August 2nd, 2020, USA

Leading news items found in last Sunday's New York Times.



August 2nd, 2020, USA


Hurricane Isaias pounding one coast
A California wildfire wrecking the other
Coronavirus chewing up the intererior
Black Mariahs at protests in Portland
In Phoenix the hottest month now on record
Added relief for the jobless jettisoned in D.C.

And from the Gulf of Mexico
"Welcome back to planet Earth!" heard



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Summertime Recon

Languid, summer days always bring me back to my childhood and the time spent on the farm belonging to my dad's siblings every July or August.



Summertime Recon


Two bachelor-farmer uncles
and their spinster sister:
three adults content to let

a city kid run free in a fiefdom
surrounding their farmhouse.

In the side-yard a monster tree
with one arm brandishes
a rough plank swing, swaying
from bewhiskered ropes.

To the north thrives a shelter-belt,
commandos in the guise of gnarled oaks
and elms, guarding the yard.

If any foe makes it through, they face
the dicey territory of chickens
and a lone rooster, spurs at the ready,
beak aimed at anyone in his path.

Should an intruder avoid being pecked
to death, the smell of the adjacent privy
would hit him like a blunderbuss.

To the south and west, barbed wire
bridles the threat of endless plains.

Perimeters secured I tend the threshold,
sunburnt and thirsty. But what to drink?
Fresh milk tasting of prairie scrub

or well-water smacking of minerals?
Unsweetened Kool-Aid, the Major General's
preferred quaff, or a cup of cold coffee?

Like a sack of pellets emptied from a low
flying cloud, an ambush of pea-sized hail
pummels my head as I dash inside.

Our only course of action lay with the rosary beads
already in the hands of my aunt; my uncles
wet, cursing, and not so certain.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unsteady Star

The comet NEOWISE has been in our sky lately. I have yet to see it. In a different part of the heavens a large star in the Constellation of Orion may be in trouble, and that one is visible to the naked eye.



Unsteady Star


Betelgeuse, a beguiling superstar
in Orion and more strapping
than our sun, flickers like a stuttering

lightbulb from flashes of brilliance
to funks of murkiness,
revealing erratic pulsations
of an unstable patient.

Burning, churning
and expending its fuel,
pressured by internal shadows,
destined for collapse, perhaps.

But this extrasolar luminary,
tagged as semi-regular, may merely
be dimming randomly, puckishly

like my friend when he chose to scorn
his bipolar meds.

But the star a survivor, not a postscript
                                                  thus far.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sleeping Outdoors

As many of you know, Minnesota's other state bird is the mosquito. And some of them have been known to drift eastward to Wisconsin where I encounter them.

My feelings about these insects can be intuited in this Found Poem - a rearrangement of words written for a different context.



Sleeping Outdoors
   
    A Found Poem from McCormick's
    "Hang Time," Minnesota Monthly,
    May/June 2019


In mosquito country, pack heat
or back away.

Wild bugs parachute in,
hang from trees on the trail,
angle for a better view of you.

Primed to strap themselves
to backs and butts

they can sweep away the goal
of completing a trail run

or shave comfort from viewing
stars on a summer's evening.

The most common mistake
lies in forgetting netting
at snooze time.

That closer-to-nature feeling?
Not that appealing.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unmoored in Time

On a recent morning walk up at the cabin I encountered a pair of sandhill cranes hustling across the road in front of me. They surprised me since these birds are not typically found in forested land. But then I did see one last summer, too, along with a brutal reminder that nature is not all sweetness.



Unmoored in Time


An eagle on the hunt
marks a lone crane, listless
and drifting on the lake.

Heartbreaking shrieks
at the attack of claws and beak.
The day rubber-bands
until the predator breaks away.

Neck still arched, the stunned target
maintains its grace, circling
then slipping to a sodden grave.

Tetracords and trilobites belch.

The rest of the forest silent
except for an "Adagio for Strings"
filtered by cabin screens and screes

of a hawk relentlessly rebuking
his competitor.

Finally, the pterosaur flies off, leaving      
bucolic shambles warping his backwash.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

When Flames Come

When I wrote this poem I had Windsor Castle and The Glasgow School of Art in mind. Both are elegant brick buildings which caught on fire. Now looking at the poem in light of George Floyd's death, it reads as a metaphor for Law Enforcement in the US.



When Flames Come


remember what the mason
knows - it's tricky to be delicate

and durable both, to craft
a structure for the ages,

produce a puzzle
of stone and grace,

to assume fire resistance
when building with brick
and downplay exposed finishes,

dismiss the odds of facing intact walls
around a gutted core, watching dreams
stream like smoke through an open door.

It will happen again, it has happened before.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Not a Breath of Air

Usually, hot days are not a problem at the cabin in the north woods, especially with a breeze. But when there is no air movement at all and the temps are in the 90s, it becomes a tad uncomfortable.



Not a Breath of Air


A painting, a Winslow waterscape
outside my morning window.

A brown-porcelain barge
and biscuit figures idle on the far shore
of a lake brushed with lily pads.

Blanc-de-chine gods drift
between branches in fog-draped trees.

Too soon,
the bull-beating heat of the sun
dissolves the tableau, sweats the jug
and settles itself on my deck:

an unwanted caller dawdling
on Adirondack chairs. My tumbler
of ice water shimmers.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Following the Death of George Floyd - III

It's been almost two weeks since the Memorial Service for George Floyd in Minneapolis. And even though calm now prevails, the underlying tensions remain close to the surface, fueling the need for reform.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Ten of Unrest - Minneapolis


Today the Memorial for Mister Floyd.
Al Sharpton presiding and hammering home,
"Take your knee off our necks!"

Those present, those outside, and those tuned
      in electronically standing in silence
             8 minutes and 46 seconds.

Unbearably long for everyone - unending
                                                  for George.


Curfews lifted, some Guardsmen retreating,
Coronavirus creeping back into consciousness.
The city shattered, the citizens shaken
but nurturing a hope for change.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Following the Death of George Floyd - II

The killing of George Floyd remains front and center in Minneapolis. A few days ago I happened to drive by a building that had been torched and several more that had been boarded up. But this was in St. Paul, merely a sideshow to the main action.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Four of Unrest - Minneapolis


Pandora,

You have again opened your box
and unleashed a whirlwind of destruction.

Four nights and counting.
Feeding on itself and fanning across America.

Close the case! before what little hope we harbor
soars off with the others.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Eight of Unrest - Minneapolis


Minority neighborhoods suffering.
Wanton wastage of Mom and Pop shops
and big box stores, both.

An army of residents responding
with 20,000 bags of groceries
and more,
with baby formula and diapers,
with brooms and shovels
and the will to clean,
with solidarity
in the idea things must change.

The rubble of businesses in the background,
the smell of smoke lingering,
and the unspoken fear of this momentum
                                                       being lost.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Following the Death of George Floyd

This has been a horrific week in Minneapolis following the death of George Floyd. A series of poems about this time continues to foment within me. Here are two of them.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Three of Unrest - Minneapolis


Injustice butts heads
with bands of blue-clad policemen.

Rocks and bottles battle bullets
of rubber, tear gas. Opening skirmishes.

Angry red shopping carts fly airborne
towards the doors of the superstore
that birthed them.

Palpable outrage simmers and builds,
burns buildings and sears the souls
of anguished citizens.

In the distance I see the flames climbing.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Five of Unrest - Minneapolis


A thousand rioters shoving, pressing to cross a bridge.
A thousand cops pushing back.

Official vehicles with flashing lights
- blue then red then blue then red then blue then red -
a psychedelic cork plugging the way

as the waters of the northern Mississippi
tumble a thousand feet below
in the bootblack of night.

Thousands of National Guardsmen, State Troopers
and Police like border collies with sharp teeth
- nipping, nipping, biting, nipping, biting, biting -
work on dispersing crowds defying curfew, bent
on mayhem.

Across the country a thousand other hotspots roil
with turmoil, too.



 Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

May Haiku in Minnesota

This last weekend reminded me that rainy days are common in May in Minnesota. And that summer's warmth sometimes doesn't come as quickly as we would like.



May Haiku in Minnesota


The furnace kicks on,
rain swells the fields, rivers pound,
hamstrung farmers curse.

