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

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