A New Year's Haiku from the North Woods

Happy new year, Everyone!



A New Year's Haiku from the North Woods


Icicles sparkle,
deer leave telltale tracks, and wild
turkeys peck for bugs.

Snow and cold layer
the land, the forest. A boon
to snowplow drivers,

a bane for twenty-
year-old furnaces. Pipes freeze,
thaw, split, spew liquid

like Vesuvius
belching, flooding floors not with
fire but ice water.

But come tomorrow
2020 promises
to send postcard days.

So, from all of us
at the cabin, the plumbers,
the insurance guy,

the furnace men and
me, "Happy New Year!" and may
it pass by claim free.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

December Gatherings

Happy Holidays, Everyone!



December Gatherings


As for the jays up north,
the chickadees and woodpeckers,
another wintry day dawns
partly-cloudy and cold.

Not for them
a mad dash to the airport,
the fuss of preparing a feast,

a whirlwind of progeny and presents,
and torn wrapping paper stuck
on stockinged feet.

Sipping my wake-up mug of coffee,
how I envy these unpretentious friends,
but by day's end, how much richer
my life, and how hum-drum for them.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater

I started this piece a year ago, and it just kept growing. Bear with me and read it through. Also, apologies to my Scandinavian friends.



Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater



The lye had leached everything from the poor fish: flavor, flakiness, and form. A wintertime staple of Scandinavians before the invention of supermarkets. Proof positive that people will eat anything to stay alive, and brag about it. I will admit my pale complexion and blonde hair suggest tom-foolery at some point with a Norseman, but any lutefisk-loving gene eluded me.

Over the years I managed to go missing among shelves of Nordic sweaters or disappear in a stand of Christmas trees at the mere hint of this Yule feast. And when exposed, my excuses to sidestep invitations ranged from the ever popular "Sorry, prior commitment" to "I think I'm coming down with the plague." But last December, after one too many glasses of aquavit, I wisecracked an assent, and soon found myself in a crowd of church basement diners. Each of us "anticipating" a meal of cod marinated in caustic chemicals.

The servers filed in, flourishing potatoes, coleslaw, and stacks of warm lefse. A respectable opening act followed by the piece de resistance in a splendor of unrestrained blandness: a shapeless blob quivering on separate platters for each lucky table. Appealing as an anemic aspic and just as tasteless. Neither bowls of cream sauce nor ladles of melted butter helped redeem it. Untouched by anyone but me, the salt and pepper looked embarrassed to be there, and couldn't pull their own weight.

Why had I been so worried about a mouthful of stings? I have known all along that denizens of the North have an affinity for bland food. Fierce Viking blood may run in their veins, but their tastebuds back away from all things spicy. Thank goodness these people also like meatballs.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stress

Two items of note in this week's news: 1) US officials hid evidence that the Afghan War had become unwinnable long ago 2) The ice sheet in Greenland is melting seven times faster than predicted. And a poem written two summers ago becomes more than apropos.



Stress


The cottonwoods struggle
hunkered down in dull camouflage,
sentries without water
balding from clumps of fallen leaves.

From Afghanistan:
GIs bunkered behind rocks, faces
sweaty, assault weapons gripped,
dealing death flashes of gunfire.

Back home, Texas-like heat expands
up North into July and August,
turning the foliage that remains
to anemic lemonade or paper-sack brown.

The high desert sun pounds on helmets
like a headache laced with mistrust
of the local forces,
mouths dry as hillside caves.

And in the forecast, scant relief.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Evaluations

It is deer hunting season in the north woods. And seeing a buck close up, hanging from a rack, brought me back to another time and place years ago.



Evaluations


The freshly arrowed buck,
beheaded and skinned,
hangs slick with north woods pride.
Only the forelocks remain furred,
anchoring the rope against slipping.
Glistening fascia covers ruddy muscles
not unlike cadaver torsos
that first semester of medical school.

Every Saturday morning a quiz
on newly dissected sections:
bodies draped except for the organ,
muscle or nerve demanding
identification. Occasionally, a clue:
nail polish on fingers fallen
from under the sheet
reinforcing ovary as an answer.

But a doe's horned hooves
won't hold a manicure
and the only points that count
for a hunter
are those on the rack of antlers.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

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

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