Following the Death of George Floyd - II

The killing of George Floyd remains front and center in Minneapolis. A few days ago I happened to drive by a building that had been torched and several more that had been boarded up. But this was in St. Paul, merely a sideshow to the main action.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Four of Unrest - Minneapolis


Pandora,

You have again opened your box
and unleashed a whirlwind of destruction.

Four nights and counting.
Feeding on itself and fanning across America.

Close the case! before what little hope we harbor
soars off with the others.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Eight of Unrest - Minneapolis


Minority neighborhoods suffering.
Wanton wastage of Mom and Pop shops
and big box stores, both.

An army of residents responding
with 20,000 bags of groceries
and more,
with baby formula and diapers,
with brooms and shovels
and the will to clean,
with solidarity
in the idea things must change.

The rubble of businesses in the background,
the smell of smoke lingering,
and the unspoken fear of this momentum
                                                       being lost.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Following the Death of George Floyd

This has been a horrific week in Minneapolis following the death of George Floyd. A series of poems about this time continues to foment within me. Here are two of them.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Three of Unrest - Minneapolis


Injustice butts heads
with bands of blue-clad policemen.

Rocks and bottles battle bullets
of rubber, tear gas. Opening skirmishes.

Angry red shopping carts fly airborne
towards the doors of the superstore
that birthed them.

Palpable outrage simmers and builds,
burns buildings and sears the souls
of anguished citizens.

In the distance I see the flames climbing.



Following the Death of George Floyd
Day Five of Unrest - Minneapolis


A thousand rioters shoving, pressing to cross a bridge.
A thousand cops pushing back.

Official vehicles with flashing lights
- blue then red then blue then red then blue then red -
a psychedelic cork plugging the way

as the waters of the northern Mississippi
tumble a thousand feet below
in the bootblack of night.

Thousands of National Guardsmen, State Troopers
and Police like border collies with sharp teeth
- nipping, nipping, biting, nipping, biting, biting -
work on dispersing crowds defying curfew, bent
on mayhem.

Across the country a thousand other hotspots roil
with turmoil, too.



 Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

May Haiku in Minnesota

This last weekend reminded me that rainy days are common in May in Minnesota. And that summer's warmth sometimes doesn't come as quickly as we would like.



May Haiku in Minnesota


The furnace kicks on,
rain swells the fields, rivers pound,
hamstrung farmers curse.

Frogs in pop-up ponds
brazenly hum vibratos
of piercing desire.

Across the city
tulips and dandelions
burst forth, heads unbowed.

Blooming crabapples
swamp the eyes with magenta
even as they droop.

The siren of spring
calls through raindrops, promising
days drenched in honey

and a prime belief
in the drumbeat of sunshine
beneath sullen clouds.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Transients

The first day of spring officially falls on the Vernal Equinox in late March. But in the Northland the weather pays no attention to dates.



Transients


At the cabin up north
on this first day of spring

diamonds carpet the deck

as if little people labored
through the night in mines
beneath leftover snow

scattering their finds with abandon.

Mica flashing in moonlight
and morning sunshine only.

Ephemera vanishing by midday
like the dashed hopes
for a Happy Hour with friends

or a swift demise of the lethal virus
now trending in our biosphere.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Repose

Mother's Day here in the States fell this past Sunday, triggering memories of my own mom. I wrote a series of poems about her in the last years of her life, and here is one of them.



Repose


How many afternoons
do I find you drifting?

Still willful as a two-year-old,
still the gracious doctor's wife.

Head burnishing the rocker,
wig aslant, almost asleep

eyes closed, mouth open,
open book yawning at Chapter Two.

At ninety you protest any need
for a nap, ignore advice to the contrary.

Like Busch, your once beloved
German shepherd, you sit content

with the quiet, resting in mid-day
languor, aware.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Fates Have Cast their Dice at her Birth

The Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure is set for this coming Sunday in Minneapolis. A long held fundraiser to fight breast cancer this year has become virtual.

No blocking off streets in my neighborhood for the event. No sea of participants wearing pink. No trigger for tears as I watch from my window. You see, a few years back the race turned personal.



The Fates Have Cast their Dice at her Birth


A photo of a youngish woman
pivots to me from the obits
of today's newsprint.

Breast cancer placing her there.

Three years disease free
until she wasn't.

Three years out
from disfigurement by scalpel,
poisonous rays, searing drugs.

My jack-in-the-box heart
bounds from my ribs

as my own daughter
continues year three of Tamoxifen.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Midges and Moths

It must be spring by the tally of insects flattened on the windshield of Andrew's Jeep. Not until last summer did I realize how much of a hit their numbers had actually taken.



Midges and Moths


Me, worry about too few
bugs? Never - until now.

At the lake only a core crew
         of dragonflies
targets armies of mosquitoes.

Butterfly bushes bloom
into cabarets with few partygoers,
and the music of warblers sounds thin.

My alarm-o-meter barely budged.
I puzzled and shrugged
until a news report rattled me.

More subtle than insecticides,
the uptick in temps hampers
breeding, reduces reproduction

and trips alarm-o-meters
of bug counters everywhere.

Bird numbers plummet
without these bits of protein,
and crops needing pollinators,
                                              backslide.

Now, my own alarm-o-meter
plagues me like a persistent ear-worm.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unsettled

Owning a cabin is basically akin to owning a second house, and we all know what that means. Things age out or need repair. But problems in the north woods can be a little different from in the Cities: a rebellious septic system or recalcitrant well-pump, and the nearest town of any size (pop. 2182) a thirty minute drive away on a good day.



Unsettled


This weekend it's the wind.
Winter weakened branches
plummet from pines and birch,
white caps party, finely free
from ice out, twenty-some geese
camp on the shoreline like travelers
grounded. Then the water pump fails.
A jerry-rig fix until the well-man
can show sometime next week
with finger tips darkly etched,
ready to poke around the shaft
plunged in shadowed recesses.
If we're lucky, his truck holds
redemptive parts. If not, a whole
new mechanism to order.
For now, I rescue the thermometer
face down at the base of the maple.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Day 33 of Shelter-in-Place

A month of days at home. Tedious. No gatherings. Interactions at a distance. Even a moody sky. Surely, introverts become restless, too.



Day 33 of Shelter-in-Place


A hawk kind of day,
melancholy drifting across a cello

like the harrier riding the thermals,
        climbing then dropping,
looping past sky-scraping windows.

No air-force-blue skies,
   no streamers of sunshine,
      no majorettes or marching bands
           on Main Street, USA.

Only the pizzicato chirps of wrens
beneath a glissading bird of prey.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Arraignment

Years ago in the days following Easter, I used to slip into a nearby church empty on weekday afternoons. I went primarily for the serenity but also for the aroma of flowers that promised spring.



Arraignment


The smell of lilies
in April is
cathedral silence
sunlit by saints
in stained glass cool
before a white field
of altar flowers
in essence sent peace.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Something Lost

These days I find more people than usual walking/running/jogging around a nearby lake. "Shelter-in-place but it's okay to exercise outdoors" drives most of them. But nature, herself, hasn't changed, so why not tune in?



Something Lost


Joggers, runners, and walkers
intent on their workout
stare pointedly ahead.
Wires dangle from earplugs
connected to distractors
tucked discreetly in clothes.

With ears stoppered
how will they hear
the songs of spring warblers,
silvery notes of snowmelt,
shouts of kids dashing by on bikes,
the laughter of fellow travelers,
wind tousling the trees,
or the two-note call of chickadees?


The music of life in surround sound
as they pound by, oblivious.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Winter Rain

At the beginning of March I flew to Phoenix for a national conference. Three weeks ago Coronavirus was but an annoying blip on the radar. And I needed a dose of warm weather and sunshine.



Winter Rain

A desert monsoon blindsides me,
batters me as I bob and weave

beneath resort overhangs like a quail
seeking shelter under prickly pears.

Slate-grey clouds strip days of warmth,
give lie to the moniker "Valley of the Sun."

Drenched, I pause before a door
that will not open.

Rain ricochets as cactus wrens
across the way huddle in saguaros

with no need for room keys nor rain gear.
Sniffles plague my head

like the storm rolling across the Southwest,
and the niggling possibility of Coronavirus.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

In the Forest

I love to hear the wind come up in the forest. There is something special about the sound, especially since I grew up on the plains where the wind is a constant presence.



In the Forest


a boreal blow rumbles into a rush
from deep within its chest

the sighs of wood sprites
echo through firs on fitful drafts

and murmurs emerge from breezes
before birch leaves think to ripple.

Nuances of wind
            rustle through timberlands,

remain a mystery to its prairie sib
     who whistles but one tune
at two tempos: moderato or presto.

A zephyr, a mistral, a trumpet
without a mute playing on an open stage
                       from Texas to the Dakotas.

But the tenor of wildwood storms
sounds increasingly like those found

on the plains,
and those on the plains now occur
more frequently with the fortissimo

of musicians on a high
          supplied by Mother Nature
                                     and courtesy of us.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Busy Bodies

The warmth of spring encourages all signs of life, including the stirring of insects. Asian beetles are reawakening one by one inside our cabin which led me to thinking about last year's nearby hornets and our neighbor's distress.



Busy Bodies


The snows of winter will settle
on an abandoned masterpiece,
but Gary will no longer care.

Like an upside-down swirl
of meringue clinging to a string
of spun sugar

a hornet's nest sways
in a patch of trees off our drive.
The whorled, lightweight hive

deserves a photo spread
in House and Home. But my neighbor
itches to spray away the busy hub.

Mercifully, autumn now rules.
Sightings of the queen
and her legions grow more rare

and soon Gary
will be fending off insects
down in heavy, Florida air.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor