Aftermath

Posted on June 15, 2026 by merrildsmith

Monday Morning Musings

Aftermath

“When it all feels so big
‘Til it all feels so small”
—“So Big/So Small” from Dear Evan Hansen

After the late-night barrage, artillery booms,
and cutlasses of light,

laundered clouds hang on a line, fall,
drift–

and the trees wave
their greenest arms

while songbirds greet
the bluest blue,

eagles glide over you,
and osprey’s hover,

all of us, the universe’s prey,
buffeted, caught, breezed away–

while time turtle-crawls
and rabbit-hops,
on a one-way track,

And everything seems so big
and so small—

rivers and sky,
a perfect rose,
a bewitching bee—

magic is random,
horror routine,

wars and trillionaires,
a woman miscarrying without medical care,

the White House wasteland, greed,
corruption–

children in concentration camps,
children left alone.

When will it be over?

When it’s finally over,
what will we say,
what will we remember,
and do?

Perhaps the greenest green
and bluest blue,

eagles in flight,
light after the storm.

A perfect moment, a day.

Hello again. It’s been another week, hasn’t it? We had quite a storm last night. Thankfully, no tornado, but I was awakened by my phone alerts of flash flooding—“Critical!” it said. Unfortunately, I think the birthday spectacle at the White House went on? I am disgusted about what he’s done, both to the People’s House and the corruption and greed of this event. Well, the nonstop corruption of this regime. Apparently, everything was tagged by advertisements, and the demented one owns stock in many of them.

But we did see his name removed from the Kennedy Center, so that’s something. Hundreds of thousands of people watched livestreams of scaffolding, just waiting to see his name come off the building.

And there’s another maybe cease fire. We’ll see. And the Epstein Files. And so much corruption. Follow the money.

We did the usual Sunday morning protest. This week there was a band, and a pretty good crowd, even in the heat. Not too many MAGA oafs, but a few. They seem desperate, and usually angry. Often they demonstrate who they are by yelling things like “faggots.” And one guy kept driving around with some kind of recording of Tr—mp speaking. That is some special ignorance and/or brainwashing, for sure.

It was a busy week for me. I participated in an online open mic last Monday afternoon, and then the launch of Shored Fragments: Poems in response to Eliot’s The Waste Land on Wednesday afternoon. It’s a wonderful anthology, and I’m so pleased to have a poem included in it. Both events were hosted by Matthew M.C. Smith, editor of Black Bough Press.

We saw Dear Evan Hansen at the Arden Theatre on Saturday afternoon. I remember te musical was very popular, especially with high school students, but after my kids were that age, so it wasn’t one that I knew very well. Though not my favorite play, I thought it was an excellent production. The casting was perfect, and my husband and I found a lot to discuss about it, as we enjoyed wine and cheese afterwards at Old City Vino. (We ordered a pizza when we got home. Sorry, no photo, Steve. It was around 8PM by then. 😉) We took the train into Philadelphia, as we usually do, and walked through Franklin Square, the park by a Patco station. There is a Chinese Lantern Festival going on there now. During the day, when it’s not all lit up, you can walk through for free. I also left my thoughts at the “Declaration Station” set up in the garden at historic Christ Church in Old City.

One morning this week, a pair of bald eagles flew right over me (photo with the poem). Magic is random, but it happens.

Keep safe all.

Look for the helpers and be one if you can.

Rousseau Exchange

Posted on April 14, 2026 by merrildsmith

Andrew Wilson and I wrote a series of letter/poems around the artwork of Henri Rousseau. The first exchange was published a few weeks ago in Collaborature (but I just learned it had been published today). Thank you to Andrew and to editor, Melissa Lemay.

You can read it here:

https://collaborature.blogspot.com/2026/03/rousseau-exchange-1-ms-aw.html

A Special Feature of Held Inside the Folds of Time on Art Gowns

Posted on November 22, 2025 by merrildsmith

Held Inside the Folds of Time

Resa has created this fabulous post of her artwork inspired by my poems in my new poetry collection, Held Inside the Folds of Time. I am so honored! 💙

Surrealists

Posted on November 10, 2025 by merrildsmith

Monday Morning Musings

Surrealists

Here we are, drifting
between cloud-dance
and leaf-fire.

Have you noticed the ladybugs
suddenly everywhere,

spotted soothsayers
appearing like a memory
then vanishing, as

after is born away
by now’s embrace,

eternity, existing only
in imagination,

despite endless reflections,
or is that truth?

And color, the gift
of stars and air, light that

moves more quickly than anything,
invisible, visible, lightning zigzags,
and whispered silvered moon-streams–

the attraction, the random
coupling of molecules

that hold us prisoners
and curators of blue–

in dreams,
I search for direction,

discovering magnetic north
Is fiction,

there is only home
and you.

Hello again!
I don’t think I can write Surrealist poems. I like to edit. But I had some help from the Oracle and my dreams, which adds some layers from my subconscious.

The weather has been crazy—again. Windy and cold one day, and beautiful the next. Sometimes both things in one day. Last night we had a thunderstorm with lots of booming thunder that woke me up (since I go to bed at super-early o’clock).

On Friday, we went to the Members’ Preview of Dreamworld: Surrealism at 100. It was a fascinating exhibit that I’d like to go through again. I signed up for a lecture on Surrealism by one of the curators that took place on Saturday afternoon. It was a hybrid in-person and virtual (free). We watched the lecture at home, and it gave me some more understanding of the movement. I’m not certain I knew before the exhibition that there was a Manifesto of Surrealism by André Breton, published in 1924. This is the only US venue for this exhibition, but each venue has a different presentation. The Philadelphia Art Museum has a large Surrealist collection, but some of the items are too fragile to be displayed all the time.

On Sunday, I read at Paul Short’s Book Bag Open Mic (also virtual). It was such a wonderful group, and Paul is an extremely supportive host. He gave each reader thoughtful comments. I didn’t realize it was the first open mic for The Book Bag. Paul was very organized, and everything ran smoothly.

We ate takeout Pakistani food afterward from a small, local restaurant. The food is very good. The vegetable samosas are SO good. My husband said while he was waiting for our order, the owner (?) offered him a drink and then a salad!

In case you hadn’t heard, we did have good news on Wednesday because the election results showed a blue sweep across the country from governors to schoolboards. People went out in an off-year election to vote for Democrats and against all things Tr**mp! People are still going to be hungry, unemployed, and sick, but at least there is hope. This is what happens when we unite and fight!

Now some Democrats have given in. I need to read more, but it seems to me that you never give in to bullies. The rapist-in-chief played, or maybe it should be “played” golf and hosted an extravagant seafood buffet while people are hungry and unemployed. His regime went to court to STOP giving food assistance to needy people. He met with Hungary’s dictator, and he declared to the GOP that they would “never lose the midterms and we will never lose a general election.” This is NOT how a democracy works. This is a dictatorship.

Keep on resisting; keep on sharing and keep finding joy if and where you can.

Look for the helpers and be one if you can.

Stories, Statues, the Light

Posted on August 4, 2025 by merrildsmith

Monday Morning Musings

Stories, Statues, the Light

“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
–Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ozymandias”

They fought famine, wars,
crossed lands and seas,
“give me your tired, your poor”
the Lady said, and they believed her

became shopkeepers—and artists,
musicians—

because within them were dreams
and light

and those in charge also dreamt
that art, music, theater, poetry, history
should be available to all,
that artists of all sorts should be paid,

and cities believed in dreams
of buildings of books and paintings,
of statues and stories
of fountains for cooling and beauty,

imperfect people, imperfect governments,
but a start,

and so, we walk past statues
and monuments to the past,
hopes for the future, step over

bones beneath our feet, ghosts drifting
at the riverside, watching

the trio of young women in form-fitting
Lululemon discussing wedding plans
as they stride in tempo, water bottles in hand,

the homeless man politely asking for cash
the buskers in the park with Venmo signs,

the groundhog by the museum
(could it be the same one we saw a year ago?),

the baby opossum, all alone—

secret stories surround us, snippets.

A hawk shrieks,
look at me, me, me–
fierce beauty against August azure,
bird topping Beaux-arts
sentinel topping building guardians

what is sphinx compared to syrinx,
descendant of dinosaurs,
see me, warm breath
misting the stony faces, feathers
flaring in the light–

I am alive.

Write my story. Believe.

Hello, again! Much of last week we had horrible weather–very hot, very humid, and then thunderstorms and a tornado warning on Thursday. We are finally having the beautiful June days we missed in June. On Saturday, we visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art. As we like to do, we walked from the Patco station and then along the Parkway to the museum. Then we took a quick trip behind the museum to the Schuylkill River, but we didn’t walk along it because we still had to walk back. We stopped at Tria to pick up some wine and to have lunch, then a short trip through Rittenhouse Square before we took our train home.

At the museum, we saw the current exhibit Boom: Art and Design in the 1940s. I was astounded to see a painting by Abraham Hankins. He was my grandmother’s cousin. He lived with my grandparents for a while, and my mom remembered him teaching her and her friends the latest dances. He was born in what is now Belarus, fought in WWI, studied and performed music, and then switched to art. He was employed by the WPA during the Great Depression. My older child created this Web site about him:
https://abrahamhankins.com/

My husband and I enjoyed the exhibition, which included paintings, photos, furniture and household goods, and fashion.

There were some works of art that art still—unfortunately—very timely. Work about deportations, a snake charmer, and the atomic bomb, for example.

The Emperor Without Clothes is turning the People’s House into his own Imperial Palace. It’s horrible. He’s firing whoever does not agree with him, such as Erika McEntarfer, who headed the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Anything coming from government sources is no longer going to be believable—he is trying to rewrite history (mention of his impeachments removed from the Smithsonian). We are definitely in 1984 territory now. Everything is “doublespeak” coming from the “Ministry of Truth(social).”

Some good news in that Democratic representatives in Texas are fighting back. As the convicted felon, rapist, supporter of pedophiles, would-be Emperor has demanded that Texas gerrymander the state to ensure it will elect only Republicans (read MAGA) in the next election, the Democrats have fled the state so that the vote cannot take place. Heather Cox Richardson covers this in great detail in today’s letter.

https://heathercoxrichardson.substack.com/p/august-3-2025

I don’t have any answers. Keep informing people you know about the facts. Some of his supporters are starting to fall away. People are still being detained. More concentration camps are being built. The economy is not doing well, but he’s got his new jet to reburbish, as well as his palace. Melania will soon be wearing a new jacket, “I don’t care, do you—let them eat cake!”

Look for the helpers and be one if you can.

Unfinished Portrait of a Dream

Posted on January 31, 2025 by merrildsmith

Unfinished Portrait of a Dream

This is the dream
I try to paint,
who you are
and which is me

floating, falling
in hourless space,

all is enigma, a mystery,

like a portrait-sitter lost to time,
half-smile, three-quarter face
pentimenti, shadows-traced

by artist’s brush–
just there,
erased

to create a sibyl
stilled and scowling,
mango-gowned in monochrome,
a lifeline in her hands,

an omen, a warning,
as an owl’s hoot in the night,

if only the doors would open,
if only the cat would speak,
if only I could read the writing
on the wall

if only we could part the curtain,
meet and touch,
again.

For dverse for Open Link Night, a poem inspired by the painting Grace shared, Gertrude Abercrombie’s “Where or When (Things Past),” Leonardo da Vinci’s, “Lady with an Ermine,” and David Lynch, who died last week. We’re definitely in a Lynchian world right now, and the Twin Peaks theme has been playing in my head. The Julee Cruise version is called “Falling.”

I apologize for being so behind on reading others’ posts.

October, Fifteen Days till the Election

Posted on October 21, 2024 by merrildsmith

Monday Morning Musings:

October, Fifteen Days till the Election

“This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

The dance of shadows in the dying
of the light, the last breaths not far—
across the sea, bombs burst, cities fall
and here, men scheme, adds bots and trolls
as apples drop, recall what was,

inhale, exhale
taste blue diamond sky
the aquamarine water glimmering
in rays of warm, chardonnay-gold, though the breeze
touches you with a refrigerated hand, “I’m coming,”
it says, and the moon watches with stoic face,
sighs when you turn in your sleep.

Radiant days, the blaze of scarlet-gold against sapphire,
chevron skeins untangling in the sky, lifting like river fog—

it will not last, it will not last, but still you hope. Wondering what is indeed possible,
as a kitten in your lap somehow purrs and snores at the same time,
proving magic exists.

The solstice will come. The sun will sink.
But, if there are shadows, there must be light.

Quite a week, huh? Just when you think things can’t be crazier, they are, and the convicted felon, the GOP candidate for president of the United States, talks about Arnold Palmer’s penis. Honestly, I watch the kittens knocking pens and papers off the table, and there’s more sense in that than in his words. The emperor is way beyond not wearing clothes, and yet the MAGA crowd shrugs. Remember that time Biden didn’t perform well at a debate, and there were all the cries about him being unfit? We can’t give up hope though. I know some people are sick of me talking about this, but as Heather Cox Richardson says, “take up oxygen.” I’m unlikely to convince anyone, but still, I need to counteract the lies: Immigrants are not eating pets, the country has not been destroyed under Biden, and women are dying and more will die because of the overturning of Roe v. Wade. Project 2025 is real and will turn this country into a “Christian” Fascist state with Vance in charge. You want help after a hurricane? That help will not happen because those offices will be gone. There will be no federal government overseeing roads, education, or health and safety. It drives me crazy that people are voting against their own best interests and the future of their children and grandchildren. I mean unless you’re a billionaire. It is important to vote blue down ballot, as well as for the presidency. Here is Heather Cox Richardson’s letter for today.

BUT—deep breath—the weather in south Jersey has been gorgeous, though we need rain in this normally humid region and the climate is crazy everywhere. It was cooler at the beginning of the week–good soup weather. Now it’s unseasonable warm during the day, but still with cool nights. Perfect! It will be around 80 F today. We took advantage of the beautiful weekend. On Saturday, we went to Grounds for Sculpture. Some of the sculptures are clever sight gags, such as an artist painting an artist painting an artist painting a scene, or a man hidden behind a fence who appears to be peeing in the bushes. We’ve been there several times, so I was most interested in how beautiful it all was with the autumn colors at near-peak. A molting peacock was very interested in Doug’s sandwich. Yesterday, we walked up to the battlefield for the 18th Century Field Day and Fall Festival. Every year, reenactors stage the Revolutionary War battle that took place there where the soldiers of the Continental army defeated the Hessian mercenaries. (The British still took Philadelphia, across the river.) Just a few years ago, archeologists found bones of Hessian soldiers buried there.

Then yesterday, afternoon, we went to William Heritage winery. It was warm enough to sit outside in short sleeves.

We finished re-watching the TV show, Fringe. (We loved it all over again!) The entire fifth season is about people fighting against all odds to re-take the world back from oppressors. Perhaps we can’t re-set time, but it’s still a poignant lesson of hope.

In New Jersey, in-person early voting begins next weekend.

VOTE BLUE!!

Beheld

Posted on July 6, 2024 by merrildsmith

Beheld

The river is a serpent,
S-curves sliding into the sea,
and I am above blue–

below, blood blows, blobs
and dripples, death
a daily occurrence—

still, she is here, her gown flares
and licks each pink petal, each green shoot,
gilding them, even the rocks whisper
in contentment

for a while.

ii.

She wants us to stop
the mad drive for more.
The fiddler plucks his strings,
pizzicato dewdrops
brighten shadows, rust-red pearls
in moon-frond,
she steps, never-mother, but twin,
protector. Her voice is luscious, sonorous,
silver, drawing surf and tree sough
echoes linger as I wake.

A very oracular poem from the Oracle today. 😉 She gave me the title, too. (Well, she said “Behold,” and I changed it to past tense.) I don’t remember this Redon art, but I thought it fit. It looks like night and daybreak to me.

The Ferocious Eye Blinks After a Breath

Posted on June 10, 2024 by merrildsmith

Monday Morning Musings:

The Ferocious Eye Blinks After a Breath

A week of innumerable flavors and shades—the air
damp steam room towels and stinky cheese becomes
blueberry cobbler then pale seafoam dusted
with salt, scented with strawberries and roses.

I think what some call gods, I call nature,
as I swallow sublimity, taste transcendence,
feel the intensity of blue calling me. Currents become thoughts,
become words. The universe beginning with a letter,
a sound

the way of any birth, a cry,
and we, startled deer,

our shadows elongate, they get small,
tiny spiders glimmering webs.

