Forbearance

Like most of the country it is very cold up here this weekend. Unlike most of the country our high temperatures have not found their way above zero the past couple of days. Enough said. Happy New Year, Everyone!



Forbearance


At dawn Sol arcs his arms,
balancing crystalline patches of light
on his left and right,
adroitly rising from the stage floor
like the superstar he is.

Icebound January his backdrop,
a tableau designed
for the sun dogs he steadies.

Offstage and bedded down
his brutish dog-days of summer pay no heed.

Polar opposites tolerant of one another.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Solstice in the City

I know this is the Christmas weekend, but another event celebrated religiously through the millennia occurred three days ago - winter solstice. And this is my take on it. Happy Holidays, Everyone.



Solstice in the City


Winter's opening night buried in a flurry
of holidays. The stage readied
for a story pitting gloom and Borealis

against a weakened Sol
and his straggling bands of luminance.
The shopworn play dusted-off annually

despite the certainty of mixed reviews
and an empty Presidential box.
But there exist those of us

who gather this drama into our bones,
know the dialogue of each par-sec of light,
hold tight to Tolstoy, Chekov

and winter's untouched script,
drink Rachmaninov and Liszt.
But rewrites cut short the soliloquy

of spiteful cold, shave lines from arctic ice.
And audiences everywhere protest
the relentless revisions.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unexpected Guest

We live relatively close to a sprawling city park complete with a lake and walking paths through a heavily treed area. Last week I watched as a stately hawk landed on a high, leafless branch.

I reached for my camera but he would have none of it, and flew away. Somehow I suspect he was the same bird come to visit me earlier this summer.



Unexpected Guest


Perched on my balcony
ten stories high,
a red-tailed hawk, unperturbed,
undisturbed, surveyed the city scene.

Mid-step I froze like Lot's wife,
mesmerized.

Snowy breast streaked with chocolate,
head swiveling, searching, noting me,
winged wildness content to sit for a spell.

But not I, I itched for something more,
a photo for show. A fool's dream.

My least motion left me bereft.
Yellow-light talons in flight, warning
"Stay away!"

Across the sky
he circles on distant thermals,
a drifter on a solitary course.

The two of us never meant to be.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Hallway Prop

Andrew and I live in a condo that is a neighborhood of its own. Every Christmas Season many of the residents celebrate with a holiday dinner, providing everyone the chance to meet newcomers and catch up with old friends.

Last night's get together brought to mind the quiet couple who once lived across from us. At the time I wrote this poem, I still harbored the hope that they could continue to be our neighbors.



Hallway Prop


A hum-drum vignette dominates
the end of the corridor on our floor:
faux flowers set
beneath a Flemish water scene

belonging to George and Edna
across the hall, undisturbed

until the year I volunteered
to change the decor for Christmas.

But Edna moved to Memory Care,
and during the Holidays
George left on a medic's stretcher,
confused.

Come New Year's Day
Santa and his sleigh packed away.
The bare glass table more disquieting
than Sunday papers waiting for Monday

until those familiar posies ambushed me
once again, strangely handsome. George restored.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Lost Lives

Six weeks back I took a road trip to South Dakota, my home state. It's a lonely drive across the flat prairies of southern Minnesota with only scattered farmhouses, outbuildings, and the occasional tractor, plowing a field, to keep me company.

Most of the homesteads contained the spark of busy lives. But some appeared broken down and deserted, causing me to speculate on their fate.



Lost Lives


My eye catches a cluster of farm buildings
abandoned and weathered grey
on a vast stretch of open fields.

Who delighted in calling this place home?
Was the cropland rich, the rain plentiful,
or the soil meager and the sky stingy?
Who butchered the hogs, plucked the chickens,
stewed wild rhubarb for cobbler in spring?
Did a school bus battered by gravel stop
at the drive, scaring the barnyard cats?
How many years were the yields good
before the books, branded by overdue bills,
dried up like drought?
Did neighbors shift their feet, mumble bids
at a foreclosure auction?
Or was the land productive, sold at a price
too good to pass up, structures no longer needed?
When did the windows first gape in collapse,
and do frugal buildings implode more quickly?
Will later generations dig deeper, or remain
content with stories passed down?

Close by, a grove of gnarled trees huddles
to protect a fading house, some sheds from blizzards,
still blasting out of Canada come winter.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Body

My mother would have celebrated her birthday this coming week, if she were still alive. Always a very proper person, she would have been dismayed with the following poem. But it reveals that human side to her found in us all. Here's to you, Mom.



The Body


Your puffy lost ankles carry your failing
self through the moonless morass.
The sound of midnight pee

against porcelain, an unfettered belch,
a belly-deep sigh. Your sense of propriety
shed like a tiresome robe at the end

of the bed. You would be embarrassed
if you knew I heard, your overnight guest
already forgotten in the balm of sleep.

But even ninety-year old ladies have bodies
that revel when free from polite restraints.
I roll over, holding my pillow close.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Hunting Season

We just returned from the cabin, and it is definitely hunting season in the northland. Most pick-up trucks carried either hunters in blaze orange, or deer already taken.

Some years game is plenty; others not so much. Judging from today's drive, I would venture that this season left the hunters happy, unlike a few autumns back.



Hunting Season


A shooting star slides
November's sky,
wavelets freeze into silence.

Ears twitching, deer forage
attuned to tuneful twigs.
A chorus of wolves

across the lake raises fine hair:
the herd needs thinning.
But the Browning oiled next door

roils my gut. Bullet wounds
from ER shifts still haunt:
I prefer the wildlife alive.

Come dawn a lone shot
echoes leafless. Those
in deer-stands curse

the lack of game. At dusk
a buck lopes the road,
behind my eyes, almost smiling.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Relentless Rainfall

This has been a very wet year up north. No disastrous floods or destructive downpours but rain steady enough to raise water levels all year 'round.  Even come fall, a season with usually dry weather.

Lake Superior, 20 miles north of our cabin, sits at an all time high. And our small lake seems to be following in its big brother's footsteps.



Relentless Rainfall


Late October and all should be dusty
with brittle foliage, not soggy
with spongy leaves, matting the forest floor.

Surrounding wetlands produce de novo
ponds between cabin and brimming lake,
waves the color and feel of winter steel.

Ankle-deep water traps a low-lying shed,
requiring boots and backwoods ingenuity
to shift it, lift it away

from impending icy handcuffs, certain
to blackmail the structure, hold ransom
its rusty rakes and shovels, the well used grill.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Familiar Tale Reworked

The cold temps and dusting of snow remind me that it really is November here in the north country. I've become accustomed to the warm, lingering falls of late, and shouldn't be surprised by the need for winter coats and gloves, already.

Most of the trees around here have lost their leaves, but some hardwoods cling to foliage that dulls and becomes brittle as time advances. Eventually, even they relinquish any pretense of grandeur.



A Familiar Tale Reworked


The cottonwood stands stripped
of leaves except at its crown
where a dusty few continue to flutter.

Indian summer days downplay
coming changes as the tree holds
tightly to faded former glory.

Tall and regal, and like the emperor
with no clothes, naked,
sporting a diadem grown dim, slipping
one leaf at a time.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

From the Corner of My Eye

We drove to the cabin this weekend in the face of an October snowstorm forecast to be bad by local meteorologists. Usually, the more dire they sound, the milder the weather event in actuality. We payed them scant mind although, occasionally, they are spot on.

This was one of those times. The further north we went, the more accurate their predictions. I'll leave it at three and a half hours of "limited visibility" due to strong winds and snowfall.

Today's poem originated in a trip taken under similar conditions a few years back.



From the Corner of My Eye


Highways hum
with 4 x 4s and SUVs heading north,
cabin bound.

November sleet slamming down,
sodden woods waiting.       For what?

Then
from a pickup
a glimpse of blaze-orange.

Intense as my brother's
baseball cap              sweat stained
                           with sunrise pursuits.

Unmoved from its place
on the coatrack, tossed there
                                         insouciantly
following his last hunt,
four seasons past,
                 
               a month before the diagnosis.

Otis, his yellow lab,
nosing the deep-worn chair.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Autumn Takes

A few observations as the beauty of the season starts to wane here in the north country.



Autumn Takes

I

Many of the trees drag
this fall. The usual show-stopping
scenes already faded
from the trunk.

Their vaunted season finale
subdued and lackluster.
A chorus line weary from too long
a run. The enthusiasm
of the director dissipated
in the rain.

II

Overnight
the uppermost branches
of a holdout maple
dipped into a cask of ruby claret.

Telltale tips stained
like a paint brush upended
and left in the breeze
by a distracted designer.

III

Some hardwoods
swiftly strip themselves of foliage
except for the very top.

In naked delight
they shimmy in the wind,
high leaves dancing with abandon.

Like a long-ago lover of mine,
stocking feet wiggling happily
in the air and all else bare.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Black Sheep

Fall now, and the trees are lovely. Some streets hold nothing but hardwoods turned gold, and some play host to only Crimson King maples. But most of the city is flooded with a mix of vibrant autumn hues, and steadfast evergreens act as the perfect foil. A beautiful time in the Northland.



Black Sheep


I fretted for the tamaracks, naively.

Patches of yellowed pines
dropping needles on October breezes.
A study of struggle in sepia, wasteland
tableaus within evergreen forests.

Searching for bark beetles or blight,
I thumbed my Field Guide, discovered
instead, a fibster, a faker, a mocker,
and the truth of this imagined disaster.

Come autumn these trees
follow a beat of their own - shed bowties,
cummerbunds and all, unlike stately cousins,
and much to the family's chagrin.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Mid-Autumn Delights

Each October Asian cultures celebrate the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival, a major holiday kindred to Thanksgiving. These festivities feature traditional foods and focus on family gatherings. At harvest time mooncakes have been known to appear on our own table here in Minnesota.



Mid-Autumn Delights


Around the curve of a night road
a rising moon
wide as the street-way, itself,

golden as the mooncakes in the box.
A harvest treat filled
with lotus paste, a taste of your past,
a foreign flavor on my tongue.

A total turnabout
from yesterday's fresh apple pie.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stills

Back to the cabin this past week. It was unusually warm for late September, and rainy. But that didn't stop us from hiking the woods where we startled a doe and her fawn into statue-like stillness before they turned and loped deeper into the forest. Their presence reminded me that hunting season draws ever closer.



Stills


The camera catches
the unseeing eye of a felled deer,
a small slit in the lens.

Did a twig snatch it, scratch it
as the warm brown body
stumbled?

The color blue
bending into black
pools under thick lashes.

I have seen quiet eyes
like this before
on a wild ER night.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Flying Horse

Occasionally, I spy a red Pegasus on an older gas station, but more frequently I see the logo on diverse items and in various states of neglect displayed as collectibles for sale. I am told that this trademark still adorns some ExxonMobil products. The last time I spotted the mythological horse, I had to learn more.



The Flying Horse


Pegasus,
how did the ad men capture you,
fix you in flight, deem you red,
rework you into an icon of oil and fuel?

You who fought battles to the death
in ancient Greece, brought thunder
and lightening to Zeus at his request,
ranked foremost among his steeds.

You who flew with a mortal on your back
but threw him in his greed. You who
could not be easily reined in.

Were you not paying attention,
lost in old glories, comfortable living
in the past?

Eighty years now
and the wind still carries echoes of anguish
as the lasso of commerce snared you.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Incorrigible

September and some trees already manifest a color change. The contrast with their summer-green neighbors invariably grabs my attention whether here in the Cities or up north as the forest takes it first steps towards autumn.

Such a tree in my own yard captivated me daily with its beauty and a sense of autonomy a few years back. Enough to leave me with a lasting impression.



Incorrigible


In my backyard
breathes a young maple
who streaked a solitary branch
crimson red.

Tosses it
to contrast her birthright green.
Flounces her defiance
before old firs and hardwoods.

Not for her
the group makeover in October,
marching lockstep to winter.

Rather, a rebel's sauciness
before shortened days and north winds
bend her will.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Kaddish

The opioid crisis occupies much of the news these days, as well it should. Roughly, 64,000 people died because of opiates in 2016 here in the U.S. The number of deaths is shocking, and yet we remain  blasé about the 88,000 lives lost due to alcohol in that same time frame.

As with almost everything, statistics only hit home once they turn personal. And, yes, the individual in the following poem was a friend of mine.



Kaddish


Headstones worn soft
sit close together, tilting
a bit toward each other
like old folks gathered
in rockers.

Discussions of weather,
bits of gossip about visitors,
judgment of children
who come and those who don't
pass between them.

A midday funeral hushes all
as the hearse rolls past.
Out of the lead limo emerge
a silver-haired man and his wife,
puffiness around his eyes,
faltered steps as she turns.

News goes grave to grave:
the casket cradles the body
of their son sober, now,
for five years, three months
and fourteen days until yesterday's
freefall.

Down the rows the old ones
sigh while the earth splits in two.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Spooning

It has been an unexpectedly cool August here in the north country. Usually, the Dog Days of summer roam freely, dragging heat and humidity with them. But not this year. As I overheard someone say, "It's as if we lost a month of summer." And if nights are nippy here in the city, they turn downright brisk at the cabin.



Spooning


Mid-August up North
and fall already rides

the lopsided smile
of bodies curved

quilted skin to skin
suffusing night air

dreams, chilly enough.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Pilgrimage

Late August, and inland gulls already assemble in empty parking lots at daybreak. Their numbers increase weekly as the earth rotates toward the coming fall. This convergence of birds turns into a hypnotic spectacle as they swirl overhead, practicing for their long trek south.



Pilgrimage


Would I blaspheme
if I compared an autumn gathering of gulls
to a group bound for mecca?

Churning, turning like a fan
jubilant, orbiting, a pirouette, a shimmy.

White as the sky of dawn,
almost lost as they circle aloft
as if to prepare
for seven times 'round the Kaaba.

Mystical as a group of whirling dervishes
mesmerized with motion
about to start a second-sighted journey.

Standing at the periphery, I ponder why
I cannot soar even as they fly.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Aurora Borealis

Last weekend marked this summer's Perseid Meteor Shower at a time we would be at the cabin and away from city lights. A rare chance to witness wonders of the night sky.

I set my alarm for one hour before sunrise, the best time to view this phenomena, or so I read. But I failed to calculate the length of predawn brightness in the far north, and missed the show yet again.



Aurora Borealis


Once I saw
green lights shimmering
in the northern sky,
great swathes of color
moving to music
played light years away.
Thousands of street lamps
tried but couldn't hide
the exuberance overhead.

Now from a prime seat
in the dark north woods
I keep searching midnight
for these gossamer sheets,
rare as the solar flares
that send them dancing.

Meanwhile,
I settle for stars waltzing
through the Milky Way,
trace comets on the loose.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Accidental Coffin Maker

It's summer and that means more weekends spent up north at the cabin. The mosquito population is on the wane, though not as much as we would like, and the warm days mean more people on the lake, making for a livelier time. But lest I forget the permanent residents, below is a reminder of the characters that make up the year 'round population.



The Accidental Coffin Maker


The northwoods whiskey-swilling
carpenter builds wicked-good cabinets
when not nursing a grudge
or in the thick of a bar-provoked fight
over some perceived slight.

His neighbor wedded to a woman
with Alzheimer's looks beyond the bluster.
Commissions a handcrafted box, cross
planed on the lid, sized to sit on a dresser,
contain a bag of ashes.
Knows it will be polished with care.

Somehow, word will leak out,
and woe to the local who snickers.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Dragonfly Season

Andrew, my significant Singaporean other, is not your typical north woods cabin owner. But he is well known to the locals, and despite a decade plus of ribbing, he revels in time spent there.



Dragonfly Season


At the lake I sleep with you, Andrew Hong,
an enigma in the far northern forests.

Your canoe comes with a motor,
skims across wave-washed smirks

that fade far from the shore
lapping at your dock, the only one

without lures or lines. Next door the shudder
of bearskin peeled from its ham-strung carcass

courses through your own taut muscles.
Chopsticks don't mix well with cheese dip

nor beer with your reluctance to drink
alcohol, and football remains forever foreign.

Shrugged shoulders and cock-eyed grins
cannot fathom why we're here

but the eagle nests above us
and the heron fishes from our pier.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Morning Sky

One perk to living ten stories up is the clear view of sunrise on the horizon, expressing varying colors on different days, under different conditions. On more than one occasion, I have witnessed the dawn paint glass buildings in magical, fleeting, ruddy hues.



Morning Sky


A carnelian dawn burnishes
the glass facade of a high-rise to ruby.
An enchanted canvas

until the sun bleaches
brazen wild-rose to coquettish pink
to the tedious translucency of Wednesday.

Kaleidoscopic shades
tucked away in pockets like talismans
by the new hire and corner office exec, alike.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Cool Front

Two weeks in equatorial heat begged for a north woods fix, and that's where we've been the past few days. The weather up there was beautiful but humid, initially. However, after visiting Singapore in July I will never again complain about any humidity we encounter here.



Cool Front


Steady enough
to nudge heavy air out of hushed pines,
                     dry yesterday's dish towel,
                          dispel my peevishness.

A breeze with aspirations
finally tousles treetops,
glad-hands boughs, negotiates a reprieve,
                     lets the wind chimes breathe.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

High School Reunion

Impressions of two weeks in Singapore: an island nation on the equator, a country of almost 6 million people, a land crowded with high rises, fantastic food, intense heat, high humidity, and, of course, Andrew's home.

A family reunion and the college graduation of his grandniece coaxed us to travel to the other side of the globe. What memories will endure with these fresh-faced young graduates? And what will they recall decades from now about their experiences?

Last summer I finally attended a high school reunion of my own, and it left me with these thoughts.



High School Reunion


Tonight everyone's an intimate: the Army
recruiter and the dissident, the accountant
and the artist.

Yet when did this classmate become
so rotund, that one so drawn?
And why did my own friends not attend?
Not interested or lingering adolescent angst?

Like memories of a carpool
that picked up my neighbor and left me
at the bus stop: nose buried in books,
feigning disdain, and no date for the dance.

Friendships with kindred spirits thwarted:
one lived across town, another belonged
to the opposite sex.
Significant roadblocks to teenage rapport.

Tonight without fallback confidants
I linger with others from classes past,
and find affinity.

The night's end underscores
"What might have beens," as promises
to "Keep in touch" drift
like casual motes on the evening air.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Summertime Games

I am off to Singapore next week, and will be taking a two week break from the blog. If I don't melt in the heat, you'll hear from me again mid-July.

Summer - a season to sit back and relax, revel in long days and warmth. Best epitomized by kids let loose from school, and finally free to run barefoot in the grass.



Summertime Games


Freewheeling swallows

                four or five fledglings
                 gleefully chattering

                           soar and swoop for fun
                in evening mellow hours

like neighborhood kids

                     let loose after dinner
                  cartwheeling in the grass
                      playing tag out back

                                         before bedtime.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Ode to Joy

Music filled this last week for me. Twice in the past few days I attended concerts performed by the Minnesota Orchestra, Yo Yo Ma the principal artist at one of them.

At the same time, there exists a famous black and white photo taken in the 1950s of a young boy in Peru, playing a flute and walking down a road. The joy in that scene captures the delight experienced in any Orchestra Hall.



Ode to Joy
       (After Bischof's  Flute Player 
        on the Way to Cuzco, Peru, 1954)


Descendant of Incas

                        Classical heirs

In sandals and shorts

                         In tuxedos and ties

With stripes on his poncho

                         Wearing shiny black shoes

Played his flute

                         Commanded a hall

And the melody flowed

                         And Beethoven's Ninth

Eased distractions

                         Lifted spirits

Lightened the load

                         Erased distress

With a single instrument

                         With chorus and orchestra

As complete

                         As effective

As a symphony of musicians

                         As the stream of a flute



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Swampland Puzzle

Nature is full of surprises. For instance, I had no idea until this weekend that dragonflies molt, leaving behind tissue-thin exoskeletons. But insect deviations pale in comparison to the orange alligator photographed sunning on the banks of a South Carolina pond earlier this year.

One scientist theorized the stain may have come from naturally occurring sediment in some waterway. Another observed that if the pigment were only skin deep, the gator's color would be back to normal in two weeks.

To my knowledge, no one ever posted a follow-up photo, giving us the rest of the story. I guess we will never know.



Swampland Puzzle


An alligator lazes
Bankside of a Carolinian canal.
Carrot-color reptile.

A herpetology head-scratcher.

Rusty from culvert creeping?
Too many sweet potato pies?
A hoodoo spell? Toxins?

If it's not easy being green,
This change to tangerine
Begs for attention, wanted or not.

Could be it's a temporary tint,
Disappearing like the odd press item
Found on slow news days.

Or, maybe, it's permanent
And swampers will mark the trophy.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Wildfire

Unlike the previous 20 months, May in Minnesota did not average above normal temperatures. But that quickly changed with the arrival of June. Most of the State posted highs in the 90s the past few days. Just in time for the controversial withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement.

However, the heat we experienced last spring was one for the record books. And it was felt far beyond Minnesota.



Wildfire


A pall drifted in overnight,
tracings of a raging forest fire riding
Canadian air south. This one tangible

as a ninety-degree wrap in May, in Minnesota.
Not easily dismissible as someone's tall tale.

In Alberta parched pines burn on tar sands
owned by oilmen selling hydrocarbons.
A company town, booming as any goldmine
encampment, evacuated when gusty winds set in.

Nearby, levels down on the waterway tapped
to help with fracking.

"Karma," murmurs the Athabasca River,
drained of power, burdened with impurities,
fed up with the heat of man.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Obits: 19 May 2016

I have a confession to make: obituaries fascinate me. One can find amazing stories in the thumbnail sketches of people's lives, and I often find myself humbled while reading them.

A year ago I was struck by the fact that two, okay 67, newsworthy deaths took place on the same day -  those aboard an Egyptian Airliner, and half a world away, Morley Safer. It made me wonder about all the other people who might have died within those same 24 hours, and how little we know of our fellow travelers at this point in time.



Obits: 19 May 2016


Mostly unrecognized, the man
wearing the sports coat patiently waited
his turn in the crowded anteroom.
Occasionally a whispered, "Isn't that Morley
Safer from 60 Minutes?" reached his ears.

But the sixty-six souls from the fated flight
of EgyptAir 804 paid no heed, nor did
a group of war-savaged Syrians,
or those snagged by India's heat wave,
nor numberless others left out of headlines
but now called to account for their lives.

So many compelling stories,
and St. Peter with the only pen in the place.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Gully

Back to the cabin this weekend. Back to higher lake levels and filling wetlands. Back to a raw northeast wind and a slow but constant rain. Unlike the two day downpour of last spring that cost three people their lives, but raising the water table just as effectively.



Gully


Rain-besotted ground, tree roots rotting,
dry land no longer but true boreal bog.
Blue spruce waterlogged, day-trippers tripped up.

Stalled rainclouds sent rivers rampaging,
buckling roadways.
Three careless souls overwhelmed
by rushing water,
caught in separate nets of rashness.

Northwood news but not national. No one
live-streaming mayhem from black-top roads.
Only a doe and her fawn
attempting to leap a ditch turned floodway,
and a slow moving car with out-of-state plates.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

No Ballerina Flats in the Bunch

It's Mother's Day, and how can I not remember my mom. She stood barely five feet tall while my dad's six foot frame towered over her. As a result of this height difference and possessing an innate sense of fashion, three inch heels were her friends.

Like a lot of women she loved shoes. Many of them followed her from the family home to assisted living, and even a few found space in a long term care closet. Here's to you, Mom, a woman who lived life to the fullest.



No Ballerina Flats in the Bunch


Boxes of shoes
like guests reluctant to leave
crowded your closet,
hand-tooled pumps and heels

many of them stilettos outdated
to the point of being retro.
As a fashionista you never left home
in anything less.

With time and a leaky heart
your ankles started to balloon. You fumed,
frustrated as those unable to wear
the charmed glass slipper.

How many stores did we shop
trying to find something
both stylish and practical
before you agreed to a slip-on, forever

regarded with disdain? And woe
be to the daughter who suggested donating
any former footwear to the Goodwill.
You were not done with the high life yet.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

I Don't Want To

Since I'm still in London and immersed in my daughter's life, here is one more blog from my point of view about her year long journey fighting breast cancer. As I mentioned before, her Annus Horribilis is behind her, and she is more than well on her way to recovery.

It's always good to spend time with her family; it's always bittersweet to leave.



I Don't Want To


tackle your white cell count
decipher your persistent nausea
compile a file of toxic drugs
badger you not to ignore a fever
caution you to avoid crowds
fret about airborne infections
weigh the chance of cardiac side effects
hear you stumble with "chemo brain"
notice you fumble with stiffened fingertips
interpret your pathology report
weep as I watch women Race for the Cure.

I only want to be your mother, brush the hair
from your shoulders, banish the monsters
from under your bed.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
 

Shore

I'm currently in London visiting my daughter and her family. For those of you who routinely follow this blog, you already know she was diagnosed with breast cancer about 18 months ago. I am very glad to say she made it through chemo and surgery and radiation with her spirits intact, is back at work, and is doing well.

Of course, I wrote several poems about her long journey from my own perspective. And, more importantly, she has given me the OK to share some of them. Two of which will surface this Sunday and next.



Shore


The sea shifted the moorings,
stranding me on the wharf,
as cancer, a tidal wave, dragged my daughter.

Left me, a physician, to pace
like parents I once counseled,
on a desolate beach, all
afraid of spying any debris from chemo.

Used to piloting the rescue,
able to pinpoint each trickster reef,
I lean into the wind but the sand shifts
as I watch others fight to save her.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

April Fool

Yes, we journeyed again to the north woods this weekend with the weather taking us on a rollercoaster ride. Only shirt sleeves needed the first day. Perfect for pushing in our dock, soaking up warmth. But overnight the frogs went from a full-throated chorus to "save your energy" quiet. The next morning brought wind and snow on the coattails of plummeting temperatures.

The sudden change reminded me of an April in the Cities a few years back when a crabapple tree set to bloom, failed to do so.



April Fool


Rosy shafts of surprise
skim the soft wood
of an apple tree.

Its arms caught
with a sunrise of snow
blushing deeply.

A heartbreak color
embraced
where blossoms should be.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Grand Ole Creamery

Sunday morning and the skies are clear, finally. A faint haze of green colors tree branches, bushes. And I have already witnessed lawn mowers in action. The delight of no longer needing to wear a jacket becomes reason enough to spend time outside.

I used to live a stone's throw from the world's best ice cream shoppe. Okay, if not the world, at least here in the Twin Cities. I sorely miss being able to walk a mere half block and indulge in a waffle cone overfilled with coffee flavored ice cream augmented with bits of chocolate cookie. Per usual, it's the small operations that repeatedly earn high marks.

Grand Ole Creamery

A pleasure

to stand in a line 

zigzagging out the door  

and down the street

of the mom and pop shop

at 8:00 o'clock on the first

pleasant evening in spring

all for a scoop of homemade

ice cream.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unaccompanied Minor

On our trip to the cabin in early March we came across a pair of swans pausing in the waters of a wetland, presumably hoping to find an open lake. Even with the warming atmosphere, "ice out" doesn't occur until late April that far north. I fear for those too early, too eager birds but will never know their fate.

Shortly after the ice disappeared at the cabin last year I spied a returning loon, or so I thought. They are the first waterbirds to make themselves at home on the lake come spring, no matter how chilly the water.



Unaccompanied Minor


The vernal equinox come and gone
yet nighttime frosts persist,
winter's dunning agents.
A flash of white like a message
from a signal light
rides the waterline - the loon returned.

But the size is wrong, more of a liner
than a small tug. Black eyes instead of red
and a long, goose-shaped neck once unfurled.

The bird, a singleton, glides off,
unaware of fading ugly-duckling coloring.
Head held as if royalty
bears the favor of spring: a cygnet on the cusp.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Plane Spotting

Yes, I am two days late this week but my excuse is valid. I spent an extended weekend with my son and his family simply enjoying myself. They live in northern Indiana, and there exists a non-stop flight between here and there. It's a quick trip by air, and, more importantly, avoids the hassle of dealing with the traffic in Chicago.

From where I live in the Cities I have a great view of planes landing and/or departing. And I never tire of watching them.



Plane Spotting


Rush hour in the sky commences
from a copse of hardwoods
or so it seems.

How many souls catapult
towards adventure? Who tackles
another day on the job?

Which suitcases pack
power points? Presents? Snorkels?
Suits? Sandals? Ties? Travel guides?
Ski wear? Beach wear? Wing-tips?

From my perch how I wish
my name graced a passenger list
instead of a book club confirmation.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fine Dining/Cash Only

Finding fresh seafood at a reasonable cost and on a regular basis proves challenging when one lives 1500 miles from the nearest ocean. Nearly every shipment found at local stores needs to be frozen before making its way inland. Not quite the same as enjoying it seaside.

So, when we traveled to San Fransisco last fall we were delighted to discover Barbara's Fishtrap down the coast a bit, and well worth the drive.



Fine Dining/Cash Only


Barbara's Fishtrap:
back door open to the ocean,
a lodestone drawing diners
strung like magnets out the front,
tolerating rain-gear weather
for their turn at rickety tables
and the catch of the day, savory
as any at the Ritz
a few miles south on Half Moon Bay.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Long Range Forecast

I am feeling a sense of whiplash. From 90+ degree heat and blossoming orange trees in Phoenix to freezing temps and chevrons of snow, covering a still frozen lake up north. All within a matter of 36 hours.

This week the desert Southwest continues to occupy my mind even though I just returned from spending three days in northern Wisconsin. As disparate as the two regions are, they share something in common: rising temperatures.



Long Range Forecast


Up north the old duffer talks
with a mouth gritty from hard times.
Whiskey rolls his tongue
and resurrects visions
of topsoil blowing away,
one planting season to the next.

In the Southwest whirling dervish
sandstorms swirl across the desert,
smother cities, stall traffic,
no longer make the nightly news.
The taste of the Sonora
now coating Margarita Fridays.

Records for warmth
topple across the seasons, the country,
and those with a nearsighted frame
of reference scoff at alternative energies,
press for pipelines through farm fields,
aquifers, and tribal lands.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Hertz - City Map of Phoenix

Every year I fly to Arizona as winter wanes. I travel here for a variety of reasons: 1) for an annual medical conference 2) to briefly leave behind bare trees, cold weather and snow 3) to spend time with my sister who happens to live in Phoenix, the best reason of all.

The dates of the conference vary. Sometimes it's held in February, other years in March. As you will see, I dusted off a poem I wrote about a previous journey to this area. The details may change but the sentiments remain the same.



Hertz - City Map of Phoenix


In the frostbite of February
you guide me in the Valley of the Sun
to red rock boulders scattered
like flashy dice across the flat
desert table, past anterooms filled
with rakish prickly-pears.

Take me down alleys of dusty adobe
to Southwest-woven fairs, fry bread dancing
on hot skillets, Navajo thunder rumbling
from hide-stretched drums. Later, point me
to Mariachi music and margaritas under the stars.

This year: directions to an open air
Chihuly exhibit, hand blown glass rising
between the saguaro. Upstart cacti
in poppy red and bluebell and buttercup
revel in the shallows of the Sonora.

But always at the bottom of the map
a fat green line intersects the airport,
waiting.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Change of Season

Our winter has been mild this year with even Seattle out-snowing Minneapolis during January and February. Add to that a seven day run of record warmth and spring is on the move. On last week's trek north to the cabin I spotted a pair of swans, either daring or foolish, standing in thawed wetlands. But as tulips continue to prematurely poke through the crusty earth all of us up here know not to count out old-man-winter just yet.  



Change of Seasons


In the distance a trio of cranes,
stolid metal works mired in March.

Their plumed counterparts
still wintering along the Gulf Coast.

Not for them bare-branched trees, mud
and melted snow, rather swaying grasses
and buds fat with blossoms.

But given this winter's warmth
they may hitch a ride on a tempting thermal,
land in frigid ponds still patchy with ice,
grow stiff as their fabricated namesakes.

Or maybe a "Closed for the Season" sign
scouted on the door of an ice cream store
dampens deliberations of an early journey
as they step around pilings supporting the pier.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Yes, It's Still February

Despite the six-day-run of record breaking warm temperatures it really is still February. And that was brought home to me this weekend up at the cabin. Highs of 20 degrees and snow squalls.

Secretly, it pleased me to see the ground blanketed with white once again since it's definitely winter no matter how you dice it. But I am done with the month of February. That taste of 60-degree days spoiled me, and I am hoping for the arrival of an early spring.



Yes, It's Still February


In this mini-month
the days drag their feet
over blizzard slag heaps
beneath clouds of wet wool
velcroed to the sky.

They schlep carryalls filled
with sniffles and coughs
and their own guarded secret
which I finally intuited:
each of them is 36 hours long
like the Dantesque days of residency.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Accidental Coffin Maker

On our last trek north we ran into major plumbing problems. The toilet tank cracked and drained, and in sympathy its neighbor, the sink, started to leak. Luckily, a jack-of-all-trades lives down the road.

His temperament can be irascible at times but underneath the crustiness beats a generous heart. More than once he has come to our rescue. Last summer we caught up with him in his workshop, sanding a small box, a carefully crafted piece of workmanship.



The Accidental Coffin Maker


The northwoods whiskey-swilling
carpenter builds wicked-good cabinets
when not nursing a grudge
or in the thick of a bar-provoked fight
over some perceived slight.

His neighbor wedded to a woman
with Alzheimer's looks beyond the bluster.
Commissions a handcrafted box, cross
planed on the lid, sized to sit on a dresser,
contain a bag of ashes.
Knows it will be polished with care.

Somehow, word will leak out,
and woe to the local who snickers.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Burma Shave Country

We traveled to the cabin this weekend, three hours north and east of here, wondering whether or not we would need boots given the mild winter and scarcity of snow in the Cities. But we knew better than to leave them behind. Minimal snow covered the landscape all the way there.

Once at the cabin, deep in a shaded forest, maybe six to eight inches of the white stuff awaited us. Enough for boots but woefully short for this time of year.



Burma Shave Country


Abandoned by the winter barber
and stuck in a February chair
the scavenged fields of corn remain
shadowed with husks itchy and dry.

Their wrap of moisture missing
the croplands pray for a late lather,
defenseless before April plows,
scraping clean their contours.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Reflection

As some of you know, my daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer 14 months ago. She survived her horrible, not so good, very bad year, and has returned to work unbowed and positive spirit intact.

Of course, I had to write about her plight, viewing it from both a mother's and a physician's perspective. An uncomfortable position to occupy. With her blessing I am posting the first of an occasional poem about this journey.



Reflection


Grandma,
a tumor hijacked your ovaries, slackened
the drape of your dress, loosened the fit
of your rings, traveled with you
to a new land, filched your final breath.

And you, only 47. The age of my daughter
now fighting breast cancer, hitching-up her jeans
as she walks the heath, wedding band snug in a pocket.

Is it a spun thread of DNA embedded with shards
that snags the two of you?

Like facing a mirror darkly, one to the other familiar:
two women ex-pats by choice
two women petite, stoic, gutsy
two women shadowboxing on their own.

You with prayer and morphine,
she with chemo and surgery.

The silvering behind the looking-glass grown cloudy.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Memory

My mother suffered a stroke a dozen years before her death. It robbed her of the capacity to form new memories but left her physically intact and irascible as always. She retained the ability to remember people and events up until the day of her stroke. If Mom knew you before, she clearly remembered you afterwards. If you met her after that time, you forever remained a mystery to her except in the moment.

The same conditions applied to happenings around my mother. The recollection of any affair, be it joyful or calamitous, simply did not take root. With the uproar of provacative headlines now coming at us daily, there are times I envy that fugue.



Memory


Old woman,
what is it like to live with a decade
of images that failed to gel?

You recall waving at the Kaiser
but do not know your neighbors,
reminisce about your aunt's hand-dipped
chocolates while breakfast remains
an enigma. Dad's last stroke and his year
in long term care slip through your neurons
like water through a porous flowerpot.

Unable to retain today's raw dispatches
you live easier with the past's softened edges,
reconciled to a son's attempted suicide,
a daughter's teenage pregnancy,
your children's divorces.

You have no need of headlines.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Webster's Unabridged Dictionary

A while back I stumbled on a very large/outdated unabridged dictionary. The kind that once rested on a stand specifically crafted for those tomes. I admit I love books, and my idea of a blissful afternoon is wandering through a bookstore, preferably independently owned, chock full of unusual and interesting titles.

When I came upon this lone volume used as a prop in a fusty antique furniture store, I couldn't believe my luck. The shop owner had it priced at only $10, apparently to make it disappear quickly. I happily obliged him.



Webster's Unabridged Dictionary


Discovered like a once lost friend, it sat
silenced by dour furniture in an antique store.

Stiff-backed as a queen's guard,
its prime shape belied a 1935 print date

as it waited to flex its vocal cords
anew from aal to zyxomma.

Filled with funky words such as frab
and forswonk. Peppered with phrases

that sound as if I should know them:
King of Swat and the Roaring Forties.

Laced with lingo blowing through the 30s:
Hooverize, Jersey lightening, and Okie.

On page nine fifty-three under "P"
a parade of found nouns: pavon, pawk

and payen. Trounce words for tight
corners and scrabble's tough letters.

Dismissed by today's generation
as the man with a dusty bow tie

it remains the charming uncle now home,
regaling us with stories to rival Odysseus.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Rumplestiltskin Enterprises

As I travel west across the Minnesota prairies, I have noticed fields of wind turbines sprouting where acres of corn and soybeans once grew. I watched as a nascent line of five burgeoned into hundreds like dandelion fluff spreading on the breeze, unstoppable. A sustainable crop of energy even in deepest January.


Rumplestiltskin Enterprises


First there were five then ten,
now clusters of lithe maidens
tall against the horizon harvesting
the wind, slender arms turning,
endlessly spinning the rush of air
into platinum threads of electricity,
and no firstborns need be relinquished
nor the world as we know it.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Transformations

Janus has always fascinated me. With one face remembering the past and the other foreseeing the future, he endures as a symbol of change. Legions of soldiers invoked his name when they went to war but so did farmers, married couples, and countless others facing transitions. Considered a major Roman god, he ranked alongside Jupiter.

Our closest likeness remains a weary Father Time and the fired-up New Year's Infant as they cross paths each January 1st. To my mind, Janus conveys a much better image.



Transformations


Janus,
two-faced deity of ancient Rome,
youth and age back to back,
god of good beginnings,
triumphal endings.

Should we then look to you
as we grow older
for a grand closing to our years?
Or do you prefer to preside
over warring soldiers?

But isn't life a battle, aren't we
warriors, all, and doesn't time
pick up power and speed
as the days advance?

What strategy do you hold
for mortal man? How do we stand
strong when memories betray us,
endurance flags, and illness nips
at our heels?

Or are these end points too difficult
even for you? And is that why
the Greeks had no one equivalent
in their pantheon of gods?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

January 1

It's New Year's morning. The sky is gloriously clear, carrying the hope of sunshine all day - enough to hold onto and remember when the clouds of 2017 inevitably appear. Stay positive, my friends.



January 1


Smoke shadows stream
across cottonwoods cleaned
of sojourner leaves

A slight-of-hand incense swirling
through arms held high
beneath a morning glory sky



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor