A New Year's Haiku from the North Woods

Happy new year, Everyone!



A New Year's Haiku from the North Woods


Icicles sparkle,
deer leave telltale tracks, and wild
turkeys peck for bugs.

Snow and cold layer
the land, the forest. A boon
to snowplow drivers,

a bane for twenty-
year-old furnaces. Pipes freeze,
thaw, split, spew liquid

like Vesuvius
belching, flooding floors not with
fire but ice water.

But come tomorrow
2020 promises
to send postcard days.

So, from all of us
at the cabin, the plumbers,
the insurance guy,

the furnace men and
me, "Happy New Year!" and may
it pass by claim free.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

December Gatherings

Happy Holidays, Everyone!



December Gatherings


As for the jays up north,
the chickadees and woodpeckers,
another wintry day dawns
partly-cloudy and cold.

Not for them
a mad dash to the airport,
the fuss of preparing a feast,

a whirlwind of progeny and presents,
and torn wrapping paper stuck
on stockinged feet.

Sipping my wake-up mug of coffee,
how I envy these unpretentious friends,
but by day's end, how much richer
my life, and how hum-drum for them.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater

I started this piece a year ago, and it just kept growing. Bear with me and read it through. Also, apologies to my Scandinavian friends.



Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater



The lye had leached everything from the poor fish: flavor, flakiness, and form. A wintertime staple of Scandinavians before the invention of supermarkets. Proof positive that people will eat anything to stay alive, and brag about it. I will admit my pale complexion and blonde hair suggest tom-foolery at some point with a Norseman, but any lutefisk-loving gene eluded me.

Over the years I managed to go missing among shelves of Nordic sweaters or disappear in a stand of Christmas trees at the mere hint of this Yule feast. And when exposed, my excuses to sidestep invitations ranged from the ever popular "Sorry, prior commitment" to "I think I'm coming down with the plague." But last December, after one too many glasses of aquavit, I wisecracked an assent, and soon found myself in a crowd of church basement diners. Each of us "anticipating" a meal of cod marinated in caustic chemicals.

The servers filed in, flourishing potatoes, coleslaw, and stacks of warm lefse. A respectable opening act followed by the piece de resistance in a splendor of unrestrained blandness: a shapeless blob quivering on separate platters for each lucky table. Appealing as an anemic aspic and just as tasteless. Neither bowls of cream sauce nor ladles of melted butter helped redeem it. Untouched by anyone but me, the salt and pepper looked embarrassed to be there, and couldn't pull their own weight.

Why had I been so worried about a mouthful of stings? I have known all along that denizens of the North have an affinity for bland food. Fierce Viking blood may run in their veins, but their tastebuds back away from all things spicy. Thank goodness these people also like meatballs.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stress

Two items of note in this week's news: 1) US officials hid evidence that the Afghan War had become unwinnable long ago 2) The ice sheet in Greenland is melting seven times faster than predicted. And a poem written two summers ago becomes more than apropos.



Stress


The cottonwoods struggle
hunkered down in dull camouflage,
sentries without water
balding from clumps of fallen leaves.

From Afghanistan:
GIs bunkered behind rocks, faces
sweaty, assault weapons gripped,
dealing death flashes of gunfire.

Back home, Texas-like heat expands
up North into July and August,
turning the foliage that remains
to anemic lemonade or paper-sack brown.

The high desert sun pounds on helmets
like a headache laced with mistrust
of the local forces,
mouths dry as hillside caves.

And in the forecast, scant relief.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Evaluations

It is deer hunting season in the north woods. And seeing a buck close up, hanging from a rack, brought me back to another time and place years ago.



Evaluations


The freshly arrowed buck,
beheaded and skinned,
hangs slick with north woods pride.
Only the forelocks remain furred,
anchoring the rope against slipping.
Glistening fascia covers ruddy muscles
not unlike cadaver torsos
that first semester of medical school.

Every Saturday morning a quiz
on newly dissected sections:
bodies draped except for the organ,
muscle or nerve demanding
identification. Occasionally, a clue:
nail polish on fingers fallen
from under the sheet
reinforcing ovary as an answer.

But a doe's horned hooves
won't hold a manicure
and the only points that count
for a hunter
are those on the rack of antlers.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Big Game Hunter

November is the month of spectacular sunrises, all manner of rubies and apricots, fuchsias and corals. The vibrant skies remind me of a story told about my big brother before he was even in kindergarten. If my mother had been paying attention, she would have seen his future rolled out before her.



Big Game Hunter


The colors of a man-eating tiger,
layers of orange, red, and indigo,
filled the west window
of our neighbor's garage at sunset.

Danger lurked a thin pane away
but a well aimed rock flung
by my brother, a brave age four,
swiftly solved the crisis.

Dashing back home, flushed
with the success of the hunt,
eyes aglow, he announced his prowess
as our phone began to ring.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Cheeky"s Pub

I cannot help but notice the many acorns dropped this fall from countless oaks as I walk the roads by the cabin. And one day it got me to thinking.



Cheeky's Pub


Clusters of split acorns -
like shelled peanuts beneath barstools -
litter the roadway,

conjure visions of squirrels gathering
over a brewski to watch football

on high-def TV, miniaturized
by the edge of the pavement.

A neat line of dry pine needles
abuts the overgrown grass,

and who's to say a wee barkeep
didn't sweep them all into place
an hour before the game's first pass?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Things They Don't Teach in Medical School

The son of an acquaintance died very unexpectedly this past week. The news transported me back to my days in the ER, and that feeling of helplessness.  



Things They Don't Teach in Medical School


In the ER
I sear phrases into my memory.
"I am so sorry" or "I wish I had
something better to tell you."

As if by rote I could make
newly diagnosed tumors
and unseen fatalities

fall easier on the ears
of parents in that flash of time
before life implodes.

But the expressions drift out
like so much dust. In the end
my inadequate sentences
and I walk away.

Me to the back room
to stem breakaway tears,
and my words to cling like a caul
over the rest of my day.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Shakespeare in the Park

Only the oaks up at the cabin cling to leaves, now brittle and rusty brown. And here in the Cities hardwoods rid themselves of foliage daily. Too soon the splendor of autumn lies scattered about on frosted ground.



Shakespeare in the Park


Macbeth stands in the commons,
a Crimson King maple vanquished,
cape in shreds, leaves mere threads
of failing stems, dropping at his feet.
For three weeks his majesty transfixed
me like a week-kneed pawn in front
of his fiery brawn, and then
his swift downfall. Even the jaded
shake their heads at his overnight
ousting by the Thane of Winter
now ascending the throne.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Rant

Some years when fall colors are spectacular, and streets lined with deep red maples display their grandeur, I despair. For I know the transience of nature's artistry.



A Rant


And another thing:
some years you are too
extravagant
with your glamour,
drowning the maples
in crimson,
using bottles
of coloring
instead of dollops
until they turn scarlet
as the lips
on streetwalkers,
brazenly lining
boulevards
until one morning
they stumble,
tawdry
in the dawn,
make-up faded,
limbs exposed,
leaves in a heap
at their feet,
and you unconcerned
as a madam,
knowing old man winter
(that icy-fisted
not-so-choosey regular)
waits around the corner.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Always a Gamble

We have had a lot of rain this fall. It can be annoying, especially when the water finds a way inside. But as potentially damaging as leaks can be, the farmers have it worse. Acre upon acre of corn and soybeans remain unharvested because of frequent showers or water standing in the fields.



Alway a Gamble


Too many cornstalks hesitate
to swap summer's field-green foliage
for windbreakers of beige.

Behind this, lingering warmth
and a cosmic spigot stuck on open.

Decades ago, my own uncles, forced
indoors by wet weather, watched
a World Series feeling torn:

glued to the games but cursing the rain.

Even the flintiest of farmers pray
for stretches of goldenrod days
before wins become losses
and yields start to sink in muddy fields.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Season's End

It's autumn, and that fact was driven home this past week with a foretaste of wintry weather. A dusting of snow, gusty winds, and icy rain swept through. Brief though it was, it was still a reminder that all things come to an end.



Season's End


I'm reluctant to take down
my leggy begonia.
Its leaves late summer green,
the blossoms scattered
like lipstick kisses.

Do I remove the basket now
and remember it wild
with flamenco blooms, or wait
for a hard frost to dance a black tango?

It seems only yesterday we chose
a closed casket
for my brother's funeral.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Autumn Up North

The colors at our cabin in northern Wisconsin have almost reached their peak, and it has been an exceptional autumn. At times I find myself overwhelmed by the beauty, and start to take it for granted.



Autumn Up North


Canopies touched by Midas
and courts of Crimson King maples
sidle up to evergreens,
flood the color cones in my eyes.

Like gorging on chocolate truffles
the pleasure recedes the more I consume,
turns common as penny candy
or hum-drum as the trees back home.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Oracles

Prose sometimes hides poetry, and if you look closely it can be discovered by rearranging the words. I found a series of poems hiding in a horoscope in the daily paper.



Oracles
             A Found Poem by Holiday
             Mathis, Star Tribune
             Horoscopes, 3/3/2019


I.   Essential Truth


The digital age accepts plots,
schemes, and naivety.

White lies grow, and with it,
responsibility for immunization
succumbs to social dynamics.

Unexpected disease exposes
the glaring flaw in this mentality.

Help yourself and others - immunize.

This message courtesy
of Leo and Scorpio and people
who adore you.


II.   On Dieting


Be fearless about cutting out takeaway.
Delve deeper into other cuisines.

Learn to exercise,
timing is everything.

Acceptance of other truths
furthers your interests.

You'll grow to appreciate yourself
and what you write on the moon.


III.   Naivety


A gift or a flaw?

Humbly listening to others
gains no sophistication points.

Some with worldly experience
view naifs as social jokes,

but wide-eyed people
let things unfold naturally.

Give the benefit of the doubt to all,
even Hydra of the many heads.


IV.   Pursuit


Leo and Libra chase each other
across the moon, travel the world
in a soul-aligned direction,
mesmerized on the way
with Virgo as their guide,
pursuing lucky numbers
6, 40, 22, and 18.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor



           

Death Notice

Occasionally, I scan the obituaries just to make certain, as someone once said, that I am not among those listed. A few months past, a stranger's obit caught my eye.



Death Notice


Nobody of note died today,
no prior President, no Statesman
aged with grace, nobody of renown.

Instead, the newspaper's featured
obituary singled out Ed Smith,
a person of the streets.

Born on a downbeat, an orphanage
for a home, a teenager finally freed
by age and need for WWII recruits.

After the War a "disappointed" mom
found him on her doorstep
and not a letter with death benefits.

Ed tried marriage, but soon "hated"
wedlock. Fixed its failure
on being trapped in a bad luck alley.

A drifter, a drinker, a day laborer,
a victim of PTSD and con men.
An RV with the false promise of heat

his bitter winter lodgings until a samaritan
secured warmer quarters for Ed
and his "best friend," a therapy dog.

Mr. Smith died alone at 92.
I set aside the newspaper unsettled
by the unorthodox obit, his old Navy photo:

a young man's curls escaping a sailor's cap,
and a jaunty smile still filled with optimism.
Despite all, someone of note died today.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Spoiler

From my 10th floor vantage point I watch the convergence of inland gulls over a period of weeks each fall. Their appearance means autumn has arrived as surely as any flock of geese flying south. And when the gulls finally fly off, I am always let down.



Spoiler


Inland gulls
stoked with the pent up energy
of kids before a fall field trip

ripple the air over an early morning
gathering spot, a still vacant parking lot.

Small numbers at first, the group
swells into a proper flock given time,
but the building boss grumbles.

At dawn a security car scatters
the crowd, breaking up their play daily
until a secret signal to peel away

propels them south for the winter,
and an acre of bare concrete
stares back at the car for hire.

The birds' aerial choreography,
murmurations of unrestrained joy, gone.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Autumnal Equinox

The fall equinox lurks around the corner. But when today's weather person talks about highs of 80 in September in Minnesota I just shake my head, and reassess the wisdom of wearing a long-sleeved blouse I had mentally cued up last night.



Autumnal Equinox


Later sunrises and earlier sunsets
march toward one another like troops
in pincer formation

battling the muggy days that lay siege
to a usually brisk September.

Juxtaposed against public pools
padlocked and settled for hibernation,
skateboarders in shorts fly by.

Youth relishing a reprieve from jackets,
unconcerned with why. The familiar chill
of fall, lacking.

To the north
cool, Canadian air hesitates to cross
the border, perturbed by political posturing.

And for the foreseeable future
                                       more night than day.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Birch Trees

We have been spending a lot of time at our "new" cabin this summer. What I've noticed is a greatly decreased number of paper birch and a lot more oaks on this property. I miss those skinny trees that respond to the slightest breath of air.



Birch Trees


bear nervous Nellie leaves,
flutter with a thousand little flags
even in easy breezes
and SOS the hardwoods
on wind whipping days.
With all this fidgeting it's
no surprise these skinny Minnies
plague the pines and stoic oaks
with their skittery jitters.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Morning Twilight

Autumn is coming, and everyday the sun rises later. On two occasions I have been lucky enough to observe a magical, very early predawn at the cabin. But the old saw of the spirit being willing, and the flesh being weak held true.



Morning Twilight


Twice up north
when predawn stirrings
dissolve shadows before 4:00,

I witnessed
the sum of the sky softened
with a misty, conch shell pink.

But neither time did I pause
to let my skin absorb its blush
nor linger in its flux.

Instead, sleep pulled me back to bed
like the siren call of a lover,
promising a more tangible caress,

whispering the certainty of parallel
mornings to come. Or so I heard.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Optics

The sky fascinates me. The storms, the stars, the sunrises and sunsets, the moon, the clouds. And recently I discovered something about our moon that I didn't know before.



Optics


The planet-shine of Venus and Jupiter,
close as kissing cousins today,
studs the brightening sky

but nowhere do I spy
the wisp of a waning moon,
fellow traveler of these morning stars.

I scan my windows without luck,
reach for an astronomy app
to pinpoint her. But nothing lights up.

Earth's satellite slipped away.

Her presence enlivens midnight's vault,
and retreat implies a curtain of clouds
or a crescent gone early to bed.

But, no, this day she simply
doesn't show, vanishes like a lady
in a magic act.

My dusty handbook of the heavens
concedes her disappearance
once each lunar month.

Then "Sim Sala Bim" and she's back
as a slivered bow, stage right
the following night.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

North End Blues

A few weeks back I made a trip to my hometown to see a good friend of mine. It's been years since I drove through my old neighborhood, and time has not helped the memories I carry of it.



North End Blues


Time is a hula hoop
around my waist, swirling
faster with each loop.
On the street where once I lived
Elvis now impersonates himself,
croons "Cold Kentucky Rain,"
and smells of homelessness.
I see the notes of his song slip down
a dirty white shirt, catch in the ragged
edges of his bell-bottoms.
Down the block Etta James
lingers from a radio,
slows the spinning world,
her sorrow leaking out a torn
screen door in a dissonant
duet with the King on the corner.
Fledgling years turn and slide
down the alley, their soprano shrieks
bounce between buildings, a ghost
game of hide and seek once played
among grand dames of innocence
and peppermint, now houses without heart.
I scale the walls of a Four Square,
stare into my bedroom but a woman,
not my mother, glares back,
refuses to recognize me. Someday
the same will happen to her,
no keepsake view. The years change
everything but me, and la dolce vita
melts away. At least the mourning dove
in the old maple tree nods a greeting.
Elvis, Etta, and the bird in three part harmony.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Balm

Last night I had dinner with a good friend of mine, a medical colleague in town to present Grand Rounds at the U of MN. Later, prior experiences as an ER physician peppered my dreams. And I saw the Northern Lights once more.



Balm


Depleted after an ER shift branded
by chaos, I turn north in the night:
a pulsing emerald sky.

My heart spellbound
as a child cupping a butterfly,
my head hammered by horns honking.

                         *

On my balcony I wrap
against witching-hour air

eyes wandering the lime-lit cosmos
until Hypnos, god of sleep,
brushes my cheek

and the image of a mother
cradling her lifeless infant
recedes into my closet of sorrows.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tornado

Over the weekend Minnesota saw four tornados wreak damage in rural areas, but, thankfully, there were no injuries.

The storms reminded me of a cyclone that ripped through north Minneapolis not so many years ago. It pummeled a part of the city that could least afford it.



Tornado


in that part of town
with gap-toothed houses, maws
boarded shut

For Sale and Foreclosed signs
creaking on too many blocks.

A liquor store looted even as the funnel
bullied its way down the street

barging into Cleo's hastily emptied Cafe
spintering tables into toothpicks

before bumping into a barbershop
ancient as its owner, sweeping up clippings

then ripped off the roof of a nearby clinic
exposing its cache of drugs like a favor

to marauders, one bad boy to another,
leaving in its wake intensified pressure

with one-room options
pluck and gutted in that part of town.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Laugh Lines and Crazing

It has been a crazy time with me traveling, returning to Minneapolis to spend only a night more than once before leaving again the following morning.

In other words, an explanation for the scattershot nature of poems this summer.



Laugh Lines and Crazing


Facial creams and time machines
fail me, but in the mirror

my mind takes up the slack,
possesses the knack
of air-brushing contours.

Not until I see a photo of myself
or glimpse my reflection aslant

does an image of a frayed
rag doll ambush me,
like a replay of Dorian Gray.

But no delusion with the devil
exists, only my magic-eraser smile
as antidote.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Weight of a Piano

A friend of mine talked of downsizing last evening, but was hesitant over the amount of space about to be lost. Most importantly, her beloved piano might have to be forfeited. I had a piano once . . .



The Weight of a Piano


follows me even as my fingers forget
the runs and cadences of the composers.

Slipping away on a rope and pulley
from a jerry-rigged marriage, the music

swung outside the window of my life,
my ex and his lawyer maneuvering.

Landing neatly on the pavement,
it barricaded one road completely,

flash-freezing
into a symbol of my former self.

Eighth notes and trills skipping away
like a harmony unwoven.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unintended Consequences

How often do we choose things impulsively without thinking of possible repercussions? And when our actions come back to haunt us, does an out exist? I had forgotten what happened to King Midas, if I ever knew, and finally reread the entire tale.



Unintended Consequences


Midas,
foolish King of Phrygia,
what were you thinking?
A wish granted by bacchus,
a wish wasted on avarice.

What did you touch first
with your golden gift?
A wine cup, a scroll, or, maybe,
a laurel wreath which changed
into a lustrous crown?

How long before you realized
the grapes in your hand
or the water on your tongue
filled your mouth with bitter metal?

Lucky for you
the god had an antidote.
Lucky for us
after you bathed as he bid,
gold now forever found
in the sands of riverbeds.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Uninvited Guests

A lifetime ago, before the flood that still bedevils our cabin, we fed the birds. And other critters as it turned out.



Uninvited Guests


Late summer at the cabin
and we scatter birdseed
for the last of the warblers.

Only a grizzled turkey
wanders by, pecking
at the milo and cracked corn.

At dark a young buck
trips the yard light, finds
the bonanza before a raccoon

bullies him back from the food,
intent on stuffing his own mouth.

Come morning, the mixture
"Guaranteed to attract cardinals,
finches, juncos and jays"

is shelved for the season
and perhaps permanently

as the Tom steps through thin grass,
wattle swaying, hoping for a handout.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unbuttoned

Peonies still bloom along the fence line of our condo, a sign of this year's late spring. I remember many a Memorial Day when these flowers waited to be snipped and placed on graves of those we wished to remember. Irreverent thoughts got the better of me on more than one occasion.



Unbuttoned


Peonies, ants still clinging,
cut each spring for cemetery plots.

Voluptuous blooms
shameless for Memorial Day

like a coquette's rouged cheeks,
blushing pink

or matted a swan-white.
Swaying bodies, slender stems

graced the graves
of my grandpa and uncles

smiling beneath those blossoms,
pendulous and perfumed.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Maple Syrup Time

A family reunion of sorts took place this weekend for my granddaughter's high school graduation. One conversation, started by my daughter from London, centered around maple syrup and the fact that most of it originates either in the US or Canada.

Below is another "Found Poem," a poem coaxed from a prose piece, that happens to be about maple syrup and the changing springtime.



Maple Syrup Time

                       Astro Bob, "Full Broken
                       Moon Shines Tonight and
                       Friday," Duluth News
                       Tribune, 4/18/19


Sugarbushing
catches then passes winter
in woods slightly out of line.

Flower moss blooms
from broken snowshoes,
and the Egg Moon of April

traces sprouting frogs. Snow
on the ground and ground phlox
reflects a pinkish-orange horizon.

Pause the moment
as the weather remains suspect
on a tilted earth with two moons rising.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Apples to Oranges

The 2019 Hurricane Season officially started yesterday, June 1st. But the devastation done by storms in prior years lingers on.

Massive flooding in the Midwest, currently, dominating the news, carries similar calamitous results. Take it from somebody who knows.



Apples to Oranges


No storm surges or tidal flows,
no gale force gusts
lash our lake up North.

Here, ill-tempered winds
kick up white-caps,
act like a fist-pounding toddler

enough to jostle bass boats and push
clueless canoeists against a far shore

send lily pads pitching on swells,
and fish hustling to the calm below.

But down South, oceans
barrel through Gulf Coast doors.

                       *

A cloudburst floods the forest.

Our brimming lake overspills
banks, and seeps under doorsills,
sluicing cabin floors.

No tempest with a name,
no buffeting blows, only water
remodeling.

                       *

At storm's end apples and oranges
and the same taste of fruit gone bad.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Trick of the Gods

The kids I cared for in the ER came with a variety of names. Granted, a lot of them were white bread like Emma and Lucas but any number of them were not.

A few names have stayed with me mostly for their quirkiness: La - sha (La dash sha) and SSSST (Forest). But I remember one patient because of a name that described her circumstances precisely.



A Trick of the Gods


Before me in the ER
lies a twelve-year-old girl,
bearing a name known
to the ancients.

Having slid into this world
too soon, she exists
with the mind of an infant,
a body limp and tube-fed,
a scar-crossed chest.

But her mahogany eyes follow
my stethoscope, sparkle
at the sound of soft voices.

Pandora,
did your mother name you
with irony or unwittingly?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

School Outing

Yesterday's paper carried an article about reopening a reconstructed trail situated on a bluff above the Mississippi River. Six years ago it gave way with tragic consequences.

I lived close enough at the time to hear the helicopters hovering above the area. The sound gnawed at my heart.



School Outing


Yesterday the bluff:
favored site for field trips
       thick with trees
promise of arrowheads
       freedom from books
the lesson unplanned
       on shifting ground

Today only news choppers:
Life Flight no longer needed
       after the mudslide
maimed two, claimed one
       and left a fourth buried
too deep even for rescue dogs
       to detect

Since sunrise:
the drone of rotors once more.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Ellis Island - 1919

Today is Mother's Day. A while back I wrote a poem about my own mother's entry as a young immigrant into this country. It is in the form of a sestina where the end words of the first six lines repeat throughout the poem.

I can only hope she would have liked it. Happy Mother's Day, Mom.



