaths and pounding hearts,
sneak back and pester them again.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
with snowballs to hear their roars
mingle with our shrieks
as we skidded down the slippery
service road certain they were
bounding behind us
escaped from their prison
of quartzite block, barred doors
and windows thick as fists
only to turn around at the far end
with frosty breaths and pounding hearts,
sneak back and pester them again.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Star Gazer
Comet-like axons light
my brain,
orbits protect my eyes
and two tiny moon bones
curve my palms.
Like a planet my body
harbors canals and gasses,
coronas and rings.
During a tempest, nebulae
may cloud my corneas,
penumbra lurk in my lungs.
Orion girds himself
with the Trapezium cluster
while I hold it in my hands.
The MilkyWay and DNA,
our elegant shapes.
my brain,
orbits protect my eyes
and two tiny moon bones
curve my palms.
Like a planet my body
harbors canals and gasses,
coronas and rings.
During a tempest, nebulae
may cloud my corneas,
penumbra lurk in my lungs.
Orion girds himself
with the Trapezium cluster
while I hold it in my hands.
The MilkyWay and DNA,
our elegant shapes.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Karma
Asthma thieving my breath and still I drag my feet before I start the steroids. How can such a bland, aspirin-like tablet release the hounds of hell? Okay, maybe not Dobermans with spittle enough to fill a spittoon but, surely, the vice-grips of a Pit Bull or two with snarls. Nightly, they cramp my legs as I bolt from bed to shake off the demon pain before I collapse wide-pulsed and eyes pounding, shake loose an insomnia that careens between rattling 'frig and striking clock. Yet in the ER I routinely prescribed these very pills to even the youngest of wheezers. Perhaps the weary curses of midnight mothers with unnerved darlings pumped on prednisone carry some weight after all.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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