Dreamscape

Posted on March 25, 2024 by merrildsmith

Monday Morning Musings:

Dreamscape

“Out of the cradle onto the dry land… here it is standing… atoms with consciousness… matter with curiosity.

Stands at the sea… wonders at wondering… I… a universe of atoms… an atom in the universe.”
–From, “[UNTITLED ODE TO THE WONDER OF LIFE]”
by Richard Feynman
(You can see read and view the poem here animated with music performed by Yo-Yo Ma.)

In spring, the early mornings are un-silenced
by robin song, woodpecker rattling, goose honks,
and crows calling, “Wake up! Watch out!”

as they fly across the river, where driftwood’s
scattered words are fragments of sentences, parts
of questions, clues to puzzles not yet created.

The clouds tack their masts and sail
across blue, the river birds swim through,
the looking glass. Do we fall
fall through without realizing?

In dreams I float through walls,
like an omniscient ghost, I am all-knowing
narrator and bemused character. Walls dissolve,
rooms expand, and yet when a man appears before me,
I am startled, blocked

on a path I thought was mine to take. I’m awakened
before finding answers—a cat’s insistent meow—
an answer to unasked questions about love, scattered driftwood.
I think of how I watch him dream. His eyes flutter, paws twitch,
sometimes he softly moans. Even insects seem to sleep, it’s
a wild and powerful force, a need

felt by everything on Earth. Perhaps. I look at the moon. She’s become
a crayon-yellow child’s sun. She winks before slipping beneath day’s covers,
reflecting light is wearying. But still, don’t we all long to glow?

March continues its crazy course. We’re back to colder weather. On Saturday, we had several inches of rain (a little bit in our basement). I made a pot of lentil soup and baked batches of Hamantaschen of Purim. That night, we tasted two wines from our Master the World Kit. We are still pretty awful at guessing and deducing, but it’s fun, and I was pleased that I identified the French Gamay (which was delicious). Then we opened another bottle—because Purim. 😉 Fortunately, the sun and wind came out by late afternoon to help dry things up.

We are waiting for the eighth and final (or season finale) episode of Constellation to drop. I hope we are not disappointed by it because we are really caught up in the show.

Yesterday, we played trivia with our daughter and son-in-law at a local brewery. It was fun, and surprisingly we did not come in last.

Ricky the Cat’s new morning routine begins at about 4 AM. He kept waking me up from dreams.

Moon Shadows and Time

Posted on March 23, 2024 by merrildsmith

Moon Shadows and Time

I am arm and arm
with time, when it flows
in hot-honey days, or sings
shot through with light, silver streams
and water-sprayed sky–

I have dreamt of many rooms,
mothers, sisters, daughters,
blood bright as rubies,
the touch of tiny fingers,
the ache of what was, what might be—

now here is crushed-peach dawn,
and purple poured over milky clouds,
later rose will scent my wine, but now
there are whispers, wind-fiddles play

the sound of blue, of Earth, and after,
like a language, like love—but more,
a recalling of sleeping ships at sea,
a warning of storms, a hint of safe harbors,

a cool ghost-embrace with a touch of fire,
the joy of the two after the glass is broken
full sailing through flower clouds.

My poem from the Oracle. She was full of alliteration and wild phrases today, so I just went with it. Odilon Redon gave me the final line. No crushed pink dawn here today—we have heavy rain.

Together, Apart

Posted on March 19, 2024 by merrildsmith

Together, Apart

Caught, trapped, waiting
for something—the air is a sulfurous fog,
faint outlines of buildings etched on its surface,
perhaps they are not real, perhaps

they belong to somewhere else. Here
is the bridge only; here is where I stand,
fallen angel. And here is where the lion,
also far from home, bides

unconcerned by my presence, as I am with his.
And so, we remain.

For the Magritte prompt on dVerse. I apologize that I am so behind on reading others’ work.

Book Review: Jane Dougherty

Posted on March 19, 2024 by merrildsmith

Night Horses
Those who are familiar with Jane Dougherty’s work will not be disappointed with her new book, Night Horses. The book does not include a biography, acknowledgement, or notes, only splendid poems of dreams, nature, the stars, mythology, and love.

In “Night Mare,” “a slender light stitches the night-field” and “horse and I, longing to make the leap between the stars.” In “Crossing” day turns to night, “stepping softly as a silent deer.” But night is not always peaceful here. In “It came in the night,” “the voice in the night was a wolf-lament” and it “the dark, the voice of howling trees, a river of grief, the wind that blew my dreams away.”

In this 48-page book, I felt love and yearning in the poignant, “For a father poet,” where “in my arms the sea-smoothed branches, bleached pale, the chalk cliffs and the basalt carved by your voice.” I experienced the dying of the light in the loss of an old dog. Most of all, I experienced our existence in the stars in “Nebula,”

Sometimes, summer nights,
I have to cling to the window frame
To stop myself falling up in the arms of greatness.”

