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