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