Ellis Island - 1919


In her hand for luck a candy tin the shape
and size of a snuff box. In her Nordic blue
eyes wonder for Gustavino's vaulted ceiling,
capping the Great Hall. In her nose the scent
and sweat of people contained on crowded
ships now landed on America's front step,

Ellis Island. Lined up and directed to "Step
this way!" A doctor appraised her, felt the shape
of her twelve-year-old head, examined a crowd
of white teeth, approved her health with a blue
stamp. A man behind her, coughing blood, sent
back. To the wards? To the ship? TB sealing

his fate. In her ears echoing from the ceiling,
cacophony in a dozen languages, a step
away from chaos. Confusion when people sent
onward with new names. Mr. Duhamel reshaped
into Mr. Campbell. The Registrar misheard, blew
off their puzzled looks, inscribed lists crowded

with difficult names. Luggage vexed the crowds
jamming the floors, climbing to the ceiling.
A man of twenty tried to claim an untagged blue
steamer, listing its contents to an agent on the steps.
Identified it with shirts and socks, tried to shape
words to mark it his. Once opened, the scent

of mothballs erupted, and a forgotten accordion sent
a smile of recall across his face. Before the crowd
he picked up the instrument, played a polka, shaped
himself a future with others met under that ceiling,
broken English their common language, stepping
forward, ideas colored by the red, white and blue

promise of concerts to come. Cornflower blue
the color of her dress, hard-milled soap the scent
on her skin. Her father, here already, took the steps
by twos, searched for his family in the crowds.
Spying him, her laughter tickled the ceiling
as she settled quickly into his teddy-bear shape.

Two memories shaped her on Ellis Island: the blue-
lipped man with his scent of blood, and the crowd,
feet tapping to an accordion played under a grand ceiling.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Recyclable World

To add insult to injury after our cabin flooded last spring, looters showed up hoping to score. Instead, they found themselves calling a friend for help when lake water seeped into their own vehicle.



Recyclable World


Perhaps looters like vultures
descending after a disaster
belong to a greater cycle of rebirth.

A lake grown powerful overnight
claims new real estate rights, clinches
eviction.

Still, it stings when the cabin
tucked in waterlogged woods

turns into spoils for punks
in a rust-bucket car,
but karma snags them, too.

As the driver spins tires
mired in water and sand,

we already knew
what the vandals don't mark
the forest and wetlands do.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tilt

This past week we were up North for the first time since our cabin flooded ten months ago. We knew from neighbors that the water still had not receded as the lake has no outlet and the ground is saturated.

We weren't prepared to see that the water level had risen even higher, making the flooding worse. Time to find a new cabin.



Tilt


In the maw, in the nighttime storm.

The bloated lake
could not contain fifteen inches
of pounding rain.

Daylight delivered submerged
docks and fire-rings,
dwellings moored in shallows.

Yet warblers sang from pines
trapped in the overflow,
and butterflies flitted untroubled.

But armies of mosquitoes
ambushed us, targets in slo-mo
retrieving wayward boats.

Inside, a drifting boot bumped
against the defunct 'frig no one
wished to open.

Cabin life shelved
until the lake backtracks, slips out
the front door.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

April Ablutions

Obstinate bits of snow dot the city, especially, in sheltered spots or in designated areas of major parking lots, dumped there by city trucks throughout the winter. A few Aprils back I noticed this same phenomena outside my townhouse.



April Ablutions


Like a curved blade covered
with shaving cream
recently scraped from a face,
a stubborn scrim of snow
hugs the ground in front
of a shiny, maroon car.
The rest of the lather washed
away in a morning shower.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fabulist

One last post from the UK. A year ago I rode with a driver from the airport to my daughter's home in London. Let's just say I found him to be a chatty fellow.



Fabulist


The driver from Heathrow,
cut from fair Anglo-Saxon cloth,
chatted like Chaucer, weaving tales
as we wound our way thru London.

"The truth about the Russian spies
poisoned here? A frame-up aimed at Putin
by sloppy Ukrainians. Those two would
be dead if the order originated in Moscow."

The scenery blurred at motorway speeds.

Eyebrows raised, bushy with innuendo,
he asked, "You ever wonder about the French
President with his 'dandy' clothes and older wife?
Not a manly man, if you catch my drift."

The car slowed as we exited the off-ramp,
windows closed, doors secured.

"And then there's the biggest threat
of all - Merkel and her ilk. Opening
their arms to millions of immigrants.
A sea-tide of undesirables, if ever I saw one."

His monologue drowned out dissent.

Without warning, the blackened hull
of Grenfell Tower hovered on our right,
palpable sadness burnt into the ruin.

But the driver, on a different frequency,
could not hear the migrant histories wafting
through empty windows, nor sense the struggles
on overloaded rafts, resettlement camps.

Despite its cool interior, the car felt stifling
until I recognized the noisy jay that he was,
squawking against a changing world.

At the end of the journey I hesitated
but could not withhold a gratuity. Despite all,
a working man voicing his opinions.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Brexit

Found poetry is created by lifting words or phrases from other sources and reframing them. And that's what I've done this week. My source being Elson's Pocket Music Dictionary published in 1909.

I, also, feel this week's poem is appropriate since it's coming to you from London.



Brexit


The Conductor holds forth
with her latest score created
within the rules of harmony.

The movement, a fundamental
fugue, requires brilliant execution.

Discord intrudes. Five voices
in close relation clash
with a counterpoint in four parts.

The musicians orchestrate stops
as the Maestro stresses an interpretation
played from the EU songbook.

But her leitmotif, a theme
without variation, remains
over-sung by runs of dissonance.

Full dress rehearsals,
and the coda not yet arranged.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Grand Canyon Tour

I recently spent a week in Arizona. As I flew back to Minnesota, the pilot made mention of the Grand Canyon off to our left. His comments brought back memories of another flight taken years ago over that very site. I never did fare well in small planes.



Grand Canyon Tour


A small, fixed-wing plane
bounced like a striped ball
from updraft to cold current
over plunges and pinnacles.
The pilot smiled, settled in,
but a few of us cringed.

Rivers and ridges and bands
of rust layered out below
but its grandeur could not
compete with the focus given
a ragged white sack clutched
by me seated in the back.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Lessons Learned from the Flood

In the news, videos from the terrible flooding in Nebraska this spring. Unfortunately, I can commiserate with those caught in the mess. The land around our cabin up north remains under water nine months on. A total loss but, fortunately, not our primary residence.



Lessons Learned from the Flood


All manner of footwear floats. I expected flip-flops to greet me on slow moving currents in the inundated cabin. But fleece scuffs and work boots? Like pop-ups in a Fun House, they jangled my bare legs, nudged my nerves. And so did the bobbing ant-traps, forlorn as empty life rafts. Wreckage everywhere: non-closing, swollen doors, a soggy futon turned mutant sponge, and defunct appliances moored in water. That's when I heard the lapsed flood insurance policy laughing from a bureau drawer. And forget FEMA; we failed even their basic disaster parameters. Outside, the lake swirled over the lawn, eliminating the option to take a break on the grass and absorb some sun. A survey of the damage from the kayak or canoe might have distracted us, but they washed away along with the dock. And then there was the propane tank. More dangerous than a jellyfish on the loose, it floated off, trailing tendrils of vapor until the gas guys hauled it away. Did I mention minnows darting in the drive? Perhaps I can set a rod from the kitchen window, and snag a perch in passing.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Navajo Blanket - Circa 1860

I spent the past week in Phoenix with an afternoon in Old Town Scottsdale. Native American pottery and blankets abound, but few are old school. Those artifacts can be found in the Heard Musuem, promoting the cultures and arts of American Indians in the Southwest.



Navajo Blanket - Circa 1860


I am the soft wool
of the shorn sheep
spun once for yarn,
twice for strength.

Steamed berries, bark
transformed me
into warrior red
and starless black,
colors of a chief's blanket.

A dark-eyed woman
in an Arizona canyon
with hands tough
from grinding corn
and soft from mothering,
patterned my soul
into a storyteller.

Long after she tied the last
of my four corner knots
my voice remains witness.

I warmed her children
in chill desert nights,
protected them
from pitting winds
but could not save them
from the wrath
of government soldiers.

I was rolled, tied
behind the saddle
of a rifleman,
roamed the high deserts,
was lost to a gambler
from Denver
who had no use for me.
Nor did his sweetheart.

Years of neglect
in a dusty back room
fixed my memories:
smoky grey streaks
from campfires,
ground-in dust
from arid mesas,
a rusty brown stain
from the Indian wars.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Supplication

In the forest surrounding our cabin lives a special pine. But unless the floods of last summer recede the normal life span of this tree is threatened once again.



Supplication


Sacred tree, holy pine
I am speaking to you.

My friend rescued you from the storm spirit
which uprooted your neighbor

slammed it to earth,
crowding your young trunk

bending your spine like a crone's.
He learned to use a saw as an old man

to save you from the intruder's dead weight.
Each summer he cut further into its girth

worked to angle through the log
and split the encroaching fir,

his blade slowed by gnarled hands.
Three years of puny dreams

before you sprang free of the wind god's curse.
These days I find you in a forest

regal as a young lord,
see the breadth of your branches

hiding the c-shape in your back.
Remember how he helped you as a sapling.

Sacred tree, holy pine
I am speaking to you.

Impart, now, strength to his granddaughter
whose spine, they say, is curved.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Breezy Confidence of the Untested

I subscribe to "Lake Superior Magazine." Occasionally, the editor slips in pictures of young couples on their wedding day in the deep winter of the far north. One photo in particular stays with me. The joy of this pair shines like a beacon through the swirling snowfall.



The Breezy Confidence of the Untested


They stand in the beginning
of a blizzard,
this wedding couple.
The wind carrying her veil,
lifting his lapel, their cheeks ruddy
as the crimson lodge behind them.
Laughter tweaks their smiles
like eager kids told to pose
but ready for sledding and snowballs
and games like King of the Mountain.
Mulled wine waiting within.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Shrouded Bird

In this unending winter the days are perceptibly lengthening, and a few new warblers chirp from trees on my walk around snowbanks and into the bite of windchill. But this last round of wintry weather leaves me concerned about these forerunners of spring.



Shrouded Bird


A songbird
in frosted February
sings spring too soon.

A memo misread
or tossed off? A coat
of hope his sole protection.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Down Time

This past week saw the one year anniversary of the Parkland, FL. shootings at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. A painful day, along with countless others, many of us wish to let go.



Down Time


What do we do
with days we wish to forget?

An anniversary
of a marriage now scrapped,
a date in April
capped by a fatal flood,
Mother's Day
without a reason for flowers,
the final workday
of a plant shuttered for cost,
a sibling's birthday
with no further candles to count,
a sunny September morning
exploding a nation's sense of security.

Like duty bound, humorless aunts
they reappear each circle of the year

and never do they not come back.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Winter Break

It's definitely still winter in the north country. The windchill no longer reaches -50F but it continues to register below zero on days even with only a mild breeze. And snow remains in the forecast.



Winter Break


A skyline with vapor plumes,
columned and Grecian white,
attracts no tourists toting Nikons
to film the absence of drift.

Rather, those of us bundled
against February's pillars
weigh the morning stillness,
mark the blessed lack of windchill.

Not quite the same as ambling
in strappy shoes
surveying cerulean seas,
but, for today, close enough.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Slip-Sliding Away

This has been a crazy winter. A windchill of -50F this past week to a predicted high nearing 40 today. A noticeable lack of snow all season but plenty of icy walkways and parking lots. And despite the relative balminess of the last two days, we'll plunge back into the cold of a Minnesota winter by tomorrow night.



Slip-Sliding Away


Sidewalks and grass glazed like glass,
deceptive enough to pull me down. Twice.

Chagrined, I glanced around, ready
to reassure any witnesses, but no one else
signed up for this fool's outing.

Once, I would have shown off
my bruises. Not so now. I wished
to avoid any talk about broken bones

and walking the halls of shopping malls,
instead. Boring as a treadmill.

Like a kid I hid the blueberry swirls
under my jeans until a pedicurist spied them
without even a shake of her head.

Only kind words bubbled-up, soothing
as the warm water around my feet.

Sympathy in a nail salon. What took me
so long? The discolorations had already
passed their peak.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Obsidians

Despite last week's hype, a total lunar eclipse imposed on a super moon isn't nearly as rare as a month with no full moon at all. Something that only happens in February every 19 years. I should have paid more attention last winter.



Obsidians


February folds into Jack Frost's cloak,
and refuses to host a lunar fanfare.

Like a storyline from a fairy tale
I wander through witching hours
for 28 days shadowed in trance

until the orb of March
surfaces like a freed pearl, luminescent
in the waves of a star-crested sky.

A blush fires my cheeks,
not from the presence of a prince

but from my neglect of the heavens
in the hands of a black moon month.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Late Night Squall

I am a daughter of the prairie and limitless skies. My heart sings whenever I travel west to the Dakotas, open land and unending horizons before me. Sky views from the expanse of windows from where I live, ten floors up, soothe my soul bound by the city. And when I pay attention, the heavens tell endless tales.



                  Late Night Squall


A bruised dawn awakens puffy and purple,
     the corner of the horizon sanguinary

                               as

       Sol struggles to peer through slits
                      in the overcast.              



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Dark Days

Sometimes people let you down. But despite all, you simply move on.



Dark Days


The cold seeps into my feet
and double socks don't help.

The cold lingers, leeches into my arms
from kitchen countertops of stone.

The cold hides in corners, sneaks down
the chair back, shrouds my shoulders.

The cold burns when I breathe
a friend's pointed lie.

I find it infinitely harder to reheat
my core than to warm my limbs.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

May This Marriage Be Full of Laughter

Winter weather is not what it used to be. Instead of typical icebox readings, we've enjoyed a run of days in the 40s. Instead of shoveling a foot of white stuff a week or so ago, we saw snowfall turn into record amounts of rain.

Need I say, usually the rain changes to snow around here, and not vice versa? Like the crazy weather accompanying a friend's wedding early last spring.



May This Marriage Be Full of Laughter
                                                            Rumi


Charcoal smeared clouds
leak like sagging party tents
before rain rends their seams.

A twenty degree temperature drop
conjures a wave-of-the-wand whiteout.

At the Country Club
young men maneuver trucks equipped
to hustle growing drifts off to the side

before the bride arrives.
Her dark, Persian tresses dusted
with disappearing diamonds of a wintry day.

The ruination
of my sparkly new shoes complete
in the snowbanks of celebration.

By night's end
parked cars like wavy lines of petit fours
chill beneath dollops of bridal cake frosting.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor