Promised Meteor Shower

Many years ago I witnessed a spectacular meteor shower, and have been in search of a similar experience ever since. The conditions need to be just right: late night or predawn, no clouds, and no ambient light.

I thought I had nailed it last summer at the cabin. But the timing of predawn darkness in the northland differs from that farther south.

As an aside, I will be traveling the first two weeks of August, so my blog will contain no new entries until the middle of the month.



Promised Meteor Shower


The best seat dockside:
an hour before sunrise or so it's written
         by someone in southern latitudes.

My laughing alarm pushed me
           into the far north predawn, lucent enough
                            to mask the faintest of fireballs.

Steam drifted off the water;
             the mirrored lake beckoned me to stay
                            but, bent on a firecracker sky,

I sulked away.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Medical School in Mid-Life

I recently received an invitation to attend the 30th reunion of my graduation from medical school. If I had done it in the usual time frame, it would be closer to a 45 year celebration.

True to form, I chose the hard way: in my 30s and with a half-grown family. It proved to be a very intense four years.



Medical School in Mid-Life


Master the facts crowding your head.
Fold the laundry, humor your spouse,
But never leave a page of text unread.

Groceries to buy, exams to dread,
And a waste of breath to grouse.
Simply master the facts storming your head.

Vacuum the floors, make the bed,
Find time for a movie, dropkick the doubts,
And nevermore leave biochem unread

But no casual scanning. Instead
When handed a memory aid - pounce!
Master the facts leaking from your head.

Chauffeur the kids, keep everyone fed,
And do not forget to iron your blouse
Nor leave a single assignment unread.

Family time dwindling, wrested
By med school, that blasted powerhouse.
Just master the facts crammed in your head,
And don't leave "Saving a Marriage" unread.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Seventh Heaven

I wrote this poem a year ago. It speaks for itself and all the wonders of a nighttime sky in the north woods.



Seventh Heaven


In wildwood clearings I linger
on the dock of midnight,
circle under the marvel of stars.
The summer sky shifts

the view I witness in winter
when Ursa Major rides low
but tonight somersaults higher
in the heavens of July.

And from his father's arms
Ursa Minor, tossed upwards
like a laughing child,
dangles the North Star on a string.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tempest

The abundance of trees and lakes here in the Cities provides habitat for a wide diversity of birds. I watch herons fly between ponds and wooded areas on a daily basis, listen to any number of warblers early mornings, and, just yesterday, stood beneath an osprey gliding on thermals high above the street.

When I wrote this poem I was keeping track of a blue heron nesting on our lake in Wisconsin, but the sentiment applies equally well here.



Tempest


Where does the heron hide
when rain slashes the lake
and lightening fissures the sky?

Does she dash inside, secure
the windows, check the door, fiddle
with a flashlight, watch it pour?

And when the wind rakes the woods,
sends pine needles flying,
does her heart beat hard like mine
when hailstones strike?

Or does she shelter in a thicket,
feathers tucked tight, unperturbed
by sheets of rain and the pounding
roar of its refrain?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Advantage: Sun

We suffered through a brief hot spell this past week, and the humidity only intensified it. To those who live in the desert Southwest unrelenting heat is a way of life. But each summer stretches a bit longer, and even dry heat can suffocate.



Advantage: Sun


Eggs over hard
fry on an Arizona tarmac, tacky
from weather too hot for pilots or planes.

Outside a Vegas casino
flamingos cluster under mist sprayers
as temps edge toward 120 degrees,
the winning number for an indoor reprieve.

To the west of Phoenix
train tracks soften, spark as railcars slip.

And to the east
a dust storm blindfolds a major highway.
Jackknifed semis and crushed cars
enmesh like a complex Erector Set.

The Sonoran desert keeps raising
the ante, holds every ace
in this high stakes game
brazenly dealt by human hands.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sunny

Rain drenched the north woods this past week, dumping over ten inches one stormy night, flooding roads and cabins, our own included, and claiming two lives in the process. It is hard to remember the dryness of the forest and the unexpected sandbars uncovered by the lake only a few years back. If only that were the problem now.



Sunny


A lazy pontoon day
on a lake grown smaller,
leaving mudflats and marshes
beneath extended docks,
revealing the island's geological
layers, exposing the nests of loons
and geese, water grasses gone.
Four years lost already,
slippery minnows through a net.
The old-timers talk of cycles,
the cabin owners shake their heads,
the water ripples carefree as bare feet,
plovers still play along the shoreline
and For Sale signs take root out front.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tracking Time in Singapore

Singapore was in the news this week. And since Andrew claims this island nation as his home, I have traveled there multiple times. Until I arrived there I had paid scant notice to its location on the equator and what that meant beyond implicit heat and humidity. Unvarying, year round daylight/nighttime hours without any prolonged twilights or rosy dawns.



Tracking Time in Singapore


Jet lag paints my eyes open, unblinking
as a china doll tucked in bed, searching
for smudges of light still hours away.

Regimented days - twelve hours
of fierce sun, twelve hours of lampblack -
etched in island bedrock.

No pre-dawn display of color,
no lingering dusk, only equatorial
equilibrium orchestrated by the ocean.

The globe creeps closer to the same
seven o'clock sunrise snapping up
like a shade, day after day

as if government mandated. An intrusion
on my unruly northern latitude attitude.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Six Legs, Eight Legs and More

On our last trip to the lake I noticed both the high number of mosquitoes and the lack of an army of dragonflies normally keeping those pesky buggers in check. Whatever the cause, crazy weather or something more nefarious, I truly hope this year is just an anomaly.



Six Legs, Eight Legs and More


     Who knew some insects molt, cling to twigs then wiggle out of themselves, leaving behind shells that crumble at a withering glance or a cutting remark? Scores of hollow carapaces hidden in branches of a bush counted on heavy rain to wash away traces of prior lives. Did the arthropods shed this intricate layer to free themselves of hidebound wraps or to escape past acts, old bosses, former paramours? Maybe gangs of bigger bugs bullied them, forced them into fedoras, compelling them to hide in plain sight like those in witness protection. Of all the field guides in the cabin not one devoted to entomology, nothing to decode the discarded casings. This lack of info on insects a reflection of my swat now, look later approach to all things creepy crawly. Not unlike the bashed false-eyelash that once terrorized my bathroom floor.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Limited Visibility

This past week I woke up to fog as dense as I've ever witnessed. Not only was the street in front of my windows invisible, the lawn, itself, had disappeared.

At seven in the morning on a workday, it was eerily quiet on this busy thoroughfare because of the lack of traffic. I counted myself lucky not to have to contend with such dismal driving conditions. And highway travel? The same set of problems only on speed.



Limited Visibility


Wind turbines, pale giants swallowed
by ghost clouds, spin layered vapor
floating over the plains.

Warning signs and raised crossbars
prepared to halt highway traffic
loom and recede like prairie phantoms.

Drifting snow and blizzards trigger
extended arms/alarms, but diaphanous fog,
famous for pileups, holds no leverage.

                              *

Uninvited passengers,
a throbbing headache and white knuckles,
slide in for the ride.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Building a Vocabulary

My phone carries an app for the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. I like to kid myself that I know the meaning of each new Word of the Day posted on its front page. Most of them are familiar but, I will admit, some of the words baffle me. For instance, I had no idea what arrogate meant until it appeared front and center on today's app.



Building a Vocabulary


An-tho-phile
selected Word of the Day:

someone/something fascinated by
                                           flowers ---

bees, butterflies, and me.

Lilacs and lavender
               provender for them,
                                  aloe for my soul.

But weedkilling gly-phos-phates
unwittingly maim monarchs
                               and painted ladies

         while

neo-nic-o-ti-noids
inadvertently blindside beehives
on our way to the perfect lawn or
                 a bumper crop of corn.

We plant butterfly friendly bushes,
         scatter milkweed seeds,
             tally pollinators,
    rejoice at twosomes and more.

But lep-i-dop-tera and hy-me-nop-tera
              continue to dwindle
      here, there, and ev-ery-where.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor





   

Tipping Point

Back from the cabin up north where spring seems to come in fits and starts. At least the ice is out of the lake, leaving behind cold but clear water.

It's a different story for the ponds not far from my home here in the city. Last year seemed to be a tipping point, and egrets no longer tarry in these once pristine pools.



Tipping Point


Run-off herbicides and salt-winter streets.

Neighborhood ponds dull as dun,
no duck pairs nesting,
maybe two turtles sunbathing.

An egret, fresh from a long flight back,
steps into the tannin, dazed as a homeowner

scanning the muck fouling his house.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

How to Deal with Recalcitrant Plants

It's Mother's Day, and, of course, memories of my own mother persist, make me chuckle.

On this sunny May morning when so many are pumped about planting flowers, I can't help but think about Mom's relations with anything green.



How to Deal with Recalcitrant Plants


Weary of the pathos brought
by her own brown thumb
my mother heard
that plants respond to speech.

She turned to her orchid
bereft of blossoms.
Lovingly, she coaxed,
stubbornly, it resisted,
persisted as scraggly foliage.

Next up
a struggling philodendron.
Every morning she praised
the stunted leaves clinging
to trailing tendrils
until they died of embarrassment.

Then an ivy caught her attention,
eyed her warily
as she sidled close and cooed,
"I have three little words for you."

Appraising its droopy runners,
she let loose with
"CHOP, CHOP, CHOP!"

Mom never did hold with small talk.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Urban Warbler

Spring eluded us this year. It seems as if we jumped from a forever winter into the warmth of summer.

As if in fast forward, the trees are almost leafed out, and tulips buried under masses of snow two weeks ago are a day or two away from blooming in full color. More importantly, at least to me, cheerful song birds have returned to perform in surround sound.



Urban Warbler


sings spring from a spindly boulevard tree.
A solitary robin belting his heart out

cocky as a top ten artist, confident
of outperforming airbrakes, rumbling bass.

Locals open their windows,
curtail their cats, turn down their tunes

shrug at his disappearing acts,
walk with a lighter step when he's back -

this fair weather rockstar of our 'hood.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Ice Out

Snow remains on the ground both here in slowly melting parking lot piles, and at the cabin in hollows, ditches, and blanketing the forest floor.  Of course, the lake remains capped with ice. With the right timing, my ears can attest to the protests of trapped water, itching to be free.



Ice Out


Deep throated whoops,
muffled vibratos escape as I scan
the lake's frozen cover
cracked and vulnerable as tempered glass.

A lost beluga whale? Inland?

More likely the sound
of water planning a breakout,
scheming through frigid walls of lockdown.

And I know it's only a matter of shocks
before waves roll free,
and farther north icebergs flee,
shadowing leviathans' timeworn trails.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor