Buds and blooms, Colonial Garden on a foggy morning
Connected
In a dream, you were asked to follow, to behold the soft things in the air and beneath the earth, the seeds, roots— the ifs of gardens, forests, meadows, the cycles of darkness and light calling the ancient songs of stars echoed by birds, whispered by bees. You listen, hold the secret close, this deep-time ache carried in blood and bones, every speck connected, and you smile.
My poem from the Oracle with special ifs for Derrick. She knew it was foggy this morning, and it seemed the world was full of dreams and secret things. I took this photo today at the park. This is the garden at the entrance to the eighteenth-century Whithall House. It would have been the back of the house then, as the front faced the river.
My dream poem begins Between a sonnet and an ode, I can’t remember the rest, it’s vanished in the universe of my mind, a star to black hole or a comet to return with a blazing tail— but me without the telescope to see within
this galaxy of thoughts, my past, the fragments hurled through time, and filtered through the space debris of memory.
I’m left trying to determine what I meant, a borderland of form and matter, formal structure and rhymed connections, an abab skip to u– the meter set by moon rise and the rhythm by dawn choir.
I could sing the praises of a leaf of grass, the beauty of the vulture’s glide,
the river tides, or the scent of spring rain rising
Cloudy morning at low tide, Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield
the volta of each season, expressed in a grand reveal, or a subtle exposition
Peonies in bloom, Whitall House
unexpected, yet familiar, everything
may change in a flash light to darkness to light— while we dream, whether we remember . . . or not.
Sometimes I watch him dream
Movies, Books, This and That:
Good morning! A couple of nights ago, I dreamt an entire poem, and “Between a sonnet and an ode” was really the beginning.
April was quite a month of poetry, wasn’t it? Even though we still seem to alternate warm and cold days, the flowers say it’s now May, as do the goslings, and rabbits.
We fortified ourselves with bruschetta and roasted asparagus from a local farm stand to begin watching the final episodes of Ozark (Season 4, part 2). We watched two episodes—it’s intense, but no spoilers!
We had Chinese food and watched a Chinese movie (of course). 😏 Here is one that most likely few of my readers have seen,Gone with the Light. You’re welcome. The plot will sound familiar—there’s a flash of light and some people all over the world vanish. Trust me, that the movie becomes something quite different, a meditation on love. I enjoyed it very much.
I’m reading A Woman of Intelligence by Karin Tanabe. I just couldn’t quite finish it last night, but I’m really enjoying this novel of a woman who feels trapped in her life as a housewife in 1950s NYC after working as a translator at the newly created UN. One day she agrees to become an FBI informant, also becoming involved in Cold War spying—and feeling more alive than she’s felt in a long time.
If I could, I’d play for you a moon-hummed lullaby, the sound of rivers and moss green springing, the tune of bee waltzes on white-bloomed clouds,
and you would hear the poetry of stars, like flowers drifting from the sky–
not red-raged bursts, or dolorous willow whispers, the anguished cries of mourners left behind, and mother’s tears–instead
the wind would carry rose petals, petrichor, and daffodil laughter, echoing as
each dawn awakened rosy-cheeked with blue-eyed innocence and birdsong would soar, never bullets.
I didn’t get a chance to post my poem from the Oracle yesterday, but I’ve revised it, and perhaps it’s more appropriate today on the first day of spring.
Conscience or conscious— both require awareness— to be alive is not enough, do flowers know their own beauty?
Soon nested geese pairs will egg-sit, they’ll hiss at those who pass too close, and honk and fight to protect their young–
a simple idea—protection of children, loved ones, the world. We may insist we’re innocent, but still-tongued too often as the bullies come and why soars like an eagle, dropping feathers of doubt, but not conviction–a frozen thought awaiting sun-warmth to emerge and bloom
a consciousness of each new dawn, a rebirth—
blue hope swallowing grey despair,
as daffodils poke through the snow, beautiful and toxic, anything to survive, but there is more than one way,
sunflowers smile and follow the sun, trampled, they drop their seeds to feed others, then rise again, with a nod and a wink.
Sunset taken from upstairs windowLooks like spring on this block in Philadelphia
This has been a strange weather week, in an ever-stranger world. On Friday, it was beautiful, on Saturday, we had rain, then snow, then wind with more snow. This week will be spring-like and warm.
We saw a production of the play A Man for All Seasons by the Lantern Theater Company at the Plays and Players Theater in Philadelphia. It was great to see a live production, and I feel safer that they still require vaccination proof and masks. I don’t think it was a perfect production, but the acting was excellent. Though I don’t believe Thomas More is a saint or agree with all his beliefs or decisions, he certainly stood by his convictions. We also saw a French movie called Oxygen. It’s been in my Netflix queue for a while. We both liked it a lot. It’s about a woman who wakes up in a cryogenic chamber. She doesn’t know who she is or how she got there—and she’s running out of oxygen. It’s best not to know more. The movie and show made me think about conscience and consciousness.
As do the people who shout about their freedom being denied because they have to wear a mask or get a vaccine–which is protecting other people, as well as themselves–but who are perfectly willing to take away rights from others. See Texas, Florida, various other states with GOP majorities, Russia. . .war in Ukraine. . .
We’re also watching a Turkish series on Netflix called The Club. It’s set in Istanbul in the 1950s, and deals with family, love, trauma, and relations between Sephardic Jews and Muslims, and some of the political events going on at the time. I’m nearly finished with a novel by Chris Bohjalian called Hour of the Witch. It’s about a 17th century Puritan woman who tries to divorce her abusive husband and then is accused of witchcraft. (FYI: there was divorce in Puritan New England, as marriage was a civil contract. There was also a belief in witches and devils.) I love historical novels, but I’m also very picky about them. This one is well-researched and well-written.
Say how spring soars pink-winged after the storm, and moonlight whispers dreams of if we could or never did, we urged the sky, believed the lies
of roses. The forest screams under clouds of rust,
and we must boil water again there are no more gardens or birds– here the red-breasted man flies and then is still
beneath the blue, endless as time recalling the diamond sparkle above is long dead, yet seen and heard, like the fiddle’s aching notes, a reminder of sorrow and beauty, when spring sang in pastel notes of joy and raised green tendrils to embrace the world.
My poem from the magnetic poetry Oracle. Yesterday we had a beautiful spring day. Now it’s raining, and we’re expecting some snow and strong wind gusts. Right now a mockingbird is singing outside my window. And the war in Ukraine continues.🌻 There are many organizations trying to get assistance to Ukraine. Please help, if you can. Here is one list. Here is a link to a book of poetry put together by Annick Yerem available for a donation.
the ground blazed with wild, mustard flowers, sharp, clean, an announcement of the season. Wind-whipped feather-clouds swept across the forget-me-not sky. The breeze was spring’s laughter, and she laughed back, her skirts swirling like white gulls in the breeze.
She smiled at our son, both haloed in the spring light amidst the scent of wild mustard, the golden glow, the reaching shadows went unnoticed.
A poem for my dVerse Ekphrastic prompt. This is one of the images I selected for the prompt. Feel free to join us!
The after-sky dreams red a thousand times, sings fiddle-sweet as bitter black is cast away
again
light me with color-song– a thousand blues together, the river murmurs over and over and honey-tongued earth breathes green.
And if ghosts come with their fevered night secrets, they vanish in caramel clouds and champagne breezes laugh to scatter pink-petaled magic like smiles in morning light.
Last night it got very windy, but this morning is warm for February–about 50F when I got up. But, we’re supposed to have rain turning to snow after midnight tonight. Sigh. The Oracle knows all this, of course. The world is very strange right now, but even crazy truckers and conspiracy spreaders can’t stop spring from coming eventually.
In blue-shadowed light no men wake this tree, here haunted with ghost-eyed decay, the ice holds all prisoners
as we wait for the dazzle, fever-fire and green give eternity, and magic sails from stars
a vast universe of flower-fish, a velvet-voiced sea, if becomes now, as yesterday becomes tomorrow
and after. . .ancient incandescent light, time’s smoky smile, a laugh that echoes
through black holes to fly on gulls’ wings to float on robin song, an embrace, a lodestar.
I’m watching the snow fall, but the Oracle gave me flower-fish and fever-fire (amongst other words), and I thought of this painting. She understands time and space, and she knows everything is connected. We’re singular and part of something larger. Meanwhile, the snow will melt, the daffodils will bloom, the daisies will giggle as bees brush their petals, and sunflowers will smile, even as leaves begin to turn red, again.
In early morning hush, the moon sings farewell, gelid murmured notes through white cat-paw clouds
if you listen, recall light recalls time recalls light, the ancient ships of night seas ask when ask what you want from the whispers and pulses of mother music from earth and sky,
the fiddle, flute, and drums of wind-beats and tree rustle, the cardinal chirps and crow caws, black on red on blue and green, every color a promise, a warning of what is and what was.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.
Ingrid at Experiments in Fiction is hosting a Global Assembly on Climate Change. Read more about it here.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
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