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Gardening Lessons
Gardening Lessons
“I have kept this secret long enough. My silence ends here.”
–Dolores Huerta, Statement, March 2026
Unquiet, the silence
of victims and survivors
threatened by abusers,
and self-doubt,
flowers wilted
by bold, bright stars—
tossed as weeds,
buried
in silence
of the complicit
floating on quicksand,
comfortable with dirt–
indifferent, they look away
from what’s planted,
their scattered seeds
grow.
A quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words) for dVerse using the prompt word, silence.
I still hope all those involved in Epstein’s horrible activities are disclosed and brought to justice. The man in the White House and his minions and handlers don’t want the truth to come out. I’m certain many have been silenced.
Meanwhile, last week, there were shocking accusations made about Cesar Chavez. Dolores Huerta and others have finally broken their silence.
Here is her statement. Content warning for sexual assault.
Ghost Light
Ghost Light
Every theater has a ghost
often appeased with light, protection
from dangers seen and not
forgotten.
Never forget, we say,
as we do
again,
ghosts flicker-flit or shadow-boom in every theater,
watch the room and mark the spot–
recall how light once sparkled above–
an encircling diamond bracelet
now obscured by a smoky sleeve
and bursts of bright arterial blood.
Every theater has a ghost,
but this one has a multitude.
The final curtain fell
with the beating of Death’s black wings
there is no exit
and no light,
in the darkness, the children cry,
ghosts in this theater of the absurd.
For dVerse Open Link Night. I’ve included my reading of the poem, too.
The ghost light is a theater tradition. Some say it’s to appease the ghosts that all theaters are said to have. Others say it’s for safety reasons—to keep people from falling into the orchestra pit in the dark or tripping over cables. While theaters were closed for Covid, many kept a ghost light on as a promise that they would reopen.
I saw in the news that Russian forces had bombed a theater in Mariupol that was sheltering many children and elderly civilians. According to satellite photos, the building was clearly marked with the word “children” written in Russian. It sounds like the basement kept them safe, but elsewhere, children’s bodies have been found in mass graves.
I am appalled (though unfortunately not surprised) that some people in the US, such as the former president and his true believers, still support Putin and parrot Russian disinformation.
Rising, Setting, Rising
Monday Morning Musings:
Sun rising, moonset
another day to fret
we can’t forget
ever, not yet,
the agitation in the nation–
whatever the frustrations–
instigators and insurrectionists,
racists, and white supremacists,
in armed rebellion to overthrow–
it really happened—and they must go.
They should be tried for their crimes—
spreading lies, hate, violence, and plagues—sad times
for our country, for the world, I cry
for us all, for those who’ve been lost—the wind sighs
with their ghosts. This is not who we are, some say,
yes, it is, but we can find another way.
Some will always be lost to hate,
leave them to their fate. Deflate
what is possible, build from the ashes, anew.
See there—the sun rises–golden beams reflect on blue,
in rosy haze, the geese take wing, then land—
and like them, I hope we can have and stand,
Geese in dawn light on the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield, ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021
with leaders who try to serve
the many, not themselves only—preserve
out of many, one—come together, the sun rising, just begun.
I’m sure everyone knows what happened this past Wednesday—insurrectionists, incited by President 45, attempted to overthrow the U.S. government. He, the GOP lawmakers who supported him, and those who engaged in sedition should be arrested, removed from office and jobs, and tried. In addition to hate and sedition, they also most likely spread Covid. I’ve been thinking a lot about the Rising Sun chair. It’s the chair George Washington sat in while presiding over the sessions of the Constitutional convention. James Madison later wrote that Benjamin Franklin said of the chair, “I have often looked at that behind the president without being able to tell whether it was rising or setting. But now I… know that it is a rising…sun.” You can see the chair here.
I also thought of how thousands, including me, have marched in peaceful protests.
Merril’s Movie Club: Last night we watched Elizabeth is Missing, which features an outstanding performance by Glenda Jackson. It was shown in the U.S. on Masterpiece. Some may not wish to see it because Jackson portrays a woman with Alzheimer’s. It was somewhat upsetting to me in that it made me think of my mom. At the same time, the movie and her portrayal are so accurate and sympathetic, that I felt myself thinking that’s how it must have been for my mom—except that she was nearly blind and far less mobile than Jackson’s character. The story, however, is about Jackson’s character solving two mysteries. The present-day disappearance of her friend, and the decades-old disappearance of her sister.
We’re about to start Season 2 of Occupied (Netflix). Season 1 of this Norwegian series was excellent and exciting. I also finished Bridgerton (Netflix). I probably don’t have to say anything about that. Binge and swoon. (But if you don’t know anything about it, it’s a period piece and a Shonda Rhimes production. My daughter described it as Jane Austen with sex.)
Baskets
Monday Morning Musings:
“Poetry isn’t a profession, it’s a way of life. It’s an empty basket; you put your life into it and make something out of that.”
–Mary Oliver, Georgia Review (Winter 1981), 733.“There is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself.”
“I have a right to be angry, but not to spread it.”
–Hannah Gadsby’s, “Nanette”
Ask why an ancient wind
rose beneath a hot sun–
they never will
see souls rustle in soft shade.
So,
murmur harmony
to nature’s song
and feel life bloom
***
We listen to the woman, a masterful storyteller,
skilled at creating tension—and
relieving it with a punchline,
but in this set,
she lets the tension linger–
at least for a while
noting both her anger
and its reasons—
reasons that should anger us all.
I think of that,
as neo-Nazis gather in our nation’s capital.
Neo-Nazi? Why should there be new ones
after the defeat of the old ones?
I ponder the other labels–
shouldn’t we all be anti-fascist
and united against hate?
It should be the default mode, shouldn’t it?
The novel I’m reading is set in
the early 1930s in Berlin,
the female protagonist had a gay brother
who was murdered.
While they were growing up, she tried
to teach him what she called
“A Code of Masculinity,”
so, he could pass,
but he didn’t.
Hannah Gadsby
in the 1990s in Australia
was assaulted for not being
feminine enough,
she couldn’t pass either. But growing up,
in a culture where she was reviled, left its
legacy on her. She talks about the shame
she felt for being a lesbian, for being different.
I think about trying to explain
these weird and artificial binaries
to a visitor from another world,
But how could I,
when they make no sense to me?
You must be this color,
you must love this person,
you must be this religion. Why?
And where do I go with this? I seem to have
gone off on a tangent–because
I wanted to tell you about baskets.
Picture the basket itself,
woven together from strands of straw, reeds, or
even wire,
each one different.
And my life, also woven of many different strands.
I weave my basket, and sometimes I take it apart
and start over.
So, let me tell you how
we celebrated the anniversary of my father’s birth—
He would have been ninety-nine. He’s been dead for twenty years,
and I still miss him.
We toasted him with wine–
and ate ice cream afterward,
because he loved ice cream.
We eat Pakistani food with our younger daughter and her husband,
enjoying samosas and other delights
as their dog and cat circle the table,
where there were no scraps tossed,
but love drips,
like melting ice cream,
because it can be messy,
but there is plenty to go around.
I could tell you about being with
dear friends over the weekend,
how we eat pizza,
and discuss that new normal, how
it is difficult not to discuss politics
but at the same time,
conversations are fraught
with hesitation—or anger.
How can one be friends with someone
who supports a racist?
The saying goes, “Don’t put all your eggs
in one basket.”
We should welcome those who think
differently or look different.
And isn’t part of the joy of having
a full basket
come in examining its contents?
There is so much we do not see.
We toss everything
in the basket of life, and pull out what we need
or what we want. But maybe sometimes
we need to look at the basket itself.
There is no punchline here.
We watched “Nanette” on Netflix. Trailer here.
I’m reading the novel A Trace of Smoke by Rebecca Cantrell.
Telling the Story
Monday Morning Musings:
“Go out and tell the story.
Let it echo far and wide.
Make them hear you.
Make them hear you.
How that justice was our battle and how justice
Was denied.
Make them hear you.
Make them hear you.”
— from Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty, “Let Them Hear You,” Ragtime
“Our children
See them running down the beach
Children run so fast
Toward the future
From the past”
–from Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty, “Our Children,” Ragtime
Dawn comes to tell the story
of the day,
the sun rising, a fact, or perhaps allegory
of what might be,
but at dawn we still have to wait and see
what will unfold over the hours
wait and behold, to see if it’s sweet,
or if it sours.
Will there be light and flowers,
or angry tears of raging showers?
We travel over the cool bridge*
Commodore Barry Bridge
listening to the voice we’ve named Siobhan,
she guides us to our destination
no hesitation
on her part
though we wonder as she directs
us to wander,
and ponder
at her choices—but she gets us there.
And it’s where we want to be.