Frogs in pop-up ponds
brazenly hum vibratos
of piercing desire.

Across the city
tulips and dandelions
burst forth, heads unbowed.

Blooming crabapples
swamp the eyes with magenta
even as they droop.

The siren of spring
calls through raindrops, promising
days drenched in honey

and a prime belief
in the drumbeat of sunshine
beneath sullen clouds.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Transients

The first day of spring officially falls on the Vernal Equinox in late March. But in the Northland the weather pays no attention to dates.



Transients


At the cabin up north
on this first day of spring

diamonds carpet the deck

as if little people labored
through the night in mines
beneath leftover snow

scattering their finds with abandon.

Mica flashing in moonlight
and morning sunshine only.

Ephemera vanishing by midday
like the dashed hopes
for a Happy Hour with friends

or a swift demise of the lethal virus
now trending in our biosphere.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Repose

Mother's Day here in the States fell this past Sunday, triggering memories of my own mom. I wrote a series of poems about her in the last years of her life, and here is one of them.



Repose


How many afternoons
do I find you drifting?

Still willful as a two-year-old,
still the gracious doctor's wife.

Head burnishing the rocker,
wig aslant, almost asleep

eyes closed, mouth open,
open book yawning at Chapter Two.

At ninety you protest any need
for a nap, ignore advice to the contrary.

Like Busch, your once beloved
German shepherd, you sit content

with the quiet, resting in mid-day
languor, aware.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Fates Have Cast their Dice at her Birth

The Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure is set for this coming Sunday in Minneapolis. A long held fundraiser to fight breast cancer this year has become virtual.

No blocking off streets in my neighborhood for the event. No sea of participants wearing pink. No trigger for tears as I watch from my window. You see, a few years back the race turned personal.



The Fates Have Cast their Dice at her Birth


A photo of a youngish woman
pivots to me from the obits
of today's newsprint.

Breast cancer placing her there.

Three years disease free
until she wasn't.

Three years out
from disfigurement by scalpel,
poisonous rays, searing drugs.

My jack-in-the-box heart
bounds from my ribs

as my own daughter
continues year three of Tamoxifen.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Midges and Moths

It must be spring by the tally of insects flattened on the windshield of Andrew's Jeep. Not until last summer did I realize how much of a hit their numbers had actually taken.



Midges and Moths


Me, worry about too few
bugs? Never - until now.

At the lake only a core crew
         of dragonflies
targets armies of mosquitoes.

Butterfly bushes bloom
into cabarets with few partygoers,
and the music of warblers sounds thin.

My alarm-o-meter barely budged.
I puzzled and shrugged
until a news report rattled me.

More subtle than insecticides,
the uptick in temps hampers
breeding, reduces reproduction

and trips alarm-o-meters
of bug counters everywhere.

Bird numbers plummet
without these bits of protein,
and crops needing pollinators,
                                              backslide.

Now, my own alarm-o-meter
plagues me like a persistent ear-worm.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unsettled

Owning a cabin is basically akin to owning a second house, and we all know what that means. Things age out or need repair. But problems in the north woods can be a little different from in the Cities: a rebellious septic system or recalcitrant well-pump, and the nearest town of any size (pop. 2182) a thirty minute drive away on a good day.



Unsettled


This weekend it's the wind.
Winter weakened branches
plummet from pines and birch,
white caps party, finely free
from ice out, twenty-some geese
camp on the shoreline like travelers
grounded. Then the water pump fails.
A jerry-rig fix until the well-man
can show sometime next week
with finger tips darkly etched,
ready to poke around the shaft
plunged in shadowed recesses.
If we're lucky, his truck holds
redemptive parts. If not, a whole
new mechanism to order.
For now, I rescue the thermometer
face down at the base of the maple.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Day 33 of Shelter-in-Place

A month of days at home. Tedious. No gatherings. Interactions at a distance. Even a moody sky. Surely, introverts become restless, too.



Day 33 of Shelter-in-Place


A hawk kind of day,
melancholy drifting across a cello

like the harrier riding the thermals,
        climbing then dropping,
looping past sky-scraping windows.

No air-force-blue skies,
   no streamers of sunshine,
      no majorettes or marching bands
           on Main Street, USA.

Only the pizzicato chirps of wrens
beneath a glissading bird of prey.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Arraignment

Years ago in the days following Easter, I used to slip into a nearby church empty on weekday afternoons. I went primarily for the serenity but also for the aroma of flowers that promised spring.



Arraignment


The smell of lilies
in April is
cathedral silence
sunlit by saints
in stained glass cool
before a white field
of altar flowers
in essence sent peace.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Something Lost

These days I find more people than usual walking/running/jogging around a nearby lake. "Shelter-in-place but it's okay to exercise outdoors" drives most of them. But nature, herself, hasn't changed, so why not tune in?



Something Lost


Joggers, runners, and walkers
intent on their workout
stare pointedly ahead.
Wires dangle from earplugs
connected to distractors
tucked discreetly in clothes.

With ears stoppered
how will they hear
the songs of spring warblers,
silvery notes of snowmelt,
shouts of kids dashing by on bikes,
the laughter of fellow travelers,
wind tousling the trees,
or the two-note call of chickadees?


The music of life in surround sound
as they pound by, oblivious.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Winter Rain

At the beginning of March I flew to Phoenix for a national conference. Three weeks ago Coronavirus was but an annoying blip on the radar. And I needed a dose of warm weather and sunshine.



Winter Rain

A desert monsoon blindsides me,
batters me as I bob and weave

beneath resort overhangs like a quail
seeking shelter under prickly pears.

Slate-grey clouds strip days of warmth,
give lie to the moniker "Valley of the Sun."

Drenched, I pause before a door
that will not open.

Rain ricochets as cactus wrens
across the way huddle in saguaros

with no need for room keys nor rain gear.
Sniffles plague my head

like the storm rolling across the Southwest,
and the niggling possibility of Coronavirus.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

In the Forest

I love to hear the wind come up in the forest. There is something special about the sound, especially since I grew up on the plains where the wind is a constant presence.



In the Forest


a boreal blow rumbles into a rush
from deep within its chest

the sighs of wood sprites
echo through firs on fitful drafts

and murmurs emerge from breezes
before birch leaves think to ripple.

Nuances of wind
            rustle through timberlands,

remain a mystery to its prairie sib
     who whistles but one tune
at two tempos: moderato or presto.

A zephyr, a mistral, a trumpet
without a mute playing on an open stage
                       from Texas to the Dakotas.

But the tenor of wildwood storms
sounds increasingly like those found

on the plains,
and those on the plains now occur
more frequently with the fortissimo

of musicians on a high
          supplied by Mother Nature
                                     and courtesy of us.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Busy Bodies

The warmth of spring encourages all signs of life, including the stirring of insects. Asian beetles are reawakening one by one inside our cabin which led me to thinking about last year's nearby hornets and our neighbor's distress.



Busy Bodies


The snows of winter will settle
on an abandoned masterpiece,
but Gary will no longer care.

Like an upside-down swirl
of meringue clinging to a string
of spun sugar

a hornet's nest sways
in a patch of trees off our drive.
The whorled, lightweight hive

deserves a photo spread
in House and Home. But my neighbor
itches to spray away the busy hub.

Mercifully, autumn now rules.
Sightings of the queen
and her legions grow more rare

and soon Gary
will be fending off insects
down in heavy, Florida air.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Red Sky at Morning

"To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven." Ecclesiastes



Red Sky at Morning


A glance at a sunrise
staining the horizon
with tangerine and cranberry
beneath masses of dour clouds,
abruptly forgotten
at a friend's discovery
of her son
lifeless on the couch.

A phalanx of black umbrellas
popping up across the city.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Wayward Bird

The winter here has been a rollercoaster ride: arctic plunges followed by spring like temps. And on one of those days I swear I heard a robin.



Wayward 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

Sedition in the Garage

Andrew has been keeping a close eye on mouse activity up at the lake. So far, the cabin remains free of the critters, but the garage proved to be a different story.



Sedition in the Garage


Three bold mice, three cold mice
Freestyle surfing on a floor of ice.

All avoided the traps of the man
Thumbed their noses at his video-cam
Danced to the tune of a French cancan
And saluted each other with little pink hands.

The man irate as the Wonderland Queen
Watched them carouse on an iPad screen
Cried, "Off with their heads!" and plotted schemes
Which only worked in his wildest dreams.

Finally, decided to seal the door
Pounded on stripping that hugged the floor
Closely scanned for varmints once more
But observed in vain for hours galore.

Did you ever hear such boring advice
As banning the garage as a dancing site?
Not so the man who didn't think twice
Of booting a trio of brazen mice.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Here and There

Once in a poetry workshop we had to incorporate the first line of three different poems into a poem of our own. The lines I chose were by James Wright, May Swenson, and A. C. Swinburne. They are italicized in order by poet in this week's blog.



Here and There


Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota
snow lies thick on the open landscape
like a scene from Dr. Zhivago
with its feeling of disquiet for both
the main character and me.
He absorbed in thought, traveling by horse,
me driving a car distractedly,
neither of us close to home.
Sweeping stretches of whitewash
flow over the Siberian steppe, but here
fenced farmland defines parcels of property
wrapped in winter.
Rag of black, shred of kite
caught on barbed wire to my right
wave stiff in the wind
like the Hammer and Sickle
on the Red Army train detaining him.
State Patrol cars carry no flags
but lights and sirens stir concerns
as it pulls me off the unfamiliar road.
Pasternak's protagonist, myself
released with stern warnings,
me about my speeding, him about his life.
Alone again in the countryside I witness
boxcars behind a black engine
roar past, the dregs of the day drifting
in behind. I blink my eyes, and the crimson
end lights on the last car disappear,
and I am back in rural America
here, where the world is quiet.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Surrealism

Up to the lake the past few days. The trees look stark without their leafy coverings, but the snow is beautiful.



Surrealism


An army of gaunt, Giacometti trees
guard the lakefront. Towering

thirty to forty feet, slender as shafts,
and flourishing up north.

The leaves of summer, the carmine
of autumn disguise their lankiness

but the acid-wash of winter
exposes a lean and hungry look

like boniness cast in bronze.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

January at the Cabin

Andrew and I decided to feed the birds again at the cabin, but only in winter while the neighborhood bears hibernate. I have to say it's a good thing we aren't the birds only source of food.



January at the Cabin


Early this morning
the sun stepped out

before it realized how frigid
the air

then tucked itself
under a handy throw of clouds.

So far, only a lone raven
and two jays

brave the winter breezes.
Outside our window

no chickadees or juncos
forage for food

despite the newly seeded feeder,
our monthly handouts too erratic.

A few weeks of no cracked corn
and skepticism prevails

before they spot our time limited,
all-you-can-eat-buffet.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Winter's Eve

I was reminded yesterday as I drove in the snow and cold of January in Minneapolis that no matter the weather or time of year someone will always be at a stop sign, looking for a handout, and much worse off than I will ever be. I came across this gentleman earlier in the season.



Winter's Eve


Half rain, half sleet
drops from above as worn
wipers squeak in protest,
leaving a drizzle thin arc.

A man with a sorry
stocking hat plastered
to his hair stands on a street
corner, head cocked, listening

to which whispers?
A wilted cardboard sign
held in ungloved fingers
fades into the gloom

with its scrawled plea.
Occasionally, cars stop
and arms emerge, wave a bill.
Clad in a torn jeans jacket

he clutches the money, smiles,
nods, slips on icy patches.
My car creeps forward, heater
humming. The cold and slush

an annoyance to me, not the icy
misery that dictates his day
the mere thickness of a glass pane
away. His watery eyes meet mine.

I have to believe it is help
that I hand through my window.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Lost Idyll

One thing I love about the cabin in winter is the profound quiet of deep snow. The way it muffles the earth with thick, white batting.

One thing I have also learned is that it is impossible to completely escape the noise of today's world.



Lost Idyll


Twelve degrees and still.
Chimney smoke drifts
like a windless sail tacking
nowhere. Fine lace runners
of tatted snowflakes grace
balsams circled by deer tracks
and squirrel markings.
Only fat jays fragment
the crystallized sunshine
        -   a cappella   -
discounting the snowmobiles
barreling through the forest.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor