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