As Autumn arrives, the arc of the sun shifts. The sky can show us the seasons if we learn to watch. One of my former students, a young mother, lives on a farm where they grow seasonal sunflowers. There’s a crop in the spring and this year, another in the fall. They open up on weekends for “you pick” days. I follow her on Instagram and have a totally romantic view of life on a farm. It must be hard work, especially with the hot, dry days we’ve had this fall. Nevertheless, this image popped up on my feed and I thought it wanted to be a poem.
My students and I have been participating in the annual Write Out sponsored by the National Writing Project and the National Parks Service. Each day this week we’ve watched a video from a park ranger and followed a writing prompt. We made special #WriteOut notebooks following Sheri Edwards’ model found here.
We’ve gone outside to observe the trees and written a script of two trees talking to each other.
We’ve drawn from observing architecture and written about the significance of the building.
We’ve imagined the day in the life of a bird as it interacts with human environments.
Each day there is a new surprise. I hope I can find a way to continue this enthusiasm for writing after the two weeks of Write Out are over.
The Write Out prompt I chose on Thursday included a Rita Dove poem. We discussed the poem and collected words to use later in a poem of our own. Today I am sharing two student poems written after Rita Dove.
I love how both students and poet participants are on the look out for photos that want to be poems. Last week I featured a sunset photo taken by a third grader. This week Karen Eastlund sent me an interesting photo from her garden. She said they planted milkweed hoping for monarchs. I have recently found 3 monarch caterpillars on my own milkweed. Two of them were on volunteer milkweed that had planted itself in a crack of concrete near my air-conditioner units. I’m so glad I left it there growing wild and free like the weed it is meant to be. Thanks Karen for this amazing photo of a milkweed seed pod, open, soft, and free.
Milkweed seed pods, Karen Eastlund
Seed pod opens to the morning sun waiting for a wisp of wind to carry feather-soft seedlings to the sky. Plant me upon your pinwheel and carry me along.
Margaret Simon, draft
Please leave a small poem draft in the comments. Come back, if you can, to write encouraging comments for other writers. Happy Hump Day!
This first week of October, Mary Lee challenged our Inkling writing group to write Wordy 30 poems, based on the Wordle game in which you have 6 chances to guess a 5 letter word. The game is quite addictive, but stacking 5 letter words into a poetic verse is another level all together. Inklings were excited to give it a try, but we were unsure how strict the rule of “Only one word per line” is. I veered off on one of my drafts by writing a 3 x 10 poem using 10 letters.
For more Wordy 30 fun, check out how other Inklings met the challenge.
I shared this activity with my students. Here is one Avalyn and I wrote together about our classroom monarch caterpillar who is getting fatter by the day.
Spiritual Journey First Thursday is hosted today by Chris Margocs.
For Spiritual Thursday, Chris suggested we write about “those who have passed and left something behind in our hearts.” My father died 5 months ago. My grief returns when I’m struck by something I want to share with him. A few weeks ago, we were driving to my daughter’s house to watch the LSU game and without realizing it, I thought about calling my dad to see if he was watching the game. Bam! Before I knew it, tears were welling up and I couldn’t speak.
I’ve started listening to a new podcast with Anderson Cooper on grief, All There Is. The episodes I’ve listened to are powerful and poignant. While I was blessed to have my father for 61 years, loss is loss is loss.
Anderson Cooper interviewed Stephen Colbert, and I was touched by what Colbert said about grief.
It’s a gift to exist. And with existence comes suffering. There’s no escaping that. But if you are grateful for your life. Then you have to be grateful for all of it… I have some understanding that everybody is suffering and however imperfectly, acknowledge their suffering and connect with them and to love them in a deep way that makes you grateful for the fact that you have suffered so that you can know that about other people. I want to be the most human I can be, and that involves acknowledging and ultimately being grateful for the things that I wish didn’t happen because they gave me a gift.
Stephen Colbert, All There is
I’m not sure I am at the point at which I can be grateful for the pain of loss, but I can be grateful for the life my father had and the legacy he left behind.
Last weekend my sister and I visited my mother. We took her to church on Sunday. We have a family history at St. James. When my parents were married there, my mother’s father served the church as a priest. I was baptized, confirmed, and married there. When I walked down the aisle holding my mother’s hand, we both got teary-eyed. My father’s ashes reside in the church walls in the columbarium. His presence was with us in that moment.
St. James Episcopal Church, Jackson, MS (photo by Margaret Simon)
I subscribe to Suleika Jaouad’s The Isolation Journals newsletter. A recent writing prompt suggested composing a prayer beginning with the Sanskrit prayer, “May creatures everywhere be happy, healthy, and free.” Here is my prayer:
May creatures everywhere be happy, healthy, and free. May you sleep as soundly as my old dog Charlie on his therapeutic bed. May you laugh as loudly as my granddaughter Stella on Facetime, eating a cookie, crumbs all around her mouth, smacking between giggles. May your muscles feel as stretched and tired as mine after yin yoga class, still tingling from pigeon pose. May our paths cross on a fall evening when the breeze is cool, and we see the bright light of Jupiter, shining with eternal hope. May we share a moment of memory of a life we knew was good. May we cry a little. May you look forward to tomorrow feeling the peace of knowing you are prepared. Yes, and be still and know God as the deepest, most truthful, and holy part of you.
This week’s photo is from my student Brayden. Over the weekend I got a text from his mom. First came the photo. Then she wrote, “Brayden took this picture and wants to write a poem about it.”
I think my eyes welled up. I won’t go into the whole history of Brayden for privacy’s sake, but this felt like a turning point to me, not only in his writing life, but also in his relationship with me (and all things School). What teacher wouldn’t want a student to look at a beautiful sunset and think about poetry? It’s a first for me.
Sunset glow Traffic flow I hope you know I’m coming home.
Margaret Simon, draft
Please leave a small poem in the comments. Try to respond with encouragement to other writers.
The Poetry Sisters challenge this week is a favorite form of mine created by my fellow Inkling Heidi Mordhorst, the definito. The definito is a poem of 8-12 lines for children that defines a word. The word being explained is the last word of the poem.
I subscribe to Merriam-Webster’s word of the day. I love learning new words and this one was not only new to me, but it was a mouth full of p’s to say.
Some perspective on perspicacious: the word combines the Latin perspicac- (from perspicax meaning “clear-sighted,” which in turn comes from perspicere, “to see through”) with the common English adjective suffix -ious. The result is a somewhat uncommon word used to describe someone (such as a reader or observer) or something (such as an essay or analysis) displaying the perception and understanding of subtleties others tend to miss.
Last weekend I spent some time with my 3 year old (almost 4 year old) grandson. I am constantly amazed at his ability to observe his world and notice things that most of us just take for granted. I love seeing things in a fresh way when I am with him. I’m not sure I have a full grip on the word perspicacious, but working on this poem made me happy to capture the awe of a toddler.
Perspicacious Definito
At some point we lose perception, perspective clouded, but you, my child can see the train track, and notice up and down, lower, higher, your place in space. When you spin, you laugh, feeling dizzy. Under the influence of gravity you understand what you don’t understand…playful perspicacity.
Our friend Molly loves to rise early and with camera in hand, head to the nearest water source. Morning light illuminated some mysterious bubbles on her recent excursion. I marvel at her photography skills and her ability to see beauty. Let’s take a moment to stand in awe, to see beauty, to feel alive.
Write a small poem in the comments and respond with encouragement to other writers.
Bubbles by Molly Hogan
Just below surface mysterious, magical breath of life bubbles
The Open Write over at Ethical ELA was happening this week. I participated for a few days. On Saturday, Denise Krebs offered this writing prompt: write an ode to a childhood love. I thought about my diary from 1975 which I still have tucked away in my closet. It’s something of a miracle that I still have it because my childhood home was flooded in 1979. I’m not sure how this diary escaped.
Time was that when I looked at my diary, all I could see was the struggling teenager, flip-flopping from I like Robby to I like Bobby. I had tucked slips of paper into the diary, notes from friends and poems. Yes, poems.
Today I’m trying a different perspective of my younger self. I am thinking more kindly toward her. She was developing, in the process of becoming. No one is perfect when they are 14. Actually, I am not perfect now. We are constantly in a period of discovery about who we are, who and what we love. I think this diary may hold a precious girl, one in need of love.
“One Year Diary” circa 1975
“One Year Diary”
Golden pages wrapped in a keyless lock, you locked away all my dreams and screams for truth and understanding.
I was standing at the threshold of who I am. You honored the me I was with timeless sanctity.
Notes and poems tucked in like folds of a blanket, nestling moments I wanted to keep (and forget.)
Cursive swirls and exaggerated tittles, my fourteen year old soul remains buried here.
I try to get outside early in the morning for a walk, often before the sun rises. On my path is a grove of fruit trees. I watch these trees as the season slowly changes to fall. Trees seem to know even before we can feel the air temperature change that fall is on its way. I know the slant of light changes and all that, but I just wish for a little cooler breeze. My husband always says that satsumas (oranges) ripen around the time of the first report card. I wrote a modern haiku in honor of the wet green fruit. Please take a moment to write a small poem in the comments and support other writers.
green fruit by Margaret Simon
Sweet fruit of the earth Taste of rain, taste of sun Abundantly enough
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She is a retired elementary gifted teacher who writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 