It’s a hot day,
but fine if we stay
in the shade
and made
more pleasant
by costumed musicians playing flute
and a stringed instrument—but not a lute–
Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival
so, we munch
our lunches, listening, as we crunch
and enjoy this day–
wait for more of what it has to say.
Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival
It’s a day of protests,
and I am thankful for those who brave the heat
trying to fight and unseat
the evil—so obvious–that is being done
with children in cages, rights that were won
being stripped away–
a new horror every day–
evil has become commonplace,
even while it’s made banal
(build that wall, he still says
this excrescence, the prez)
And we sway in the breezes of change
wanting to blink and look away
but hoping still
it will go our way–
this story of our days.
So, we see this play,
a musical, and I’m amazed
at the way
it’s so timely today–
full of immigrants fleeing
and wanting the American dream
though things are not always the way they seem,
as white women are awakened to life beyond their homes
and people of color
striving for rights and equality,
though there is no apology
for the discrimination, only denial
without fair trial
or justice–
And, ok, I get choked up
when Sarah runs down to meet Coalhouse
even though I knew it was coming
and it’s possible I was crying by the end
of the story—I won’t pretend—
it’s true,
I was moved by the magic of theater,
perhaps you would have been, too.
It might seem funny that we see
this musical, not a Shakespearean play
at a festival named for the bard,
Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival
but it’s not hard
to understand
the popularity of musicals.
But he wrote of current events and history
and it’s no mystery
that his plays would have been performed with song–
perhaps the audience hummed along
to some familiar tunes.
Though all the female roles then were played by men,
well, things go around and around again
(Remember when we saw a woman play Hamlet’s role?
Gender no longer is the control.)
We ask Siobhan to guide us home
where we feed our cats,
(upset at being left alone)
wait for the sun to set
and the moon to rise,
wait for people to hear the babies’ cries
to set the course of things to where they should be,
where children are free,
not locked away, torn from their parents’ arms
but instead, quite naturally, kept safe from harm.
And by and by
the stars twinkle and sigh,
sing to us a lullaby.
I make a wish by candle light
for wisdom to come—perhaps tonight,
I’ll tell the stories of truth and right
and wait for some to listen,
Can I make them hear me?
I guess I’ll have to wait and see.
*Our children–actually their stuffed animal friends–named the Commodore Barry Bridge, “the Cool Bridge.
I’ve listened to the music of the musical Ragtime–and in fact, one summer I listened to it so often in the car that I pretty much had it memorized. But I had never before seen the show. This was a wonderful production with Broadway actors with great voices (and some fortunate DeSales students filling in some of the ensemble roles). It was very well-staged and the costumes were great, too.
Here’s Brian Stokes Mitchell singing, “Let Them Hear You.”
Breaking Free
“We’ll know as children again all that we are
destined to know, that the water is cold
and deep, and the sun penetrates only so far”
~ Jim Harrison from Death Again
Torn from parents
hearts ripped apart–
how it starts–
the cycle of hate
spinning behind gates.
Business we’re told,
souls are sold
in heat or dank cold
children are taught
the rotational fear,
fraught frontiers–
till some break free
to lead us
from insanity.
This is a quadrille for dVerse, where Kim has asked us to use the word cycle, and a response to Day 18 of Jilly’s 28 Days of Unreason, inspired by the poetry of Jim Harrison. Last night we saw Audra McDonald in concert. One of the songs she performed was a medley of “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught” from South Pacific (Rodgers and Hammerstein) and “Children Will Listen” from Into the Woods (Sondheim).
Breathe a Cloud
Monday Morning Musings:
“Fear makes for good servants
and bravery is fraudulent”
–Jim Harrison from “Vows”
The timeless lies
of dictators grappling for power
smiling for the crowds
insisting they are making things better
demagogues feeding the fears
firing them into fury
so that they erupt
like a volcano
spewing lava into the air
to flow over
those people–
criminals
rapists
bad hombres–
them,
those people who take your jobs,
and ravish your women,
animals
not fully human.
We’ve seen this before
but that doesn’t happen here
that’s all in the past
in countries far away.
We thought we were safe,
more enlightened now
(to separate parents and children)
we’re not
paralyzed by fear and indecision
numbed by the normalization
of Twitter rants
but evil has only been buried
in a shallow grave
waiting to crawl out
like zombies
eating brains
and souls.
But when to fight
and when to escape in flight?
Do we leave at the first sparks
from the volcano,
or wait till it erupts?
My daughter’s friend goes out for bread
finds herself wind-whipped with ash–
falling from the sky.
Sudden changes–
like the storm clouds that break
for sunshine
and for a night
when we can sit outside with friends
to enjoy a concert
watching children dance in the green grass
in innocence and joy
but
the storm clouds return
and we sit inside
procrastibake
and watch TV
Mixed-berry Crumble
we go to a wine festival
sampling wine
until the wind kicks up
and it is too cold and blustery to sit outside
so, we come home
to sip
inside again
watch an old movie about war
and bravery and morality
where the coward becomes the war hero,
but when is fighting necessary
how do we stop evil
without glorifying war?
I have no answers–
but know that questioning must continue–
the press, the poets, the artists
truth and artistic vision
The Post and Guernica–
the light in the darkness,
that is bravery, too
and when
the rain falls,
hard rain
forming puddles
where little girls see rainbows
not guns
stop
look up
sigh
breathe a cloud
blush a breeze with joy
over our universe
and use soft rhythm
to time the thing—
eternity
it sails
a vast cool ocean
I’ve linked this to Jilly’s Day 4 of her 28 Days of Unreason using the poetry of Jim Harrison. And the Oracle added the message at the end.
Don’t forget to vote! One person and one vote can make a difference.
A Break in the Rain
Monday Morning Musings:
It seems to rain from moon to sun
rain over and over, never done
and then a break, till it thunders
again and again.
I feel lethargic and dull
and it’s hard to mull
over this or that—
the people who insist the world is flat,
or guns don’t kill, people do,
except there are more dead kids shot through,
and it seems we will never cease
with hate and violence, the human disease.
But in the midst of death we see the love—
yes, pomp and circumstance, uniforms and gloves,
the fascinators, and the meters-long train
(and the sun-filled day with no hint of rain).
It’s storybook fantasy, mixed with Stand By Me,
gospel choir amid the history and pageantry,
but these two appear so much in love,
and if it helps, gets us thinking of
better things, well, I can take a break
in the coverage of hate, it’s not a mistake
to celebrate love, or a wedding day—
a bit of color amidst the world’s gloomy grey.
Still–spring insists on being seen
and here, the world is turning green,
though I don winter clothes because it’s turned cold
and we go through rain, to visit
friends of old.
We eat Chinese food, laugh, talk over the meal
how we can’t understand the hypocrisy of those who feel
the man in the White House is okay
when they were upset at bare arms and a tan suit,
birthers and ape images, just try to dispute
there’s no racism there,
some very fine people on both sides–but I’d beware.
The next day, the clouds break and the temperatures soar,
everyone wants to get out of doors,
I see a hawk atop a weathervane,
Hawk atop a weathervane at Carpenter’s Hall, Philadelphia
perhaps she’s trying to ascertain
the state of this territory, her domain,
which no doubt is full of tasty things
grown and born in rain and light of spring.
We walk city streets, where life beats
A flirty car
in harmony and patterns, under the blue sky
and birds sing and fly,
and there is so much green and flowers in bloom
filling the air with their perfume,
May in Old City Philadelphia
and it is a relief from gloom and rain,
though I know people are in pain
and children are dead, and women are raped
and the world is shaped
by guns, disease, and violence
and we must break the silence—
but for today, just let me feel the sun and say
nothing but “see the hawk there”
and smell the roses over there.
We see a movie about motherhood and coping
with a newborn and others and life,
sometimes mom’s need an extra wife
or helping hands and people to truly see
beyond the façade, the hyperbole
of motherhood’s joys to the cries and sleepless nights
the clutter and exhaustion—along with the delights.
We drink coffee, walk and talk some more
then it’s home to feed the cats, take care of chores.
At Customs Coffee House, Philadelphia
In the night, my mind wanders and roams
far from home
(Macbeth has murdered sleep)
But in my dreams, I hear the chirps and cheeps,
As the mockingbird sings through the night
and we are fine, it’s all right,
the dawn comes with bird 
choir and radiant light.
We saw the movie Tully, which we both thought was excellent, but I don’t want to give anything away. I’ve seen it described as a comedy. At least not in the modern sense.
I’m reading Jo Nesbrø’s take on Macbeth, set in a Glasgow-like city in the 1970s.
Sorry about the weird formatting and gaps. WP gremlins are still hanging about.
Remember
Say their names slowly–
remember each life lost, now
tolled in hopes and prayers
by those who have forgotten
love, embracing greed instead
This is a tanka for dVerse. Frank asked us for brevity.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 