Irene Latham is gathering Poetry Friday today at Live Your Poem
I didn’t want to write about my father today, but I woke up and looked at the clock at 4:44 AM, so there he was. He would tell us that he always woke up at 4:44. He had a thing for double numbers. His birthday was 11/11/33. On this day 4/11/22, he had a stroke and died 11 days later on 4/22/22.
When I opened #Verselove, I saw a prompt that Kim Johnson shared in our poetry session on Wednesday at the Fay B Kaigler Children’s Book Festival. Unfortunately, Kim had a family emergency, so she had to leave on Thursday. She is supposed to be sitting with me as I write this morning. The loneliness has gotten the best of me, so I had to write about my father. As Kim and I said to our session participants, poetry can be healing. It’s a place of vulnerability. Kim’s prompt can be found on Ethical ELA.
Remember
I remember the phone call in the middle of class. I answered it. I remember thinking something bad had happened.
I remember I packed a bag for 3 nights max (I stayed 2 weeks).
I remember the gruff hospitalist rattling the bed with her pronouncement of no hope. You stared after her with anger and fear.
I remember the long days as you fought, grabbing tubes, glaring helplessly, speech stolen by the stroke.
I remember tears and singing, prayers whispering, silently longing to bring you back to us.
I remember someone said the deepest grief comes from the deepest love. I wasn’t ready to remember.
This morning I am writing in a little house in Hattiesburg, MS with my friend and fellow Ethical ELA writer, Kim Johnson. We are here for the Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival. Yesterday we presented together about the power of poetry to heal. We shared writing prompts from 90 Ways of Community and led a group of teacher-librarians to discover themselves as writers. The room was vibrating with their energy. We just don’t often take the time to write just for ourselves. It was a wonderful way to begin the 3 day festival.
Today’s prompt for #Verselove comes from Joanne Emery who shared a model poem from Joy Harjo, “Red Bird Love.” I used a striking line from Joy’s poem to write about my friend Mary’s butterfly garden.
Mary’s Invitation
In her garden, there’s salvia, swamp milkweed, that purple one I forgot the name of: you watch a swallowtail circle tall parsley flowers, back around to orange pincushion pistils on a coneflower for a taste of home.
I borrowed this photo from Instagram. I’ve been to Acadiana Park Nature Station, but it was years ago on a field trip with students. I was drawn in by the path and thought about that tree, fallen across the path. How could this be a metaphor?
Metaphor can be elusive. Metaphor can be magical. Allan Wolf uses the phrase, “Metaphors be with you!” Think about metaphor today. Can you make it work in a small poem?
A Path Can Be
A path can be a crooked line scribbled on a page.
A path can be a stopping place to let the world pass by.
A path can be a rocky road where every step is tricky.
A path can be a long, long road that leads you to your home.
I am drafting a poem each day in April. There is no perfection here. Only my brave self posting even though I know these poems need work. There is a freedom in drafting that cannot be found in revision. Some writers love the revision process. I question myself too much. When I draft, I just write. Critiquing is harder for me. Today’s poem was written in my notes app as I took a walk, got ready for school, arrived in my classroom. Before the day gets away, I wanted to draft it again for a blog post. Work in progress.
Darius Phelps offered a prompt today based on a poem called Good Son by Kyle Liang. Both Kyle and Darius used food references metaphorically to reveal a deep truth. I love when metaphor works in this way. How metaphor can lead us to a deeper meaning.
Macaroni & Cheese
Our first fight was over macaroni & cheese which ingredients should be added at what temperature to achieve the creamiest bowl.
Kraft is the only brand we’d buy, but you argued that I poured the little flakes of fake cheese too fast, didn’t stir enough to fully achieve the milk to cheese ratio.
You don’t have to be good, according to Mary Oliver, you just have to love what you love. So we loved each other well.
After long marriage, I wait for you to offer the spoon to taste your gumbo. You tell me my spaghetti is always good– Our edges smoothed like macaroni & cheese.
Today’s Ethical ELA prompt was from Erica Johnson, to write a spring villanelle. Rhyme is always a challenge for me. I knew I wanted to write about the passion vine because it’s popping up like magic in my butterfly garden and even out in the yard. Every day it gets a little taller. What I learned in research was the connection to Christ.
“The plants were given the name Passionflower or Passion Vine because the floral parts were once said to represent aspects of the Christian crucifixion story, sometimes referred to as the Passion. The 10 petal-like parts represents the disciples of Jesus, excluding Peter and Judas; the 5 stamens the wounds Jesus received; the knob-like stigmas the nails; the fringe the crown of thorns.” wildflower.org
Purple Passion Vine
Open the door to sweet passion vine, climbing, perky maypop alluring fritillaries by design.
Your lavender petals a sure sign while mysterious tendrils won’t stop. Open the door to sweet passion vine.
Five stamens like wounds align frilly fringe like a thorny crown top alluring fritillaries by design.
Remind us that all life is divine, beyond the garden you hop. Open the door to sweet passion vine climbing, perky maypop.
Today’s #VerseLove prompt is from Stacey Joy. She brought back once again the faithful form Where I’m From, originally from George Ella Lyon. Like Stacey, I’ve written many iterations of this poem over the years. A recent one that I actually liked, I posted here.
Today I used one of Stacey’s alternate suggestions to try, “I live” as a repeated phrase. Again, my results came out kind of corny. I always feel when I try to rhyme that it sounds corny and forced. I’m sharing anyway.
New Iberia, Louisiana April 6, 2025
I live where heat and humidity full bloom around noon.
I live under a canopy of cypress trees with knees that will full stop a mower’s blade.
I live near bayou brown watching for wood ducks coming round.
I live with spiders, roaches, mosquitoes, and gnats. I’ve learned to let-them-be or smash-them-flat.
I live among neighbors who know me, who offer mint leaves for tea.
I live in a red state with hearts of blue. What about you?
I dropped the ball yesterday with my Inklings writing group. I had given the monthly challenge and forgot about it. Today I am trying to make up for it by combining the Ethical ELA prompt from Bryan Ripley Crandall to write about scars with the form. Shadorma poems have a syllable count of 3, 5, 3, 3, 7, 5.
Virus
weary soul invisible scars tenderly heal in time slowly becoming new skin touched by cleansing light Margaret Simon, draft
This month, National Poetry Month, I am writing poems prompted by #Verselove at Ethical ELA. Today’s prompt was written by Dave Wooly. He asked us to write a short poem about being a traveller. He has a wonderful mentor poem about Scotland (my dream vacation) and his son. Read it and other responses here.
My sleep has been fitful this week as my body recovers from Covid. I’ve been trying hard during the waking times to think of pleasant, happy times to lull myself back to sleep. Dave’s prompt and the pen I was writing with helped me create this small poem this morning.
Make it Happy
In the early morning when the sun has yet to rise, my mind wanders to where my body wishes to be–
I kick off the blankets pinning me in, kick out to break free
to jump onto a zip line over the rainforest of Costa Rica, to sip the cool mountain air of the North Pacific, to rock on a boat, untethered, drinking in the spray of Niagara Falls.
This week my collaborative book with historian Phebe Hayes was released, Were you There? A Biography of Emma Wakefield Paillet. We tell the story of the first African American woman to get a medical degree in the state of Louisiana. She was from my home town, New Iberia, LA. I wrote poems in Emma’s voice. This book has been in the works since 2018, a long labor of love. My friend and fellow Inkling, Linda Mitchell, wrote the educational guide. Were You There? is available through UL Press.
Ruth had a suggestion for this first Thursday that ties to the season of Lent: write a Psalm of Lament. I have been laid up with Covid all week. It’s not a severe case, but it’s lingering and frustrating me with headaches and a lack of energy. I got outside for a walk this morning, and that has helped my disposition greatly. On my walk, my priest (who happens to live in my neighborhood) stopped her car and asked, “Are you off of school today?”
We talked, and she advised me to lean into this quiet time. To let God work in God’s time. Of course, that is good advice, but it’s not what I wanted to hear when I just want to be over it already. I pulled out a copy of the New Zealand Prayer Book and started to read the Psalms.
From the New Zealand Prayer Book
As I read, I realized the psalmists were just regular people living their regular lives and wanting more, wishing for God to redeem them, make their suffering worthwhile. When we read these old texts, we feel ourselves in those moments of stress, worry, ill health, and mourning. It’s a universal experience, lament.
Like my cats mew waiting for my footsteps, waiting for me to greet them, so do I long for you, God.
My illness clouds my thoughts, so I reach for your presence. I cry, “Where now is my God?”
I wait in hope as a desert rose thirsts for clean water. I open my ears to hear
the roar of wind breaking branches calling through tones of a wind chime in the tree.
I am the one whose branches are broken who sings a mournful tune.
You, O God, are my strength. You save me from the destructive wind. You hand me a cup of hot tea, a spoon of honey, sweet taste of life.
Why do I mourn when I have such gifts?
Wait, you say, wait in hope. Sit in stillness for You are here with me.
Mural in process at The Southern Linen Company, New Iberia, Louisiana
I was running late for a lunch date with friends, but I had to stop. The artists, Hannah Gumbo and Terez Molitor, were hard at work painting this bright and cheerful mural. A little while later, they stopped for lunch at the same cafe. I was able to get their names and thank them for their tireless work on the mural. They both lit up. Creating this art brought them joy. And now it will bring joy to passers-by. Public art is for everyone!
Can you write a small poem inspired by this photo? Join us in the comments. After you write, be sure to stop back by to leave some comment love on other writers’ poems. Together we are creating art with words.
At Ethical ELA Verselove, Leilya inspires us to write a tricube poem. This form is 3 stanzas of 3 lines with 3 syllables each.
Mural Art
In spring, red dances with yellow light.
Buds become butterfly, bee feeders.
Painted walls fill my heart with delight. Margaret Simon, draft
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She teaches gifted elementary students, writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 