Once your ancestors roamed desert lands
stalking and hunting.
Once my ancestors also roamed
hunting and foraging for food,
till we learned to plant, and sowed
our seeds into fields and generations into towns
where your ancestors chose to live with mine.
Now, we are wild only in our dreams–
you are content to purr and sleep on my lap,
and I am content to let you be there.
This for dVerse, where Jilly asked us to write about being wild.
If (We Could Fly)
If . . .
we could fly
through the wild universe
on shimmering wings,
kiss in clouds of fire
and watch the birth of moons–
if . . .
we could sing with the stars
with voices that surface from our souls–
if we. . .
dazzling and glimmer-garbed,
could remember these nighttime journeys–
would our silvered spirits
ever return–
glistening and luminescent,
open-eyed and wiser?
Federico Beltran Masses, “Under the Stars,” Wikipedia Commons
I wrote this poem a while ago, but I never published it. This is for Frank of A Frank Angle’s “If” Challenge. It’s an open challenge–stories, poems, essays–anything using If. Check it out!
“We especially need imagination in science. It is not all mathematics. Nor all logic. But is somewhat beauty & poetry.
–Astronomer Maria Mitchell (1818-1889
“In the middle of the journey of our life
I found myself astray in a dark wood
where the straight road had been lost sight of.”
–Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto I
“This image of Saturn’s rings was taken by NASA’s Cassini spacecraft on Sept. 13, 2017. It is among the last images Cassini sent back to Earth.”
This wild, verdant world
home, a pale blue dot
it travels,
we travel,
through time and space
never a straight road
explorers, we send you out
on a thirty-year mission
(here, bombs and missiles)
there, you meet your fiery death.
Did you have last thoughts, I wonder,
as you plunged
compelled by forces beyond your control
mission completed
no more floating tin can
our eyes and ears
seeing what we cannot see
what if you could speak your mind–
would you share our wonder, or
cry at the beauty of the rings of ice?
The eye of the beholder,
the hard problem and reality,
what do we actually perceive
(with our limited senses)
And yet
And yet
And yet–
we have music, art, poetry
the imagination to see beyond
to wonder if there are ghosts flitting around us
and what it is we cannot see
We, who are constantly seeking
asking who we are
and what is out there
(the truth?)
yet so limited by greed, ignorance, fear.
the artificial borders of nations
when the world dies,
will it matter that we are American, Russian, or Thai?
or that we believe in one god, many, or none?
that our skin is olive-tinged, milky-white, or the color of café au lait?
We follow straight roads to disaster
when perhaps we should try a different path—
a scenic route
create a new map
wonder
We eat pita and hummus
Vietnamese takeout
homemade pizza
multicultural dining
in a xenophobic world
admire the science and math—
dough that rises—a chemical reaction—
but the first time someone made bread—imagination!
Could a space alien creature appreciate the perfection–
melted cheese, tomatoes, basil, and crisp crust?
We drink wine,
admire the color, taste smell
created by another chemical reaction,
We watch science fiction
and imagine what could be,
perhaps better, perhaps not,
(oh, but we could use those Star Trek captains)
perhaps there are other timelines and dimensions,
worlds we cannot see,
Cassini has traveled—not a straight road—
to see rings and moons
a wonder of science and determination
But I see the beauty of those rings,
imagine how they might sing
I read and write
about the terrible things people do to one another
dominating bodies, looking for control
we watch a documentary about Vietnam
fights over territory
nations looking to control
the falling of dominos
in senseless violence
bombs, death, and destruction
time going backwards in film
filled in by imagination,
fast forward
and where does the road lead?
look at the science
look at the logic
look at the road
and check for a course correction–
But
look for the poetry and art
the beauty in the stars
listen for the humming of the moon
“None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now must lose them. I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant. Goodbye goodbye good—”
—George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo
“I met you on a midway at a fair last year. . .”
Joni Mitchell, “That Song about the Midway” (1969)
Ancient cycle of souls
between rocks and rivers
Laurel Hill Cemetery, view of the Schuylkill River
walk sweetly
(some say)
follow us in spirit form,
(perhaps)
happy
rising with the moon
blooming with the stars
living in harmony with the cosmos
watching flowers blossom
year after year
the willow weeps for them
amidst angels and urns
obelisks and hands pointing to the sky
and here we are, alive
walking amongst them
hearts and bones
flesh and blood
a family outing
the young women–and us
no longer young—
(except in our dreams)
a groundhog warms itself on a gravestone
then disappears
a moment come and gone
nothing is real
everything is real
there are ghosts all around us
We drink wine
enjoy a picnic dinner
the singer plays her guitar strings
sings about the midway
slowing down
birds take flight in a dramatic sky
(in a moment there, then gone)
wearing wings, they looked so grand
hanging upon the face of night
soon scented with petrichor
we move to shelter
as the rain pounds down
drink some more
discover that caramel corn flavored with Old Bay seasoning
may be the snack we didn’t know we craved,
my daughter and I talk of haircuts, then Shelley and Keats
Grecian urns and time
passing fast and slow—
stopping midway, going down
everything is real
the moments paused in my mind, infinitely dear
we watch a movie, sweet and tender
about a widowed Hasidic man
we feel sorry him,
he only wants to regain custody of his son,
though he seems to sabotage himself at times
we all know someone like him
yet still, we root for him
it doesn’t matter that they are Hasidic
speaking in Yiddish
nor that it is a patriarchal culture
where the main function of women
is to have children and take care of the home
they could be any father and son
the boy finds a video of his mother
he replays it
a moment from the past
but life goes on, the rabbi says
and we learn to go on, too
We discuss the movie over coffee
agree the boy is incredibly cute
(like a Maurice Sendak illustration, I say)
we walk and talk
through old city streets
past graves
our shadows—
real, not real
fly over graves of Revolutionary War soldiers–
everything starting as nothing
then named and loved,
all the fathers and sons,
the mothers and daughters,
lingering in hearts and minds
remembered
till they are forgotten
midway in time
the cycle begins again
ancient souls float between rocks and rivers
pause
they linger in your mind
you may almost see them
feel them
drifting in the breeze
We walked through Laurel Hill Cemetery, founded in 1836, and intended from the beginning to be a recreation site, as well as a burial place. We saw the movie, Menashe. Trailer here.
We walked through the yard of St. Peter’s in Old City Philadelphia. A brief history here.
When we soared on Phoenix wings,
reborn from the ashes of the stars
flying in the slipstream of time,
then I knew I loved you–
this time getting it right–
creatures of the light
clothed in cloud filament,
dancing in rhythm
to the music of the universe
I loved the first line of Jane Dougherty’s poem, “Heaven’s High,” so much that I used it for the first line of mine. Thanks, Jane! J
“Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute
toward it.I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,”
–From Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
Beneath every cloud
watch this song bloom–
it is bright sun, wild wind,
moon murmuring peace–
ancient cycles breathe color and bloom
We gather in a flurry of hugs and kisses,
wings outspread,
bright with color,
like tropical birds
cooing and chattering
instead of trills or caws,
I hear the sound I love,
the sound of human voices
the sound of people I love
it is a moment to remember,
my mother’s 95th birthday brunch.
We celebrate with food and drinks
in a courtyard room,
doors open to a day of August beauty
we talk and laugh
(the sound of voices)
take photos
(the sound of groans and laughter)
we sing happy birthday
(the sound of music)
and eat the cake my daughter has baked and decorated
Afterward, we take my mother home
she comments on the length of my daughters’ dresses
and I laugh that she who is nearly blind can see this
and the “designs” on one daughter’s arms
We talk about art–
her famous artist cousin, Abe Hankins,
she points out his work on her walls,
he lived with her family for a time
and taught my teenage mother dances,
he had lived in Paris and brought French style and flair,
he wasn’t a starving artist because his wife supported him
(or so my mother says)
one daughter is enchanted by a photo of my mom with her cousins
when they were all young
my mother tries to remember a hospital she was in
when she a little girl with diphtheria
“well, it was ninety years ago,” she says
no sound of planes in the sky when she was young
no telephone in her house
parents who traveled by ship across a sea to live here
never to see their homeland again
war and peace
sounds of life and sounds of silence
fuse, follow, ancient cycle
breathe in
breathe out
we open presents,
more art,
this time from one daughter
a poem and cookies from me
all sounds running together
stemming, streaming from hearts full of love
We go home, change into PJs
eat again and watch TV
my sisters text me and my daughters–
“Can you believe I’m eating again?”
commenting on how my mom has–
well, her own sense of reality, sometimes
voices in our heads, voices on the screen
fusing together
time for dreams
The next morning, I wake to birdsong
it seems effortless and amazing
but what do I know?
bravura display, to my human ears
I go for a walk
listening to Hamilton
and almost dancing to the riverside
Sunday morning sunshine,
a little breeze
the end of summer,
autumn is on the way,
another cycle of the seasons,
the cicadas hum
the geese march, swim, fly, and honk
the flowers are blooming
(And I’m not throwing away my shot.)
all the sounds running together, combined—
birds and Broadway
In the afternoon, we go to a wine festival
taste wines
sample foods
eat the cheese and enjoy the day
enjoy each other
ancient cycles
time-bound and timeless
the sounds I love running together,
combined, fused or following,
the sound of nature
the song of myself
the song of all of us
echoing in my heart
blossoming
The Oracle seemed in tune with my weekend. We celebrated my mom’s brunch at Jerry’s Bar in Philadelphia, and we went to the Riverwinds Wine Festival in West Deptford, NJ.
A special shout out to Ken of Rivrvlogr of writes poetry, especially haiku and tanka, of nature and current events, and Robin of Witlessdatingafterfifty who takes photographs of her family and area of Ohio and write book reviews in verse. I truly appreciated that they both spent time going through my past blog posts yesterday. Check out their blogs!
These cookies, your favorite,
are my favorite, too,
my daughters named them,
“Mommy Cookies,”
I baked these cookies for them
and for me
I baked them for events, for friends,
for moments of heartbreak
and moments of joy–
for memories.
I baked them for you.
I think of all the recipes handed down,
mother to daughter over generations,
measured by sight and feel
cooked or baked to taste,
I think of these cookies,
back in Eastern Europe–
the original version–
hard and dry,
kept in a tin,
taken out to have with tea,
but evolving over time
with new additions,
(like families)
becoming sweeter
and more nuanced,
cookies that are made
(now)
with ingredients of old world and new
bridging history in a bite,
tasting of past, present, and future–
what I see in your eyes,
the girl who was
the daughter, the mother, the grandmother,
what I see in my daughters’ eyes,
years gone, years yet to unfold,
bitter, spicy, crunchy, and sweet,
the definition of a cookie,
the measure of a life
This was a poem I wrote for my mom’s 95th birthday. I made her some of these mandelbrot cookies as a gift.
“We are like the dreamer who dreams and then lives inside the dream.”
. . .Who is the dreamer?”
—Twin Peaks, Season 3, Episode 14, From Gordon Cole’s dream
In my dream, I was me, but different
and you were someone else, but you,
together, we were other beings, ourselves, but not–
or were we?
If we lived in that dream world
would we long for a more stable world
where we were people,
bound by time,
not creatures of space,
carried on the slipstream of light waves
We drink wine
talk about the past
think about the future,
the musicians sing
Rocket Man and Major Tom floating in his tin can
his dreams, our dreams
blowing spindrift from space
landing, covering our minds
We celebrate a friend’s retirement
(from teaching, not the world)
his mother says to me she’s happy he’s retiring now
he can still enjoy it
they can travel
live a dream.
we talk with friends we haven’t seen in a while
past, present, and future–
tenses merging together–
remember when I saw you last,
here, but then
(this was the future)
marriages, births, and death–
dreams born and died
or perhaps still floating
drifting from the stars
in tin cans
on waves
We go to a movie
two strangers meet–
a woman who feels she must care for her mother
a man who feels stuck waiting for his father to recover or die
they discuss architecture
and the film lingers on the jewels of Columbus, Indiana
framing the characters in doorways and through windows
it is a movie in which marginalia assumes importance,
just as those asides are often important in lives,
the chance encounters,
the remarks remembered,
the dreams dreamed,
and set aside
we discuss the movie over coffee,
walk through the streets
and down to the river,
where people walk, living dreams,
where people once arrived,
full of hope
or full of fear,
tired masses,
spices and slaves,
a new land.
We watch movies,
and when we become involved,
we are the dreamers
experiencing their world
true of books, too,
once I dreamt
(a vivid dream)
I was the character in the book I was reading
I rode a horse
in northern England, centuries ago,
I spoke like I lived there,
it was so real
I was sure I had been there,
perhaps I was.
I had a dream I was me, but different
and you were someone else, but you,
a woman and a man
walk over a bridge
it happens over and over again
different timelines
variations on the theme of life
until they meet,
destiny,
they share a bottle of wine
the bottle and label are green
like her eyes
(like my eyes)
other beings, ourselves, but not–
or were they?
perhaps, we are inside the dream
we are the dreamers
we are the dream
© Merril D. Smith, 2017
We saw the movie, Columbus. Trailer here. The more I think about it, the more I like it. Definitely not an action movie. It’s a quiet poem of a movie.
“’I am half sick of shadows,’ said
The Lady of Shalott”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Lady of Shalott”
“We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know,
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow. . .
And our garden grow.”
From Leonard Bernstein, “Make Our Garden Grow,” Candide
All week the sun plays hide and seek
perhaps preparing for the eclipse
my soul also wanders
in and out of shadows
I think about life
blooming in the late summer plants about me
at a make-your-own-terrarium night,
we each make one,
the open kind—succulents–
though the closed kind would be more interesting to me–
and less so to the cats–
I think,
as we drink wine
and visit with our friends’ daughter who had also showed up
(Surprise!)
I wonder how long our plants will live,
we, who are good at bringing up children and cats,
are not so adept at raising plants,
though the weeds seem to thrive,
still we put them in the sun
(but where there is sun, there are shadows)
and try to make our garden grow
As the sun plays in the August sky,
we go to the movies
(shadows turn to light and life upon a screen)
the film is about life and death
and making choices
telling the truth
confronting traditions
rejecting what does not work for you
embracing differences
seeing people as people,
not as members of different groups,
it’s kind of a comedy
and a romance
the comedy of life
the tragedies
funny family dinners
love
and a coma,
existence in a shadow world,
while life goes on about you
Afterwards, we sit upstairs
in an open-air part of a restaurant
flowers planted, blooming in boxes outside the railing
and street performers serenade us from below
it’s noisy,
but, hey, summer in the city
a beautiful evening
we watch buses and tourists below us
and pedicycle drinking groups,
laughing and singing
we eat tater tots and pizza
because it’s that kind of night
summertime
and we’re not at war yet,
we walk around
just a bit
because there’s work to be done
and an early day tomorrow
the shadows deepen
The sun dances through clouds
casting shadows large and small
on the eighth, Barbara Cook and Glen Campbell both die
glorious soprano and beautiful tenor
perhaps they sing duets in some other world
(do gardens grow there?)
the next day is the anniversary of my father’s birth
he would have been ninety-eight this week
and I think of my mother,
who will soon turn ninety-five
the seasons turning, sun and shadows
The sun comes and goes
hiding
seeking
gone for a woman in Charlottesville
gone for her family
gone for people killed in mosques and churches
gone for women taken as spoils of war
call evil by its name
the darkness of the soul
never brightened by the sun
hidden beneath shadows
I watch the sun rise and set
watch the shadows lengthen
as summer turns to fall
I hold on
seeking light
giving it to the terrarium plants
because they are still holding on, too
despite all odds
we’ve made our gardens grow
I wrote about my father here.
We went to Plant Nite at Auburn Road Vineyards.
We saw The Big Sick, official trailer here. We ate at Revolution House.
You can hear Barbara Cook in “Make Our Garden Grow” the original Broadway cast recording of Candide.
From whistling space
dust swirls and burns
glowing
singing
lighting the universe
reaching shores,
then, like tides
sweeping back to the sea
tumbling again and again
in a wave
a new formation
a new song
a new life born
an old life lived
connected
eternal
We go to the movies
a ghost in a white sheet
views his life
rooted to a place, a home,
a place always there and not
time moves differently for him
and for us, in watching him watching
beautiful, sad, but perhaps hopeful, too
(open to interpretation)
there is much for us to discuss
over coffee, of course,
and as we walk through a city
filled with old and new
A Path to the Past in Summer Bloom
observing how the seasons alters its look
summer flowers making everything bright and beautiful
the city changes over time
here was once a creek
that grew filthy with waste
a sewer
covered now by grass and trees
bucolic space in urban expanse
expansive thoughts arose here, too
made a nation
Maybe someone should write a musical about him.
bodies buried now
yet ghosts still walk among us
paths that bend in time
we hear their voices whistling in the wind
in the space around us
feel their ideas
(legacies)
ebb and flow
the things they left behind
We take my mom on an outing
away from city ghosts
though they linger in memory,
she talks of her parents
her mother sewed piecework for a time
during the Great Depression
her father was upset that his wife went to work
But she worked in their store, didn’t she?
Yes, but that was different, she says and laughs
her brother, my baby brother, I miss him, she says
he was an active child
always falling out of things—the carriage, his crib–
he fell out of my mom’s bed once
she was supposed to be watching him
he bumped his head on the radiator,
she never told her mom
but, I guess it didn’t hurt him
he lived a good life,
though it ended before my mom’s
and now we share the memory of him,
a ghost living in our hearts
We sit drinking wine, overlooking the vineyard
it’s a beautiful day
we watch families
children playing with a beach ball on the grass
hawks flying overhead
we sit discussing the past and the future
our conversation ebbs and flows
thoughts linger, pause—
and float up into space
We eat Pakistani food at my daughter and son-in-law’s house
their dog chases creatures, real and imaginary
birds whistle and sing,
echoing us,
or do we echo them?
We sit with greenery all around us
then eat cupcakes that look like flowers
My daughter’s beautiful and delicious creation.
(summertime)
I wonder about the people who used to live in this house
and what was it before them–
Field? Farm?
And before that?
Did native Americans walk here
in migrations that followed the seasons
circling round, year after year
ghosts walking among us
watching us
rooted to this spot
waiting for something or someone
waiting for a sign,
a message,
a whistle perhaps
a thought that has floated up
swept up in time
and brought back down again
lighting the universe
We saw the movie A Ghost Story. Trailer here. I think it’s a movie that people will either love or hate. It’s a definite Merril movie, but my husband loved it, too.
We drank coffee at Customs Coffee House at 2nd and Chestnut, Philadelphia,
went to Sharrott Winery
And ate Pakistani food from Mera Khana Restaurant I could eat those vegetable samosas every day!
