The noise! The incessant noise! I want to hear the birds sing, not the shrieks and whirrs of power tools and ATVs— I grind my teeth, my ears ring.
I want to hear the sough of surf– Mother Earth– not the music you so blithely share– so unaware, without a clue,
or is it “I don’t care, do you?”
Whatever! I enjoy music in its place, not the disregard, forcing it in my face when you blare it from your yard or car—
turn off Fox news, (in silence) read a book, walk in someone else’s shoes, here is nature all around—look!
I know we need machines to plant and sow and build things, small and tall—
and yes, I enjoy shows, movies, technology, a/c, heat– indoor plumbing all installed,
but sometimes (OK, often) I just hate it all–
turn down the volume, shhh, see?
Listen to the river sigh and the whoosh of bird wings as they fly.
For NaPoWriMo Day 5: “Today, your challenge is to take a page from Catullus and Darwin, and write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover. Be over the top! Be a bit silly and overdramatic.” Not quite the tone of I hate clover, but still a bit dramatic and over the top.
Anger, not simply sadness in nature’s tears that fell, death-knells tolling, the air roiling and thick, world-sick, cyclonic streams throwing tantrums, to care too much, or not at all.
I recall how we waited for the phone to ring, for word of your condition—the heavens whirred– my mom was dying alone, but we could see you through this final journey hold your white-furred body— you purred— then April blinked, shone on without you.
Magnolias sparkled pink against the blue-eyed sky— only wonder, no answers to our why.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 4: “Today, we’d like to challenge you to craft your own short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season. Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.”
I’ve probably written about April 2020 way too much, and the horrible week that began with the sudden death of one of our cats (with tornado watches for much of the day) and ended with the death of my mom. She died of Covid in a nursing home. Other loved ones have also died in the spring. For me, the beauty of spring is always tinged with a bit of sadness. I suppose that’s appropriate for Passover, too. We’re having our family Seder tonight. I’ll catch up with reading tomorrow.
“People suffering from seasickness on board a steam boat. Reproduction of an etching after R. Seymour.”(Wellcome Collection).
Some Things Never Change
She’s lived many lives—
a pirate once, though when each voyage began her insides lurched outside upon the sea as she wretchedly retched most violently,
then became accustomed to the slant-sliding ship, climbed rope ladders to the crow’s nest, kissed the salty mist
as one day she tumbled into oblivion woke into another life,
a traveling salesman with a less-than-faithful wife, and mostly it was grand this back and forth, a peripatetic existence —but when he worked with others, not in the driver’s seat, he found his stomach tossed and turned, and suddenly he was outwards bound
waking to a world of weightlessness and wormholes, the pale blue dot a memory lost in the extraordinary beauty of stars– the large spaceships fine, but on small shuttles, this astronaut discovers a remnant of Earth, butterflies in her stomach– mal de mer so far from any ocean.
Something a little different from me for today’s prompt. NaPoWriMo Day 3, “Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be.”
I tend to get motion sickness, though I haven’t experienced it a long time.
My sister and I at the library with my mom, tiny seedlings, we stand on the floor vents in the children’s section so, our skirts become upside-down flower bells—
from the shelves I choose Chicken Soup with Rice and learn that in every season soup is nice–
let it simmer –sip it twice–
savor as a poem of peals and peels seasoned with saffron and savvy, carrot-rooted in tradition, aged in the right conditions, a this and that mish-mash made with love.
“Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem in which you recount a childhood memory. Try to incorporate a sense of how that experience indicated to you, even then, something about the person you’d grow up to be.”
I’m making vegetarian matzo ball soup right now for a family dinner later this week.
I’m very pleased to have two poems in Unwhispered Legacy. “This is the first anthology published by The Book Bag X Write Here, Right Now,” which is Paul Short’s (Paul Writes Poems) creation. The anthology is available in a free pdf. You can read more about it below. Paul is also using this anthology to raise money for Médecins Sans Frontières. There is information on how to donate on the Website.
“Our task is to pay attention and listen… Finding beauty in a broken world is creating beauty in the world we find.” —Terry Tempest Williams
“History has its eyes on you.” –Lin-Manuel Miranda, Hamilton
Soul-flying through contemplative crow clouds, over a ruminative river
an eagle flies, ospreys gather, geese squawk, honk, and scatter,
the world sighs— a breath of spring-yearning-forward-looking-back
march march on
catch the rhythms of the past
snap of twigs pound the asphalt
toe-heel, heal-toe booted, bare-footed toe-tap
two-step under cerulean blue,
“History has its eyes on you”
View from Washington Square Park, one of the original squares laid out by William Penn. It served as a burial grounds for the poor, free and enslaved Black people, Native Americans, Revolutionary War soldiers, and victims of the yellow fever epidemic.End of March 2026. Brick Path by what was the front entrance to the Whithall Family’s house, which served as a field hospital during the Revolutionary War battle that took place there on October 22, 1777.
power wanes and waxes, but we are a tide
surging
as the world around me erupts in lemon meringue and pink macaron
and the trees are draped in bridal lace, stars come to Earth
a time of rebirth, history’s rhyme,
we live, we die, we share our stories
Nothing new–and ever-changing.
Hello again! Another week of wondering what I’ll wake up to both in weather and current situation. March’s weather has been all over the place—shirt-sleeve warm to winter coat wearing and back. The non-war war still going on, the demented one still writing and saying bonkers looney statements, as Stephen Miller puts up a fake videos to keep his toddler brain satisfied. And House Republicans in full-on reactionary mode refused to sign the compromise bill their counterparts in the Senate approved. The always-Trumpers are NOT conservatives, they are reactionaries who want to tear down our democracy, not preserve it. Apparently, the TSA workers are going to get paid because Dumpty waved a magic wand that he could have waved six weeks ago? However, according to the NY Times, it’s unclear exactly where the money is coming from, only funds somewhat adjacent to immigration enforcement or some such. And there are other DHS employees, such as those who work for FEMA who are still not being paid. (For non-US, the TSA agents work in airports; DHS is Department of Homeland Security, and FEMA is Federal Emergency Management Assistance. Among other things, they assist when there are natural emergencies, such as major floods, hurricanes, oil spills, etc.) Sigh.
And there is Dumpty’s insistence on passing the SAVE Act, for which there is no need. Voting by noncitizens is simply not a thing. The act will only disenfranchise US citizens and make voting more difficult. (See Joyce Vance here.)
On Thursday, I participated in Paul Short’s Write Here Right Now online writing group. It was as interesting and collegial as always. You can find Paul at @paulwritespoems on Bluesky, Insta, and X (which I’m no longer on). More news on Paul tomorrow.
On Saturday, we joined the 8 million or so patriotic Americans marching and rallying at No Kings events. There were also events on every continent (including Antarctica)! We decided to go to Philadelphia and met up with my niece and some of her friends. I know my brother was there, too, but this time we didn’t run into him. The crowd was very chill, and so were the police. No real MAGA crazies. Madeleine Dean, my niece’s representative, was one of the speakers. Another good speaker was Michael Coard from Avenging the Ancestors, who spoke about the current regime’s attempts to erase history. This group was key in getting the President’s House in Philadelphia to acknowledge the enslaved people there. The current regime tore down the displays. The court battle is ongoing.
The event in Camden, where my Senator Andy Kim and others spoke, was also well attended, and even the visibility event in Glassboro had over 1,000 people!
I didn’t get great photos, but here are a few.
On Sunday, we saw The Most Spectacularly Lamentable Trial of Miz Martha Washington (The title is often shortened to Miz Martha), by James Ijames. This is the play that announced Ijames was a playwright to watch. It is surreal, funny, and unnerving. It takes place like a fever-dream of Martha Washington as she is dying, and the enslaved people around her are waiting to be set free (as per George Washington’s will). It includes song and dance, a game show, and trial of Martha. You can read about it here.
Before the show, we walked through Washington Square Park to the Magnolia Garden in Old City, which is just beginning to bloom. It lifted my spirits, even if a cold wind was still blowing. There are a couple of photos above, and here are a few more.
We’re watching, How to get to Heaven from Belfast (Netflix) and enjoying it. It reminds me a bit of Bad Sisters, same kind of vibe, with a hint of Yellow Jackets. We almost always have closed captions on but suggest it here. 😉
Early in the week we replaced ceiling tiles in the kitchen, stained after bathroom leaks. The boys were very helpful, as you can imagine.
Passover begins this week on Wednesday night. We’ll be hosting a family dinner next weekend.
I’m sharing the words Joanne Freeman uses to end her talks:
Jan Davidsz de Heem, “Memento Mori with a Skull under a Vase with Flowers,” c.1660
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.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 