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