This is a book that will carry you from your bed to the natural world where foxes roam and owls fly, where magic happens–and terror–and you can watch the poet “take from their box, a string of pearls, a constellation in a moonless night.” You want to visit this world, don’t you?

Jane Dougherty writes stories where the magical and the apocalyptic mesh, where horror and romance meet, and the real and the imaginary cohabit on the same page. If real life bores you and you hanker to be whisked away to somewhere infinitely worse…before it gets better…maybe, why not sign up for the trip?
Her website is: https://thefourswans.wordpress.com/

Overdue Book Review: Robbie Cheadle, Lion Screams

Posted on March 18, 2024 by merrildsmith

Lion Scream: Syllabic Poetry About Southern African Wildlife
By Robbie Cheadle

Robbie Cheadle is deeply aware that we are living in the time of the Sixth Mass Extinction. The title of this book is somewhat misleading because it is so much more than “syllabic poetry about southern African wildlife.” This multi-media book explores mass extinction and the environment and showcases Cheadle’s deep appreciation for the wildlife around her, some of whom are alive only because they are in preserves. She mixes syllabic poems with short articles about African wildlife, conservation, and the environment. The section on how rhinos are treated is heartbreaking. I knew they were poached for their horns, but I didn’t realize the extent.

There are brief sections about her personal experiences and encounters with wildlife, as well as links to personal videos. This book is best read and viewed on a device that supports the videos. I couldn’t see the photos very well or connect on my old Kindle, so I ended up reading the book on my laptop.

Cheadle doesn’t idealize the animals. For example, she states that elephants can be dangerous, and she is always wary around them. However, some of her poems imagine life from the animals’ perspectives.
In the section on lions, we meet brothers

“The colour of ripe wheat
They blend with the bush
Male lions resting peacefully
Enjoying blissful dreams
Concerning fat buck”

And I learned that lion couples mate every twenty to thirty minutes in a twenty-four hour mating cycle!

The book ends with a short story, “The Nutcracker,” which is about a teenage girl’s depression over global warming and the Sixth Mass Extinction. Following the story, Cheadle offers some additional thoughts.

Lion Scream is a fascinating and important book. I highly recommend it for people who want to learn more about South Africa’s wildlife and environment.

“Award-winning, bestselling author, Robbie Cheadle, has published fourteen children’s books and two poetry books. Her work has also appeared in poetry and short story anthologies.
Robbie also has two novels published under the name of Roberta Eaton Cheadle and has horror, paranormal, and fantasy short stories featured in several anthologies under this name.
The eleven Sir Chocolate children’s picture books, co-authored by Robbie and Michael Cheadle, are written in sweet, short rhymes which are easy for young children to follow and are illustrated with pictures of delicious cakes and cake decorations. Each book also includes simple recipes or biscuit art directions which children can make under adult supervision.
Robbie’s blog includes recipes, fondant and cake artwork, poetry, and book reviews. https://robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com/”

Robbie is also a most kind and generous writer!

Clouded

Posted on March 18, 2024 by merrildsmith

Monday Morning Musings:

Clouded

“And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,”
–Percy Bysshe Shelley, “The Cloud”

“What on earth could they bear witness to?
They scatter whenever something happens.”
–Wisława Szymborska, “Clouds”

We talk of how the clouds make the sky
when perhaps it’s the other way–still look–
those puffed sails upon the sea of blue.

On other days, we watch
the ghosts, murky masts of spectral ships,
a vista awash in unparted grey.

Now flutter, waft, wings on wind soar,
like love in the air, hyacinth-scented,
magnolia magnificence, magenta glory,

the world reborn, the world carrying on
spring-green and willowy,
despite closed eyes and clouded minds,

the shadows loom, the clouds don’t care,
both created from light, uncurved, cast straight
from night, gold and silver apples shimmering

fall, cast even through the clouds,
unconcerned by us, reflect
an afterglow of time.

Hello again! Last week, spring came early to my part of the world. We had unseasonably warm (but not hot) days, and suddenly flowers and trees burst into bloom. Spring was in the air—and love—the birds are singing now before dawn, geese are pairing up, and yesterday a young couple got engaged at the park. I was walking along the river path when I heard a woman laughing, then as I passed them, she was laughing and crying and admiring her ring. I congratulated them, offered to take their picture (their camera, not mine), and gave them each a hug. It was so special, a quiet Sunday morning by the river, no huge fanfare or crowd, and I felt special witnessing their joy. Below is the photo I took just before encountering them.

On Thursday night, we were at Blue Cork Winery in Williamstown, NJ. Our daughter works there and often hosts trivia nights there. This time she asked my husband to co-host a music trivia night. I sat with my son-in-law, drank some wine, and did not do well on the trivia—but it was a fun night! (I’m including a “Goofy” photo for Derrick.)

On Saturday, we saw The Lehman Trilogy by Stefano Massini. This Tony-award winning three-hour play at the Arden Theater was excellent. Three actors performed all the roles, beginning with the three Lehman brothers, Jewish immigrants from Germany in search of the American dream. Much of the story is third person telling, a device also used in Hamilton, which I think was very effective here. I enjoyed the first act the most, and I think the third act was the weakest, but I enjoyed the play and the actors were all excellent. It turned out to be a gorgeous day to walk around Old City Philadelphia before the start of the matinee. We wandered through the Magnolia Garden on the perfect day, and Elfreth’s Alley was aglow in the spring light.

Spring is always a strange time of year. It’s when the world first shutdown during Covid, it’s when both my parents died and my children were conceived; it’s the time of year when rebellions take place, and armies stopped by winter resume fighting. It’s death and rebirth, beauty and destruction.
Today’s (technically, last night’s) Letters from an American post is must-read material. I should also say it’s terrifying, but so many American have no idea about what is going on. I knew Orbán was the American extreme right’s idol, but I had no idea the extent. How much money is flowing from his regime to the Heritage Foundation and its Project 2025 plan? Please do not support the Heritage Foundation! VOTE BLUE!

Spring Song

Posted on March 16, 2024 by merrildsmith

Spring Song

Driven by the need to shine,
to shimmer-sing, the moon,
a ship out in the night
with breathy whispers sighs–

fish-eyes linger,
window shades pause in mid-flutter
and the air murmurs if

gowned in light,
girl to goddess in
the dazzle-dance,
the laugh of life–

sister, daughter, mother, wife
connected as earth and sea,
seeds threaded on a string
spring reborn in pink-petaled
glory, yellow flower bright.

A quick poem from the Oracle. I had a dream about birth and connections that seems to fit the season. We seem to be having early spring in my part of the world.

Sanctuary

Posted on March 15, 2024 by merrildsmith

Sanctuary

Sometimes it’s too much to look outside
to see all that light–
flowers exploding like color-bombs,
the winged black exclamations of
crows counting down my days.

The gamboge walls encase me,
the bars keep out intruders,
a sanctuary within the hospital
where I can put brush to palette,
to canvas

and forget time in its rhythm.

My paintings surround me,
like dear friends,
they speak only the truth
I want to hear.

And the only shadows
are those I create.

A poem for dVerse, Open Link inspired by the optional prompt—Vincent Van Gogh’s “Window in the Studio.” This studio was where he was allowed to paint at the hospital at Saint-Rémy.

Relativity

Posted on March 12, 2024 by merrildsmith

Relativity

Professor Einstein strolls through Princeton,
the breeze lifts his frizzy white lion mane, and his eyes

take in the lemon beauty of daffodils,
how they whisper, heads close, tete a tete–
the way he had done with Mileva, Elsa, Marie. . .

He pictures his young self, the one who never ages,
gazing at daffodils in Zurich and Berlin,
his wives and lovers scattered like flower petals
across nations,

the relativity of love, the gravity of life
that takes so much energy–
its passing, a constant.

He is old,
his annus mirabilis so long ago,
though it created a star with golden echoes

saving him by its brilliance
when so many others were
burnt to ashes.

He knows time is not absolute,
now he feels it calling,

the universe within his brain
ready for the super nova.

A poem for dVerse, where I’m hosting today. For my prompt, I selected a group of daffodil names to use in a poem. Professor Einstein is one of them. (They’re striking flowers, white petals with bright red-orange centers.) The real person Albert Einstein died on April 18, 1955, in Princeton, so he may have seen daffodils in Princeton shortly before his death.

Daffodils are starting to bloom in southern New Jersey.

Rowing: Prosery

Posted on March 11, 2024 by merrildsmith

Rowing

I want to remember the names. All of the names swallowed up by the cold, by disease, torture, the shattering impact of bombs, and the inferno ovens. But there are too many. Death smiles his unlipped smile at me from shadowed corners; he visits me in dreams. Sometimes I reach for him, like a lover.

One day, I will rest in his arms. But not yet. There’s still work to be done. I’m in an ocean of grief, but I will float atop it on a barge of reckoning. Oars ready, I will row. Revenge, retribution will not return the dead, but perhaps justice will keep it from happening again.

Or not. Perhaps, I need it only for my own peace of mind. I need to discover who betrayed me.

A continuation of my spy series for dVerse Prosery. The given line is “all of the names swallowed up by the cold” from Tomas Tranströme’s “After Someone’s Death.”

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