Tag Archives: Rhymed poetry

It Was a Week (in February)

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Monday Morning Musings:

It Was a Week (in February)

It was a week of love and death,
of birth and yearning,
Winter holding tight, and Spring burning
bright on birds and flowers returning.

It was a week of wine and cheese
and heart-shaped things,
feathered clouds, like wings,
drumming rain, wind of violin strings.

It was a week of hawks and jays
of vulture flight
and shorter nights,
of elongated shadows in slanted light.

It was a week when war continued
and people died and lied, while some tried
to guide with firm stride
through the upside-down, and slippery slide–

of every week. But this week was not a love poem,
or maybe it was, this week of burning, turning, yearning. Or could be,
as winding like the river to the sea,

it breaks free. Maybe. If. Could be.

This year spring is coming very early. Our crocuses are blooming, and our daffodils are pushing up through the ground. Some places have daffodils in bloom already. We typically have lots of daffodils in bloom around Passover/Easter, unless it is a year when the holidays are late in April. But we still have days of wintry weather. I turned the heat off and turned it back on this week.

We celebrated Valentine’s with a wine and cheese virtual event from Tria in Philadelphia. We picked up the materials in the afternoon for that night’s event.

My husband’s birthday was Saturday. I made him a cheesecake, and we had food from a favorite Indian restaurant (and leftovers the next night!). I didn’t get a photo of his chicken dish.

On Sunday, we went to the Wilma Theater to see Kiss by Guillermo Calderón. It was the final live performance, but the play is streaming now. It is a powerful, moving, funny, shocking, provocative play. I just looked at my husband and said “wow” when it was over. You can read more here and also purchase a ticket for streaming here. We took our usual pre-theater walk.

We also watched the movie, Nanny (Amazon), that like Kiss, dealt with cultural misunderstandings, but also cultural displacement. It’s classified as horror, but it’s psychological horror with folklore. Anna Diop is excellent as the Senegalese woman working as a nanny in New York while saving money to bring her young son to the US.

The Fathomable Unknown (Revised with Audio)

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The Fathomable Unknown

Pondering,
you recollect the past,
its sweat-stained shirts
and hulking monoliths–
describe the bells
so that we hear
the tintinnabulation,
the bell-swell, clapper-clang,
ding-dong, soul-singing

ring across the hills and plains
across the years—construe
what’s false or true. You,
Writer, make a city rise and fall.
Create a giant, defiant but
literate, stormy as a cloud–

wonder aloud,
grapple for answers
based in knowledge—
a girl, a famine, misogyny, religion—
the thousand indecisions,

the visions —
life and death
and forgotten facts
buried in earth and under snow,
but know,
like the snowbells, they rise and ring,

and like the robins they sing,
a song takes flight,
their wings catch the light
and a tale rises from the dust,
because it must,
a wonder of sorrow, regret,
love, or glory–

Once upon a time. . .imagine. You tell the story.

I revised this poem from last Monday’s musings and added the audio. You can read more about the inspiration and see more photos here. I’m sharing this with dVerse Open Link Night.

The Fathomable Unknown

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Monday Morning Musings:

Tree shadows and reflections in a stream. The tree branches are just beginning to show some buds.

The Fathomable Unknown

Pondering,
you recollect the past,
its sweat-stained shirts
and hulking monoliths–
describe the bells
so that we hear
the tintinnabulation,
the bell-swell, clapper-clang,
ding-dong, soul-singing

ring across the hills and plains
across the years—construe
the meaning behind it all,
Writer, make a city rise and fall.
Create a giant, defiant but
literate, stormy as a cloud–

wonder aloud,
grapple for answers
based in knowledge—
a girl, a famine, misogyny, religion—
the thousand indecisions,

the visions —
life and death
and forgotten facts
buried in earth and under snow,
but know
like the snowbells, they rise and ring,

and like the robins they sing
with bright bill chirps as
their wings catch the light,
a song takes flight
and a tale rises from the dust,
because it must,
a wonder of sorrow, regret,
love, or glory–

Once upon a time. . .imagine. You tell the story.

Once again, I used some of Jane’s Random Words. (Thank you!) I’m still thinking about truth, fiction (see last week’s musings), and the half-truths and flat-out political/cultural lies of our current time (see, the Republican party.)

We watched the movie, The Wonder based on the novel by Emma Donoghue, who also worked on the screenplay. I had read the book, but I didn’t remember all the details. The story is inspired by true accounts of fasting girls, particularly a girl in Wales. For her story based on facts—and not—Donoghue moved the location to Ireland after the famine. I liked both the book and the movie. Florence Pugh is wonderful as the English nurse sent to watch the girl. I’ve read several of Donoghue’s books, and though Room is her most famous, several others are based on historical events and set in past centuries. I found the story of her most recent book Haven, fascinating, though I disliked all the characters. I find it difficult to feel sympathy for religious fanatics and misogynists in any era.

Both of my children had birthdays this past week. We saw one and wished the other happy birthday by phone—then ate some cake.

There was a big football game last night. I don’t follow sports at all. I made my husband some goodies and sat with him for the first half hour. Lots of excitement in my area about the Eagles, but unfortunately, they lost. My husband said it was a good game though.

I’m hosting Prosery on dVerse today, so I’ll be back!

Dream Ocean

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Odilon Redon, Ophelia Among the Flowers

Dream Ocean

Time is an ocean, and we
small fish or sailing ships,
a gull in flight from waves to quay,

in dreams, I am all three.

Through walls I coast
where my dead parents–
look remarkably well, almost

as they were, not ghosts,
but shimmering,

and there my children, both young and older,
and dead pets now alive and by my side–
I am every version of myself—sometimes bolder–

in the multiverse of my mind, I find
sea glass treasures, polished by time
returned to me by dream-sea, ephemeral, sublime.

For dVerse, where Ingrid has asked us to write about dreams or visions.

Whispers and Wishes (Part 3)

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Edvard Munch, Forest in Snow

Whispers and Wishes (Part 3)

And so, we rested, away from the snow,
inside that hut by the fire’s glow,
but stories cannot be chewed with teeth
though they help assuage our terror and grief.

Where is Momma, I whimper, and wipe my eyes,
She’s looking for us, but my sister cries
though she hides her face, I see a tear
and realize she must also fear—

What do we do? Where do we go?
Back to the cold, leave our tracks in the snow?
It’s dark, Little One, let us sleep,
there’s a blizzard out there, the snow’s too deep,

for us to go or soldiers to come.
We’ll melt some ice and savor the crumbs–
wish and pretend we have a feast!
We’ll hear no shots from west or east.

And so, we wished, and then we dozed,
fire banked, door bolted, the windows closed–
but when we woke, there was more fresh bread,
a pitcher of milk, and another rose of red. . .

a golden feather glimmered on the floor.

I was looking at old posts this afternoon, and I discovered I had shared parts 1 and 2 of this poem with dVerse, so I decided to write a part 3 for Open Link Night. Scared children are on my mind, and I suppose I wish for them a happily ever after.

Bread and Roses

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Monday Morning Musings:

Early morning in December, Red Bank Battlefield. ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

Scarlet, russet, orange, green—
the colors bright against the sky
pewter, lead, as clouds fly

Color against the grey river and sky. Delaware River, Red Bank Battlefield. ©️Merril D. Smith 2021

one day bluster, one day calm
gulls and geese mind the storm
of swirling wind, cold and warm

opposites attract,
or do they simply fight
in thunderous rumbles, a response to flight.

In darkness, we seek light,
in longest night, the dawn
apricot and pink, shy sparkle then gone

but where do we go
when hate comes again
cycles of not if, but when

in endless journeys,
ships in the night, dreams
of a future— streams

of thought from the past,
ancestral visions caught or checked?
What happened, what comes next?

We need both bread and roses
to survive, to thrive
beyond existence, life and alive

to hope and beauty–
to plants seeds, then wait
for others to germinate

  • Tower at Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens, Christmas Display
  • Longwood Gardens, Christmas Display, Fire and Ice
  • Longwood Gardens, Christmas Display, Ice
  • Longwood Gardens, Christmas Display, Ice
  • At Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens, Christmas Decorations
  • Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens, Christmas Decorations
  • Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens
  • Longwood Gardens, Christmas Display
  • Longwood Gardens

tender buds, well-nourished—
bread and roses, not
blood and lies, a nation fraught

with dangerous thoughts
bread and roses, not mobs and guns—
the ones

who shout loudest attract a crowd,
but circles and seasons, round and round
the sun rises, beams from sky to ground,

even if we’re not here, even if no one is around,
the star-birds twinkle and sing, wing light
into the future, red and blue shifts bright beyond our sight—

and perhaps—

some travelers in some time hence
may see not only relics of destruction and fear,
but traces of love sown and grown, still echoing here.

I found a heart.

The weather has been strange, and the news has been frightening.
We took a trip to Longwood Gardens last week just to get out of the house. We wore masks indoors, though some did not. We had a recent COVID scare, but fortunately my husband and I both tested negative. Yet some people still refuse to wear masks or get vaccines and believe the pseudo-science they hear.

My theme was also inspired by this Marginalian post about Rebecca Solnit on George Orwell’s Roses. Bread and Roses was a poem set to music and used as a union marching song.

Last night we watched an interactive streaming play called Witness by the Arlekin’s Zero Gravity (zero-G) Virtual Theater Lab. It shares the experiences of the Jewish refugees on the St. Louis, which left Germany in 1939, only to be turned away in Cuba, and then other countries, and combines them with stories from more recent Jewish immigrants from Russian and Ukraine, along with discussions of recent acts of anti-Semitism. It was interesting and thought provoking. My grandparents came from what is now Belarus and Ukraine.

This morning I saw so many vultures just down the street from where I live. I could hear their wings flapping. It was thrilling.

Dreams in Blue

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Monday Morning Afternoon Musings:

Frosted River Blues ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

I dreamt my dad
was visiting Boston, as was I.
I knew it was a dream, but I was glad
to see him, to know he didn’t die

completely. Death takes,
but the mind recalls—
at least in dreams. We wake
to cry or sigh or laugh, but all

is part of life, like spring and fall—
the cycle of the seasons, the folds
of time–dream-me is not one age, clocks toll
differently there, controlled

by mind, the shadows and the light.

Now, beneath a canopy of crimson, gold,
and yellow-green
I gaze up at the blue-gowned sky, foretold
by orbit’s path and revolution, the unseen and the seen–

November Sunrise over a Frosted Field ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

the beauty of frosted November mornings,
despite the baring of the trees, the death of things,
the ignoring of all warnings—
see the gulls fly with scintillating wings

reflecting the glow, and letting it go?

Autumn Scene, ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

This the balance, life and death–
the cloth bag I took to my mother’s hangs on a chair waiting,
I take a breath,
hesitating

to make her death final and real.
Crow caws beauty, evil, life and death—all are true,
parts of a whole, a cycle, the real we feel,
a sigh within, a heart-soar reaching for the endless blue.

I have been amazed this week by the beauty of nature. The glorious light of this time of year, even the frost is beautiful. Soon, everything will look barren and grey, so I’m enjoying this while I can. I’ve also been dismayed by how willing people are to embrace the haters and those who spread misinformation. People I know who “don’t believe in” masks voted for the baby Trumpty-Dumpties, who have already been called out for racist slurs. UGHHHHH!
But on the bright side, I got to see friends this week—who definitely do NOT believe this nonsense.

And today, I went walking and talking with a friend. Then we had my homemade challah cinnamon toast and coffee and talked some more. Thus, the late post today. I will be back in a little while because I’m hosting Prosery on dVerse today.

Merril’s Movie/TV Club:

We watched and finished Maid (Netflix), inspired by Stephanie Land’s memoir. My husband and I both enjoyed it, although after the first episode, he looked at me and said something like, “well, that was uplifting.” But if you haven’t watched it, there are funny incidents, times of joy, and surreal moments—it’s not all bleak. I listened to an NPR interview with Stephanie Land that was done before the Netflix series. Here

We streamed a new movie, I Am Your Man (rental, Amazon Prime). It’s a German movie about an archeologist who agrees to evaluate an android who has been designed to be her perfect partner. It’s sort of a rom-com with a tiny touch of sci-fi, but also poignant– as it asks what we really want in a mate. Do we want perfection? And also, apparently Dan Stevens can do anything, even speak German. We both liked this movie a lot. Trailer here.

Things That Are Lost

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Monday Morning Musings:

Sunrise Reflections, Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield

Things that are lost—

buttons, keys, a pearl earring
summer leaves, the morning light
that fades as the sun rises to its height.

Sunrise over the Delaware River at West Deptford, NJ

Shadows that follow
then disappear,
like warm-weather fruits—till next year.

A battle, a war,
a way of life from before
when then was now, the shore

of future lay ahead,
the dead were living,
at least in your head.

Autumn puddle and reflections

Memories, a laugh, a song ,
the things you wished once to do
with loved ones you once knew–

husband, father, child, wife,
a beloved pet, a favorite toy—
all the sorrow and the joy,

things that are lost –and sometimes found,

air, love, happiness, roots, connected deep underground.

Sunrise with tree silhouette

October seems a month of both beauty and melancholy. The sun rises later and set earlier, but in-between there’s a beautiful glow. We’ve had fog, rain, amazing sunrises, warm days, cold days, and more and more falling colored leaves.

This week we took a brief trip to Hammonton, NJ to pick up some olive oil and balsamic vinegar I like. I also bought cannoli for myself and our daughter (my husband didn’t want one).


We attended a memorial service for my husband’s uncle in Mt. Holly. We went to the service, talked a bit to family members, but then left without eating, as we were not comfortable sitting in the basement room with a bunch of strangers who may or may not be vaccinated. One of the hymns sung was “Amazing Grace.”

Merril’s Movie Club: We streamed three movies this week, all very different, but perhaps sharing a common theme of loss: life, dreams, love, memory. Fever Dream (Netflix) is difficult to describe, as is the novel it’s based on that I read last year. But the title is an indication. I think I liked it more than my husband did. It has a dreamy and slightly unsettling air, with much of it a voice-over between a woman and a boy who is not her son. To give a lot of detail would spoil the movie. There’s a mystery and supernatural elements, and a magical realism feel. We watched The One I Love, a 2014 movie about a couple played by Mark Duplass and Elisabeth Moss go for a weekend getaway at the suggestion of their therapist (Ted Danson). What looks like a rom com movie slips into the surreal. Again, I won’t give any spoilers, but it was fun, unusual, and gives you something to talk about. Finally, we watched The Black Box, a scifi/horror movie from last year on Amazon. It’s about a father who has lost his memory after an accident. When he undergoes a new treatment, strange things happen. It’s a solid B movie—entertaining and enjoyable.

Not After, but In-Between

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Monday Morning Musings:

Not after, but in-between–
the seasons fold gold into green,
the sun emerges, or stays unseen
between, behind, beyond, but true.

Can we linger here awhile?
Jackets on and off, a smile
at pumpkins and the deer—miles
to go, and much to fear

from demagogues and misinformation—
the destruction of our world and nation.
Yet, we don our masks and leave the station—
a celebration, we’re still here.

We plant flowers and bulbs—is it a trope
to say we’re planting hope?
That we’ll not slide from the slippery slope
because this is not after, but in-between—

still, even after winters of despair,
spring comes, with petrichor in the air
and robins’ song, searching and aware
of being between—here and there.

And we on our pale blue dot
look for light, our shot, our spot, our ifs–or not.

A Cloudy Sunrise

I feel like we really are in this in-between place. The pandemic is not over, and fanatics are still going strong. I’m beginning to feel like we’re in the late 1850s in the US or the 1930s in Germany—but with better technology.

Still–we went to the theater for the first time since the pandemic began. We saw Minor Character: Six Translations of Uncle Vanya at the Same Time, which was truly as the Wilma Theater blurb says: “a joyful and music-filled comedic kaleidoscope. A band of actors come together to perform a warm-hearted yet bittersweet look at love, longing, and the limitations of language.” The Wilma Theater required proof of vaccination, IDs, and masks. We had assigned seats with empty seats left around us, and the theater kept at half capacity. They also updated their HVAC system. So, we felt safe—at least as much as we can in these times. We also took Patco for the first time since the pandemic. It was OK, though some people did not wear masks despite the notices and announcements. Also this weekend, we pretended to be Derrick and Jackie Knight and visited a nursery to buy some plants.

Cranberries and Blue

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Clouds and Blue Sky, First Day of Autumn at Red Bank Battlefield

And now, the sky is clearest blue,
gone summer’s haze, the color true
where eagles, herons, geese fly through

into tomorrow. Now the air
is crisp—soon crisper—and see there
the leaves are turning gold? Prepare
as now’s the time for harvests, too.

Grapes for wine, apples for the pies
and sauce, tossed in a pot—time flies—
between sun and moon, lows and highs.
Taste the tart and bittersweet, chew,

swallow, wallowed grief–holidays
she’ll never see. Cranberries stay
on my mind, and Thanksgiving Day
with the blue-squirrel mold—it’s hard to

say, the family tradition—
how she held it, the condition
of it unsure—no prediction
what cranberries will do. And you

cry, but it’s not the fruit. Life goes
on. Leaves turn, and the river flows
with secrets and ghosts undisclosed—
cranberries sauced, but you are blue.

Our precious squirrel mold for Thanksgiving cranberry sauce

This is Zéjel for Grace’s Meet the Bar prompt on dVerse, and also for Mish’s fruit prompt on Tuesday. I was thinking about Thanksgiving and our family’s cranberry squirrel the other day. We haven’t all been together since before my mom died.