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Archive for the ‘Gratitude’ Category

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

A few months ago, I wrote a post “For the trees” about a nearby empty lot that was sold, and the new owners took out a few of the trees. Well, now, they’ve completely blocked the space as they build their new house.

This weekend when we had the grandkids, I accepted an invitation from a neighbor to walk to her grove of oak trees. She lives on the highway, but as long as we stayed in the yards along the way, I felt it was safe to walk over.

Leo and Alden next to the oldest oak in New Iberia, The Sylvia Oak, named for Beanie’s aunt who once lived on the property.

Her grove became a new forest of wonder. Leo climbed and explored. Along with my neighbor’s 5 year old grandson Alden, he found an old dock with fishing nets tethered to it. The boys tossed those nets in and drug them out over and over again until Alden pointed out that the fish might be getting wise to them because the nets were moving.

Throwing seed to the ducks on the bayou.

Miss Beanie brought out some bird seed for Stella to spread along the bayou banks. A flock of ducks came by, but the boys quickly frightened them by throwing sticks into the water.

Albert (my doodle-dog) and I enjoyed watching their antics and adventures. Every once in a while, a gasp caught in my throat as I considered the dangers. Luckily all was well and they came home safely with only a little bleeding.

Beanie’s yard along the bayou holds the oldest tree in New Iberia. She told the kids it was 450 years old. She showed them how it was struck by lightning and had been held together by thick wires. Those wires have now become embedded into the tree. The kids especially liked her tale about the elephant skin of the tree. “See the elephant’s eye and its trunk?”

Tree climbing!

The new forest is a place we will visit again and again. I am grateful to Beanie for offering the space for us to explore.

Leo’s notebook writing about our adventures.

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The Earth Snake by Leo LeBlanc

Yesterday was a full day of being Mamére with Leo, 7, and Stella, 5. We went on a walk in our neighborhood. There is a vacant lot where a new house will be built soon. They had done some dirt work, so there was a mountain of dirt. In the mud, Albert, my dog, had sniffed out a small snake, thankfully dead.

Being Mamére, I allowed Leo to carry the snake home. He gave it a bath and wanted to show everyone. When I brought them home, he opened his gift from my sister-in-law who came with me specifically to see the kids open their gifts from her.

He opened a huge set of paint markers and a new art tablet and immediately drew this illustration. He also wrote this story.

Leo’s writing, age 7 (1st grade)

Of course, he made this writer grandmother proud. Today, I am pulling from his writing a small poem. The elfchen form includes 1 word topic, 2 words, what topic does, 3 words, where or how, 4 words, what do you mean, and 1 word, outcome.

Snake
Lay dead
dug from earth
a young boy’s buried
treasure

Margaret Simon, draft

Please join me today in writing a small ekphrastic poem. Have a wonderful holiday! Thanks for being a dedicated reader and writer.

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Fellow Inkling Linda Mitchell has the round up today at A Word Edgewise.

Winter Hope
Winter has come
with rain upon rain.
Mud bank creeps
as bayou sneaks
higher and higher
with each downpour.

Water, water, water
is all we hear until a cloud white
egret steps softly into view.

Look! Look!
We call the toddlers to the window.

They see with new eyes of wonder.

I see with new eyes of wonder.
See! See!

Margaret Simon, draft

Great white egret on Bayou Teche, photo by Margaret Simon

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Last week in Denver I took pictures of murals. They were everywhere. Today for this photo I chose this beauty.

Georgia Heard offers a monthly prompt calendar. Today’s prompt is to write 5 small things you are grateful for. After a very full Thanksgiving weekend, I am enjoying the silence of this cold morning.

  1. Morning quiet
  2. Warm poodle on my lap
  3. Fog on the bayou
  4. Sleep
  5. Writing

In gratitude, I offer this small poem. Please consider writing your own small poem in the comments. Encourage other writers with your responses.

In her silent reverie,
she doesn’t notice
the squirrel on the ground
lifting a tiny petal
she dropped,
joining her in gratitude.

Margaret Simon, draft

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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

Sam, 4 months.

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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.

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Linda Baie has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Teacher Dance.
Boy in a canoe watching a great white egret

Last weekend we kept two of my grandchildren overnight. It was an opportunity to get them out in the canoe on the bayou. Leo is almost 7, so Jeff decided it was time to put him in the front to paddle. He doesn’t have a powerful stroke, but he knows how to put the paddle in and push. He was also very curious and aware of the nature around us. We watched an egret fly from place to place as we got closer to it.

I’ve been listening to Maggie Smith’s Dear Writer. I need to just buy a copy because I want to reread her wisdom and model poems, but the audio has her voice which I also love on The Slowdown. She has wonderful insight into metaphor, especially extended metaphor.

I offered this poem for critique with the Inklings last weekend. I used the metaphor cypress lighthouse and one of them asked, “What is a cypress lighthouse?” I guess I wasn’t clearly using the word lighthouse as a metaphor. Maggie Smith suggests letting the title hold more weight for a poem. I’ve attempted this because I wanted to keep the lighthouse metaphor.

To the Great White Egret in a Tall Cypress Tree

The new slant of autumn sun
blooms in a cypress lighthouse.

You light up like a swamp lily, 
shining above our bayou.

How could I describe the richness 
of my life?
Watching your white wings
hold a stillness—
a moment
of daylight,
perched and ready
for what change 
may come. 

Margaret Simon, draft

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

Text from my daughter: “Family picnic at Myrtle on Oct. 3rd. Can you go?”

“Yes! I’m in.”

Mamére with Stella at the family picnic.

The family picnic coincided with the Scholastic Book Fair.

I’m usually on the other side of the book fair. Now I never did have to run it. Hats off to the school librarian. And I did not volunteer. But it was always an exciting week at school. The librarian had coffee and pastries every day. There were quiet times when I could go in, and I always bought books for my classroom or for my grandchildren. One of the things that bugged me were the toys and trinkets. I suppose these are there for kids who didn’t have enough money to buy a book, but as a teacher, I inevitably was taking away one of the treasures from distractible kids.

I set up a rule before we even walked into the book fair. Mamére doesn’t buy toys, only books.

Stella’s pre-k 4 class was the first group at the picnic. (They had a rolling schedule.) So Stella and I went through the book fair with ease. She picked out two books and a diary with keys. I decided the diary was not a toy. I want to encourage any kind of writing, even pre-k scribble and drawing. There wasn’t a huge crowd, either.

However by the time the first graders made it into the book fair, the line was a swirl and the library was full of parents, kids, teachers, and noise! Again, I didn’t mind. I enjoyed visiting with a mother in line with me. We both have Leos. Hers is Leo Fox and mine is Leo Wolf. I recalled when they were born around the same time. Her sister-in-law is a friend of mine.

Scholastic books are sneaky about the toy thing. Leo picked out a book about snakes that had a plastic snake skull with it, a book about sharks that included shark teeth, and a book about making Play-Doh sea animals that, of course, came with Play-Doh.

Stella was a little bit upset that Leo got toys. But they were excited that I checked them out of school, and we had an afternoon of playtime at Mamére’s house. I think I like this side of book fair madness.

Play-Doh fun!
Leo with penguin and shark from Play-Doh.

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Spiritual Journey First Thursday is being gathered by Leigh Anne Eck at A Day in the Life.

Leigh Anne asked us to write about family this month. Family is my priority always, but since retiring, I find myself dedicating more time to my children and grandchildren.

This week as my husband and I celebrate 43 years of marriage, I am caring for my grandchildren in New Orleans. My colleagues are going back to school and while I admit to feeling a pang of “I should be there”, I am grateful I am not. My mind and body are more relaxed, and I am able to devote energy to my family. What a blessing!

Next weekend we will all gather in Jackson, MS to celebrate my mother’s long life of 89 years. My mother, Dorothy Liles Gibson, was dedicated to family. She taught me the value of being fully present. I have selected this poem to read at her service: “Let the Last Thing Be Song.” My mother was a musician all her life. She taught piano lessons and got her masters in piano. She was a founding member of the Jackson Music Forum. She was also an active choir member at St. James Episcopal Church. I look forward to being with all of my children and grandchildren, siblings and their families, as well as friends and cousins. We will raise our voices to praise her life.

I am taking a poetry workshop with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. This week she used a model poem by Alberto Rios, “When Giving is All We Have” to talk about paradox in a poem. She gave us a prompt with a variety of anaphoric phrases. I chose prayer. “We pray because…” I’m sharing the draft of my poem.

When Prayer is all We Have 

After Alberto Rios “When Giving is All We Have”

We pray because we are lost.
We pray because we are found.

We pray because prayer changes us.
We pray because prayer changes nothing.

We hold hands to pray.
We kneel alone in the sand.

Prayers have many ways to begin:
Our Father
Dear Lord
Ah, me
I am here

Silence can be a prayer.

Prayers connect us to the dead.
We are helpless in prayer.

What I do not have, I offer to prayer—an empty voice, a sigh of desperation.
Does it matter who is listening? 

The prayer makes all the difference. 

Margaret Simon, draft

Molly Hogan has the Poetry Friday link up today at Nix the Comfort Zone.

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Poetry Friday is hosted today by Marcie Flinchum Atkins at her blog.

My mother died a few weeks ago. It was expected. She suffered for years with Alzheimer’s. My grief for her loss has happened over time. I feel relief now that she is no longer suffering. Nevertheless, we had to clean out her room at the memory care home where she’s been for two years. Many of her clothes were soiled and worn. Most of them were trashed. Some we gave away. I was grateful for my husband who was with me. He hauled the trash bags to the dumpster.

When I came upon a hanger of silk scarves, I couldn’t bear to give them away. I don’t even know why they were still there. So while Jeff was taking out the trash, I tucked them away in a box to bring home. I wore one to a funeral last weekend and felt comforted.

My mother’s silk scarves

Silk Scarves

I saved her silk scarves,
each one a bright
replica of art.
I couldn’t bear to place
such brightness
into a black trash bag.

We worked quickly
making choices to give away
or throw away. Why?
I asked myself
did these scarves call to me?

I remember when appearances
were important to my mother.
She never left the house without
coordinating clothes, make-up, jewelry.
The end erased who she had been.

Lord knows I don’t need
any more scarves. 
Tiffany stained glass (butterflies) 
will soften my neck
above the black dress.

Margaret Simon, draft

This poem was written in response to an Ethical ELA Open Write prompt found here.

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