The fish crows call “Uh oh! Uh Oh!”
as the vultures circle,

Death is our constant, a patient stalker,
if fate is kind
we find our people, we find peace
before scattering our stardust to sow
the earth and seed the sea. See it there
glistening on spindrift as the waves crest and tumble. A new dawn.

The middle of this past week turned hot and very humid with threats of severe storms that fortunately did not materialize. We were going to go sit outside at a winery one night with friends, but it was simply too humid for us. But we went on Saturday afternoon instead, and it was a beautiful day. My friend Pat (you made the cut) took the photos of us and the wine (un-oaked Chardonnay and Syrah). She told my husband “no Goofy shots.” I was at Pat’s house (you made the cut twice) for lunch on Friday with another friend. Look at the lovely table she set for us. Everything was delicious, and it was a beautiful afternoon with friends of many decades.

On Sunday, we saw Hilma, a contemporary opera at the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia. It’s a world premiere in partnership with New Georges theater. (You can find out more here, including the dramaturg’s note and streaming tickets.) The Wilma is receiving a Tony award this year, next Sunday actually. We’re subscribers to the Wilma because we appreciate the way they push boundaries, take risks, and are always adventurous. We haven’t loved every play there, but we always go wondering what we will find. I did love Hilma, and I also appreciated what the theater did and the risks it took. They’ve never performed an opera before, and the actors were not opera singers; however, they carried the tunes and lyrics. I really liked the way lighting, the set design, and the costumes contributed to the show.

Hilma af Klint was born to an aristocratic family in Sweden. She was a trained artist who had won a place at the Royal Academy in Stockholm, but sexism, as well as tradition, limited the scope of what she painted. She was very interested in the new discoveries that were being made in science at this time. She was also interested in spiritualism and became a follower of Theosophy. (It’s founder, Rudoph Steiner, is sort of the bad guy in the opera.) The show explored Hilma’s queerness, as well as mysticism. She lived and worked with a group of women. Her journals seem to indicate she had female lovers. Her artistic work became a “commission” she accepted from the transcendent guides. She wrote in one of her journals, “The pictures were painted directly through me, without an preliminary drawings and with great force. I had no idea what the paintings were supposed to depict, nevertheless I worked swiftly and surely, without changing a single brushstroke.” She is now credited with being one of the first abstract painters. When she tried to show her work, it was dismissed or ridiculed. She then requested it be exhibited only 20 years after her death. The first big exhibition of her work took place in 2018 at the Guggenheim.

Two Poems for Day 16: Persephone and Rising

Posted on April 16, 2024 by merrildsmith

Inspired by SEB16

Persephone

Celadon circlets of forest fronds
crown her head
as she ascends

from stygian shadows,
a realm of dead,

but here fuchsia rays pierce
azure light,
a golden chariot carries the sun,
and bright blossoms bloom beneath her feet–

in sepulcher-chill, her somber lover bides
but what are months to them who live
immortal lives?

She crushes a pomegranate seed
between her teeth. Walks on.

Inspired by RFK16 and KPG16

Rising

“You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
–Maya Angelou, “Still I Rise”

From debris and dirt,
she rises, rises
determined to be more—

call her a weed, still she’ll blossom
in crayon yellow, neon pink, rising, rising–

pausing only to extend a leafy arm–
more blooms reflect more light.
they continue rising, continue the fight.

For Day 16 of Paul Brookes’ annual ekphrastic challenge. My first poem was inspired by Sara Elizabeth Bell’s artwork, and my second poem was inspired by the art of Robert Frede Kenter and Karen Pierce Gonzalez. Only the first of my poems is on Paul’s site, but you can see all the art and read some other responses here.

Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings

Tag Archives: Art

Aftermath

Monday Morning Musings

Rousseau Exchange

A Special Feature of Held Inside the Folds of Time on Art Gowns

Surrealists

Monday Morning Musings

Stories, Statues, the Light

Monday Morning Musings

Unfinished Portrait of a Dream

October, Fifteen Days till the Election

Monday Morning Musings:

Beheld

The Ferocious Eye Blinks After a Breath

Monday Morning Musings:

Two Poems for Day 16: Persephone and Rising