Merril D. Smith

On the Day of My Sister’s Funeral Monday Tuesday Morning Musings On the Day of my Sister’s Funeral war in the Middle East spreadwith dragon-tongue swipes,flickering flames,bombing in Lebanon, my older child said,more deaths– …

On the Day of My Sister's Funeral merrildsmith.org/2026/03/03/o...

“Balanced”–my poem up in Gleam February was so crazy–events early in the month, then snowstorms, political horrors, and global strife–I completely forgot to post that my poem, “Balanced,” was published by…

"Balanced"--my poem up in Gleam merrildsmith.org/2026/03/04/b...

Thank you, Samantha!

“Balanced”–my poem up in Gleam February was so crazy–events early in the month, then snowstorms, political horrors, and global strife–I completely forgot to post that my poem, “Balanced,” was published by…

My #Poem up in Gleam.

merrildsmith.org/2026/03/04/b...

Thank you for sharing!

Thoughts While Walking After the Death of My Sister Thoughts While Walking After the Death of My Sister Here comes the glowering sky—againsapphire to slate, no snow bells, only flakespristine pretty for a sec– but we’re over it,even the clouds…

Thoughts While Walking After the Death of My Sister merrildsmith.org/2026/02/27/t...

Roberta Writes – “Beach Huts (tanka prose)” by Robbie Cheadle on MasticadoresUSA Thank you to Barbara Leonhard for publishing my tanka prose piece about my childhood, Beach Huts, on MasticadoresUSA.

Roberta Writes - “Beach Huts (tanka prose)” by Robbie Cheadle on MasticadoresUSA roberta-writes.com/2026/03/02/r...

The Numbers Game # 236 Good Monday.  I admit this is an easy and fun challenge and must thank Judy for hosting it and sending me down memory lane ever week (that I participate)!

The Numbers Game # 236 adelectablelife.com/2026/03/02/t...

On the Day of My Sister’s Funeral Monday Tuesday Morning Musings On the Day of my Sister’s Funeral war in the Middle East spreadwith dragon-tongue swipes,flickering flames,bombing in Lebanon, my older child said,more deaths– …

My Monday Morning Musings are a day late this week because of my sister's funeral. This is my weekly post of #Poetry #Photos and commentary on the past week.

merrildsmith.org/2026/03/03/o...

Roberta Writes – Book promotion: This Is How We Eat anthology collated by Yvette Prior My contribution to This Is How We Eat reflects on over exercise and a restricted diet in pursuit of the idealised body and perceived good health. I’m grateful to be part of this anthology alo…

Roberta Writes - Book promotion: This Is How We Eat anthology collated by Yvette Prior roberta-writes.com/2026/03/03/r...

Thank you, Paul. It is so exhausting, and I know you understand and get it. xx

Thank you so much, C. 🌹

You're very welcome, Philippa. 😊 ♫

Thank you so much, Philippa. 💙

You're welcome, Debbie.

Thank you very much. 💙

You're very welcome! 💙

I forgot that she also responded to the Poetics prompt! It's a dVerse prompt. I'm one of the hosts there. There are new prompts every Mon, Tues, and Thursday.

You're welcome! 😊

Try what? Thursday doors? Some of my friends post them every week on their blogs, but I haven't yet.

You're welcome, C!

You're welcome, David!

Photo of the inside of a nightclub with people's dancing hands silhouetted holding drink and cigarettes. Overlaid with a poem in orange letters: nightlife I lie on the pavement no spirit left to me I left it all – in the dark where the light drips off the glitter ball in the furnace of weekend bodies heat-seeking parts in the thud of relentlessly irresistible beats I gave it my all I shed I moved and shook and ground consumed every bit drunk to the dregs of the night – and here I am spent and here I am stupid and happy

Love ending a crazy busy week with a nice little #PoemsAbout hookup. And enjoyed the #Spent prompt. Happy Friday/weekend poets! 💜
@thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk

So beautifully crafted. I love the repetition of and here I am at the end.

Exposed Exhausted I stumble up the steep hill of you. Sense disappears in your gust. My words smashed against your craggs. I cradle the warm eggs of my words you snatch and crack open till my insides tumble unborn deadyolks colour the purple heather of your tongue that fills my mouth so my words cannot be heard, inert. I can't breathe. Your body is an oven whose mouth swallows my whole self. I inhale your gas. Fumble for meaning in the lost map of us.

For #PoemsAbout #spent. Here's my most recent one dedicated to #SylviaPlath. An imagistic narrative:

She is shaped by demand. The dress, one of her favourites, bought by a name she can't remember. Black. Simple. Something he'll like. He brings her a gift bag, the tag for his daughter removed. Inside, crumpled pink tissue, the perfume she listed, some cash and a card he doesn't mention. To give is a calculation. To receive is a debt. No choice without cost, but choice, still remains. She asks about his day. A practiced kindness, soft as clean cotton. "I don't usually..." She nods. Waits. He adds more, about work, about the drive, about nothing that matters. Not for her. Not even for himself. Just to see if his voice can fill a room without breaking. She listens longer than she has to. Outside, a siren passes. Neither moves. His hands hover at her waist, not from guilt, but as if he has forgotten how touch begins, how it once cost nothing. She takes his wrist and places it properly. A small instruction. Almost tender. She laughs once, unexpected, real, and for a moment they are startled by the sound of it, as if joy were not included in the price. The script resumes, but less certain. After, he remains seated on the edge of the bed, studying the pattern in the carpet as though it might explain. In the dim light they look ordinary. Two people avoiding the mirror.

Desire has a price tag before we even name it. This is a #PoemsAbout bodies, bills and the brief moments that slip through transaction. Thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk

This one was a movie in my mind--a sad movie. There are so many wonderful lines, beginning with the first one. The unexpected real laugh makes them so human, real people. I really liked this one!

#poemsabout #spent

Banjaxed: a common Irish slang term meaning something is broken, ruined, severely damaged, or beyond repair.

Such a great word! I think many will be able to relate to this poem!

Good morning #BlueSkyPoets! #PoemsAbout #Spent
@thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk
I took the traditional sonnet and tweaked the form to create a List Sonnet, I hope you enjoy! Excited to read your poetic creations!