I am happily home and cozy after being in Denver for a week of busy (NCTE) and, after Jeff came, walking. We clocked over 20,000 steps on Monday.
Today I am taking a day off before my family comes for Friday Thanksgiving. I wanted to take this opportunity to thank the poetry community, so wonderfully kind and generous. Some of you I hugged and talked to at NCTE. Others of you stop by this blog and give support through comments. Reflections on the Teche (pronounced Tesh) is my happy place because of you, my readers.
Today’s photo is a crochet-wrapped tree. I’m using a free verse form today following a prompt from Joyce Sidman after her book Dear Acorn, Love, Oak: a compliment, a question, and a wish.
A Tree that Grows in Denver Single crochet, double crochet, cluster-hills & valleys, green, pink, purple blooming round a tree that juts from concrete. Your colors give warmth when times are tough. Will you twirl with me? I hope your dancing colors fill the gloom with bright like a vine that’s lost control and only seeks the light. (Margaret Simon, draft)
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Dear Readers,
I am writing this post from a historical B&B in downtown Denver. I’m still here after a whirlwind weekend at NCTE. Have you ever gone to a conference in a new-to-you city and never had the chance to see the city?
On Sunday Jeff flew in, and I switched from conference mode to vacation mode. Yesterday we walked over 20,000 steps in Denver, an exploration that included murals, food, coffee shops, a bookstore, and a Japanese knife store. The weather was perfect for walking.
While I was attending NCTE “Dream Boldly”, I was worried that I wouldn’t find sessions that spoke to me as a retired teacher; however, I look back in my notebook and realize that I am still a Writer.
In a session with wonderful poets Georgia Heard, Joyce Sidman, and Rebecca Kai Dotlich, we were given prompts and time to write.
Joyce Sidman has an amazing new book, “Dear Acorn, Love Oak”, and she used a simple formula from her book to lead us into writing our own letter poem: Write to an inanimate object, Dear ____, including a compliment, a question, and a wish.
I loved how this prompt could work with any age group, and the participants shared some wonderful responses. Here’s mine:
Dear Black Bic Pen, Your ink is flowing nicely today, with only a few blotches here and there. Do you like writing poems, being my muse? I wonder if you’d rather be pink and scented like a rose. I wish I could write poems with you. Can you whisper a line or two? Love, Writer’s Block
Not only did NCTE fill my writer’s cup, it also filled my soul. My husband calls it “hobnobbing with my fellow wizards”. I was in the company of many wizards who, after 20 years of attending this conference, are now friends. Lots of hugs, conversations, and laughs.
Early morning is prime fishing time for egrets and herons on the bayou. It is rare that I can get a photo. I have to walk lightly and hope Albert doesn’t bark. This was a lucky shot.
I will be presenting at NCTE this week. In the roundtable presentation with Ethical ELA (3:30 on Friday, Rm. 108, 110), I will be discussing creating Zeno zines. A Zeno poem is one in which the syllable count is 8, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1. The challenge is each one syllable line rhymes.
This Photo is a place for first drafts. Please consider joining me and writing a poem draft in the comments. Support other writers with your comments.
Morning is bayou fishing time flashy bright white egret shines reminding me how love dines on memory, sacred signs. (Margaret Simon, draft)
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
The December Open Write at Ethical ELA was hosted by Mo Daley. She introduced me to a new poem form that was really fun to write, a kenning. A kenning uses two word phrases to describe someone or something. Mo asked us to think of gratitude at this time of year. Her post (with lots of fun response poems) is here.
The kenning is supposed to be a riddle, so the title should not give away the topic. But I am giving it away with the title of my post as well as a photo of the cutest baby ever. Sam’s sister has nicknamed him “Lammy” which is short for “Sammy-Lamby-Ding-Dong.”
Number 5 Caboose
He’s a toothless grinner sniff-snorter milk-spitter diaper-wetter perfume magnet pumpkin-carrot Lambi-lambi Ding-Dong cuddle-coaxing daytime napping love absorbing new cousin
A quick post this morning as I dash off to teach 5th graders at The Hilliard Museum. The museums in Lafayette are hosting 5th graders this month, and I have the privilege of doing the creative writing portion of their tour. It’s fun to be teaching again.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
This one is dedicated to my father, who would be 92 today. He died at 88 on 4/22/22. He loved double numbers. He was born on 11/11/33 before this day became Veterans Day, but he loved that his birthday became such an important holiday. He was proud to be a veteran, but more than that, he was proud of his two older brothers who fought in WWII and Vietnam. My father never had to go into war.
I imagine him today, not in the deathbed (that memory lasted too long in my brain), but as he would sit in his chair every morning and read the paper, exclaiming every few minutes or so about some injustice that he would read aloud to my mother. He loved to hate politics.
My husband Jeff is like him in this. Jeff reads news on a tablet and laughs out loud until I ask him what’s so funny. He enjoys modern day memes and comics that play on human idiosyncrasies. He also reads aloud other news that he feels may interest me. “You may be interested to know…”
I have my father with me always in his artwork. He was a black and white pointillist artist. I look at his drawings and swoon at the idea that his fingers touched each dot on the paper.
Heron, pen and ink pointillism by John Gibson.
There is a progress/pattern to grief. At first, it was soul gripping and traumatic. Now that Mom is gone, too, I feel more at peace and filled with a kind of longing for them that is nostalgic. Dad in his chair reading the news. Mom with her coffee (always black) doing a crossword.
Today on Dad’s birthday and Veterans Day, I am warm and happy that I had a loving home.
It’s the first Friday of the month and time for the Inklings Challenge. This month’s prompt is from Linda Mitchell who challenged us to respond to Ethical ELA’s September 2025 Open Write by Kelsey Bigelow: “What is the happiest thing you’ve ever tasted?”
This was a lucky break for me because I already had a draft written, so with my Inklings thoughtful comments, I revised and have a poem to offer today.
My husband was born and raised in Cajun country where they ask, “Who’s your mama? Are you catholic? And can you make a roux?”
I don’t have to learn to make a roux because when it comes time to make a gumbo, Jeff is the best! Just last weekend when the air finally turned cool enough, he made the first gumbo of the season. Around here, when the cold front comes in, the weather man announces, “It’s gumbo weather!”
For our family, Black Friday is the day for making turkey and sausage gumbo. This year we may skip the Thanksgiving and go straight to the gumbo. Making gumbo takes two days. On the first day, you make the stock and the next day combine the stock with the roux. It’s a slow process. It takes patience and dedication.
Black Friday Gumbo
The happiest thing I’ve ever tasted is your gumbo, A slow stew on Thanksgiving night in a stock pot of left-over turkey bones, the trinity of bell pepper, onions, and celery.
Scented steam perfumes the kitchen. Friday morning chill is heated by oil and flour you stir for what seems like an hour waiting for the brown of peanut butter.
Hunched and humming, listening to the game, you stand taller and hand me a spoon to taste. Our love is certain in this simple touch
of lips to wooden spoon. That first sip tingles on the back of my throat like our first kiss, longing and true.
Patricia Franz is gathering Spiritual Journey posts this week at her blog, Reverie.
When Patricia prompted us to write about doubt, a song started on repeat in my head. I sang the lyric, “drive the dark of doubt away” from “Ode to Joy.”
“Fill us with the light of day!”
If you know this hymn, I’ve now passed the earworm on to you. Sorry.
But as I contemplate doubt, I realize that it’s not dark. Without doubt, we wouldn’t have belief or clarity.
This first year of retirement has thrown a lot of doubt my way. What do I do now? Where is my purpose? What are my goals? Who am I if not a teacher?
All of these questions are necessary to get me to the next chapter of my life. They are normal and necessary.
I follow poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. She generously sends a poem each day. I used this poem to inspire my poem today.
Here I Pray
My doubt has fog in it, steam that glows on the bayou, and a sky above preparing for a new day.
There is Spanish moss here, swaying in soft breeze gathering space for doubt.
I meet myself in the mist, question her purpose, wonder where she will go now.
I am certain only of not knowing. I am comfortable in this doubt holding the gift of more time.
For now, the super moon’s hidden in the daylight. For now, our canoe reaches for the sun. For now, bayou waters are chilled by the wind.
Even now, I feel your strength in the rowing. Even now, I believe our source is love. Even now, my choice is stay.
Margaret Simon, draft
I took this photo on a recent canoe paddle on Bayou Teche. We laughed at the new sign, but a silly poem didn’t come as I wrote. In my notebook, I had written the repeated line “for now” and “even now” and wanted to play around with it a bit.
I invite you to write what comes today. Please leave a small poem in the comments and encourage others with your comments.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
When I heard from Allan Wolf by email that he had been invited to the Louisiana Book Festival, I grabbed at the chance to have him come to our Bayou Teche home.
Allan started coming to South Louisiana in 2007, performing at schools and libraries and leading teacher workshops at the Acadiana Center for the Arts. I became a fan. The first time he visited Jefferson Island and saw a chimney in the lake, he became intrigued by the disaster in Lake Peigneur of 1980.
A brief summary of that disaster: An exploratory drilling rig from Texaco accidentally punctured a salt mine and set off a harrowing series of events. The miraculous thing is all the miners, fishermen, and tug boats escaped and there was no loss of human life. The lake turned into a whirlpool and the Delcambre Canal flowed backward.
This historical disaster happened 45 years ago in my home town of New Iberia, Louisiana. Allan wrote two books based on the event, and no one in my town knew about these books. I set out to change that.
It became my mission to get him here and to organize a book talk at our local Bayou Teche Museum. With the way news media works these days, I advertised mostly by word of mouth (The “Teche Telegraph”) and by email and social media. Allan and I were hopeful that 20 people would show up, even though I ordered 50 chairs.
Allan was hoping people who had been there that fateful day (Nov. 20, 1980) would come and share their stories.
We had an overflowing crowd of 65 people. Allan paid tribute to the tug boat captain, Ores Menard (age 95), who sat on the front row with his wife and daughter. Allan had interviewed Mr. Menard for hours.
A woman walked in early and shared that she was one of two women in the mine. Allan brightened up. “I knew there had to be women in the mine. I knew about one, but I didn’t know about you!”
Allan Wolf and Myrna Romero, survivor of the 1980 Lake Peigneur disaster.
Myrna brought him her typed story and showed him the jumpsuit that she wore. Allan told her on one of his last interviews, he discovered there was a woman, so he had the artist place her into the graphic novel.
The thing about research that Allan has learned (and I have as well with my biography of Emma Wakefield Paillet) is it’s never finished. Once a story is told, it becomes a living document.
In his presentation, Allan explained that some of the characters in his book are composite characters, more than one person rolled into one. Three dogs became one. Two boats became one. However, the gist of truth is there.
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 