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

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

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

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