Campaign 2016

Yes, we traveled north again, spending time at the cabin. A welcome break from all the political hype which only intensifies as the election looms closer. I admit I watched the first debate between the presidential candidates, but the substance and rhetoric underwhelmed me. It seemed to be only more of the same. I doubt if I will tune in future debates.

The peace and quiet of the cabin, on the other hand, was a delight. I am so thankful that retreat exists.



Campaign 2016


Pushed into the political funhouse
without a way to dodge

d I s tor T e D mirrors of half-truths

Twitter BLASTS of hot air

a revolving barrel of he said/she saids

undulating            of negative
               walkways                ads

and a two-story
                        slide of
                                     innuendoes

I search for the exit sign
spot it blinking dimly,  w_e_e_k_s  away.

The clamor of glad-handing clowns
swallowing my sigh.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

And That Worries Me

The past few Septembers have felt more like the waning days of August with highs in the 70s, sometimes more. Very few Canadian cool fronts have blown through, reminding us of the change of season, that the Autumnal Equinox has already come and gone.

I suspect this is the new normal, and should probably enjoy the lingering warmth since winter waits just around the corner. Instead, this weather makes me somewhat uneasy. Not unlike dancing on the Cliffs of Moher.



And That Worries Me


Toxic Algae Warning signs
sprouted around a city lake just today.

An upshot of flawless lawns,
fertilizer run-off, and warming summers.

But young boys no longer fish the rickety pier,
and no one wishes to swim slime-green waters

except the ducks and they can't read.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Who Will Note

Earlier this summer I traveled back to my hometown in South Dakota. My father came from a farm family of twelve siblings, and many a summer as a child I spent time on that farm with my Aunt and Uncles. None of the three married and all remained to work the land. Theirs was not an easy life but I always eagerly looked forward to spending time in the country with them. The days there were filled with freedom to roam and bounded by their love.



Who Will Note


two brothers and a sister
who farmed the 20th century in eastern Dakota?
Their dry-land crops and skinny livestock?
The Dust Bowl dirt that sifted over
their own childhoods?
The grasshoppers that once ate skivvies
and everything else off laundry lines?
The hollyhocks climbing a rickety trellis,
the tire swing in the side yard?
The tornado that repositioned their barn?
The rosaries prayed during fierce storms
on the midnight Plains?
The fat years with bumper yields of corn?
The annual table full of threshers
downing chicken and gravy, pies and coffee?
The small town bartending job worked weekends
when summer hail shredded the fields?
The pint of whiskey stashed in a bureau drawer?
The Sunday dinners crowded with siblings
and their offspring now moved to the city?

No prodigy of their own
nor flashy heroic deeds claim them.
Only their photos, fading in shoeboxes
of scattered nieces and nephews,
and three simple tombstones, side-by-side,
starting to list in a country graveyard
mark their presence on the prairie.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Photo Finish

The cool nights of autumn have definitely arrived and, for whatever reason, I find myself thinking of the past. Maybe it's the fleet of yellow school buses or the excitement of a new school year for so many kids. But mostly, I think, it's because my brother died a few Septembers ago. Whenever I see fields of soybeans turning yellow prior to harvest, I am reminded of him.

I have a photo of Steve taken a couple of months before he passed away, and it haunts me still. In my version of a perfect world that last image of him simply doesn't fit.



Photo Finish


I possess a picture of my brother
too painful to place in an album:

a once full face
now like an apple doll's,
collapsed inward

a weary smile
to oblige the photographer

a winter sweatshirt
worn over faded blue jeans
in mid-July heat.

Not wanting to stash it away
nor willing to expose it

I slipped it back into its envelope
and kept it on my table
as if Snapfish could refinish the photo,
recover a healthy image,
stem the flood threatening my eyes.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Videos

Back to the north woods for an extended weekend. It's good to get away from the electronic world for a while: no TV, no internet connection. The only video we watched, all of three or four minutes, came from a trail camera in the forest and a little gizmo set up in the cabin while we were away. You never know what you might see when it's played back.

The weather proved perfect, sunny and 70s in the daytime, thundershowers at night. OK, maybe too much with the rain. An inch and an half Sunday followed by three inches Monday night, making for a humid and soggy Tuesday morning. And the lake level keeps inching higher.



Videos


From a game camera fixed to a fir:
an image of you, checking the lens,
nary a bear or deer,
not even a flock of turkeys.

But from the pocket-promo inside:
daddy-long-legs sauntering away,
Asian beetles monstrous as sci-fi bugs,
creeping closer, body-blocking the aperture.

You don't hunt. I don't wish to watch
insects cavort on the counter. And the awe
from real time wildlife overshadows
any found on film.

The marketers had you clearly in their sights.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Target Bargains - $9.99

I recently returned from London, spending time with my daughter and her family. I couldn't help but notice the new pair of flip-flops she sported, breezily covered in summertime polka dots.

It took me back ten years to when I fell in love with something similar. Though I wore through them in only one season, they always brought a smile to my face when I slipped them on. Enough for me to pen a poem about this happy-go-lucky footwear. As can be plainly seen, the cost of living was a teensy bit less back then.



Target Bargains - $9.99


Nine ninety-nine at Target
For a tank-top and black flip-flops
With rainbow colored polka dots.

A handful of coins
For a sack full of sunshine
Hip-hop and soda pop
All for nine ninety-nine.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stonehenge at Dusk

My last Sunday in London for a while, and all is well. This late summer season has produced blue skies on a daily basis, moderate temperatures, and multitudes of people enjoying the parks at any given time.

A few years ago we took a day trip to Stonehenge, and the calm that surrounded the monument contrasted sharply with the busy-ness of London. I discovered some of that same peace in the vast green spaces of the city this time around.



Stonehenge at Dusk


Raven scores
alight for vespers, chatting
as they settle on lintels
draped across shoulders:
blue stone monoliths
dragged from faraway Wales.

Placed with an eye to sanctify
the sun - that wanderer
in bitter northern climes -
the ancient boulders resonate
with evensong even now
a cantos across flaxen fields.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Arrival Hall, Heathrow

Yes, I'm back in London, and will be here for the next ten days or so. Coming through customs into the UK frequently proves to be an interesting and lengthy proposition. Normally, I find myself in a queue with "helpful" signs indicating wait times spaced at ten minute intervals, telling me how long until I reach the head of the line. I know at least four of them exist, and who knows how many more might be behind closed doors. On the other hand, there have been those rare occasions when I have zipped through multiple retractable belt barriers without pausing to stop.

I will admit, however, that the most interesting time I spent waiting to gain admittance to the country occurred when I joined a queue that snaked, I swear, almost back to my plane. It provided plenty of opportunity to people watch, always a great way to amuse oneself.



Arrival Hall, Heathrow


Hundres of travelers
queue in Customs lines zigzagged:
a proper British maze

edges raw with children.
Ahead a phalanx of stands
like guard towers, drawbridges

bulwarking London still. On the perimeter
a Pakistani paces like a panther trapped,
shouts at a border agent

as if he could ride righteousness
into England. From an unseen scarp
a Queen's envoy, a Lancelot in coat and tie,

bears down on him prepared
to protect the kingdom from Visigoths
and holders of falsified visas.

An officer waves me forward,
peruses my own papers. Up front
nary a crossbow among the lot of them.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sideshow

Back again from time spent up north. This time around the weather was close to perfect, and I would almost describe the days as halcyon. Except for those pesky mosquitoes. Not their size, mind you, but their numbers. We have had so much rain this summer that new crops of the buggers seem to hatch on a daily basis. Deet is the answer or I would never be lakeside.

Every trip to the cabin calls for a stop at a locally famous candy store which just happens to be on our way. It caters to tourists and remains open nine months of the year. When it closes in January for the winter I am always hugely disappointed. Somehow, candy brought up from the Cities never tastes quite as good.



Sideshow


The small town Sweets Shoppe crammed
with smiling parents and excited kids
carries a carnival vibe
as a contortionist stretches towards taffy
a weight lifter picks up rock candy
Siamese-like twins grab at jelly beans with four grubby hands
Godiva chocolate beckons a bareback rider
a slight-of-hand artist palms a wallet
the fire-eater searches for wintergreen
an animal handler leaves with peanut pockets
the high-wire worker sticks with toffee
some clown asks for free refills
gummi bears slip from the bag of the big game man
and Ring Master fathers finally marshall their troops out the door
ready to get the show back on the road for a weekend at the cabin.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

City Map - Chicago

This week I spent time at the Wisconsin Dells with my grandchildren and their parents. Part of us traveled east from Minneapolis, the other group headed west from northern Indiana which meant braving Chicago traffic. The trick to making reasonable time through the Windy City rests with avoiding rush hour both coming and going.

Their trip out proved successful, the drive back turned into a different story. A four and a half hour journey expanded to six and a half hours. Even with GPS advising them on the fastest route they did no better than my well worn map used for years before Siri had a voice.



City Map - Chicago


Riding shotgun or in my glove box,
useless. Your streets show no
escape routes during rush hour

but force me into the flow
of your car-clogged arteries.
Bumper to bumper

from the Edens
east to the Indiana Skyway,
squeezed between eighteen-wheelers

and cell phone screamers
all caught in a slow moving
tango of vehicles.

From you I learned: NPR
repeats itself every two hours,
Fast Pass stickers become oxymorons

and flipping through iTunes may result
in missing a crucial exit.
Still, I scan your fan-folded pages

searching for a time warp portal,
a gun-your-engines run
on a thruway to elsewhere.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

City Pond

Even this far north there is no escaping the season's heat. When I walk for exercise this time of year it becomes imperative to do so early in the morning or I find it intolerable. There's a reason I live in Minnesota, especially when it comes to hot weather.

My usual walking course takes me through a wooded city park, around a lake, and past a handful of ponds. A great place to hear birds singing and frogs croaking, to visualize herons and egrets. But the increasing warmth of summer alters the composition of the smaller bodies of water. I don't know if this is problematic or simply a typical response.



City Pond


A cauldron of vichyssoise
thick with pea-green algae.
Ducks on logs preen, clean
feathers dripping with chlorophyta.
Turtle hatchlings dragging slime
slip and slide on rocks.
From a willow a kingfisher
watches the water below, flies off.
No fish? Poor visuals?

Parks and Rec unconcerned.
Should I be?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fireflies

I realize this posting is overdue, and I know my travels initiated the delay but the airlines prolonged it. Something about a mechanical problem which repeatedly pushed back our departure time. Always a tad unnerving and more than slightly aggravating for those making further connections.

In any case, I'm back home after visiting my son and his family. Come nighttime fireflies lit up the backyard, a pleasure forgotten when living in a high rise. Their graceful meandering reminded me of another summer evening watching my then six-year-old granddaughter and these magical insects.



Fireflies


On a muggy Indiana night
my granddaughter
filled her hand still sticky from cobbler
with sluggish bugs blinking their way
above new mown grass. Her fist clamped tight.

Sent to wash off the gooey mess
she pouted in protest, unfurled her fingers
and loosed nine tiny, twinkling lights
like a handful of stardust onto the breeze.
Not an injured wing among them.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Eulogy to a Primary School

Back to my hometown for a high school class reunion the past few days. So many faces, so many changes. It always amazes me how time marches on for all of us. Doesn't leave anyone behind even those who remain fixed in our minds at age 18 or whenever we last saw them. Yes, they have aged, too.

Upheaval in the old order can sneak up on a person, especially, when one is not paying attention. Seven years ago the news that my grade school permanently shut its doors jolted me, caused me to remember those kid crammed classrooms, consider how nothing remains static. Which brings me back to my reunion this weekend, and how fortunate we are to be able to reestablish connections that could easily slip away given the years and distance between all of us.



Eulogy to a Primary School


They're closing my grade school:
the one next to the Cathedral
that bulged with kids fifty to a room,
run by nuns in white habits and starched
black veils, masters in the art of yardsticks.

They're closing my grade school:
where they tried vainly to teach me
cursive, told me to mouth the words
during singing, and displayed drawings
of mine only out of compassion.

They're closing my grade school:
established in 1905 in the North End
where Victorian homes once housed
lawyers and doctors generous
with fund raisers and collection plates.

They're closing my grade school:
sitting on a lot across from the convent
where I took piano from Sister Felicitas,
her voice icy when she caught me playing
pop and not Bach in the practice room.

They're closing my grade school:
the one granting diplomas to over
a hundred students in my eighth grade
class but in its last year graduated
less than twenty.

When did it grow so small?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Intermezzo

Because of summer travels I'm a day early with this week's blog and already know I'll be a day late next time. So, I figure this evens things out, nicely.

Until three years ago I resided in various places where pleasant sounds of the night drifted through open, summer windows. Frogs and crickets lulled me to sleep, chick-a-dees and robins roused me in the mornings. That changed when I moved into a high rise. As we all know, builders tend to locate them in high density areas which usually means almost constant TRAFFIC NOISE.

Having lived here for a while, I notice that on weekends and holidays this annoyance decreases dramatically, at least for a few hours early on. And, occasionally, if I wake soon enough on an average day, I can still hear birds singing their way into the dawn. But the nighttime hooting of the owl no longer reaches my ears.



Intermezzo


Unadorned melodies of the night

      rain washing the world
      a concert of crickets
      the wind holding court

swallowed by scores
of mufflers and motors and horns
                           ten stories down.

The unmetered run of darkness
echoing hot rods and half-wits.

But sometimes            predawn
the chance for birdsong
in the hush between movements.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor