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Archive for the ‘being mamére’ Category

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

Have you seen Matilda, the Musical? I’ll take any excuse to see a musical. Our local performing arts league, IPAL, does a musical every summer with kids under the age of 18. I am always impressed with the skills of these young people and their directors. Matilda was no exception.

Last summer I took Leo to Beauty and the Beast. We weren’t sure how he would like it, but he sat in his seat mesmerized for the whole play. We took a picture with Gaston.

Leo, age 5, with Gaston from Beauty and the Beast (IPAL, 2024)

This year Leo is 6, which means he’s all grown up and knows about musicals.

Sister Stella is four. So it was a long shot to try to take her to the show. My daughter decided to go with us because two kids are harder than one.

Stella was not as mesmerized as Leo. She asked a lot of questions.

“Why is Miss Trunchbull a boy?!”

I explained the beauty of theater is that boys can be girls and girls can be boys.

Stella also had a little trouble suspending belief.

“Her father is so mean!”

“He’s just pretending, remember?”

Leo and Stella both enjoyed the time called “Intermission” when they could get treats.

While Stella lost her patience about a half hour before the play was over, “Is it over yet?”, she can’t wait to go to another musical.

Stella with Miss (or Mr?) Trunchbull.
Intermission snacks!

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Baby Sam’s footprints
Baby Sam’s fingers holding Mamére’s finger.

This week’s photos may be a bit selfish on my part. I hope you can find a way into writing from your own life. Leave a poem in the comments and respond to other writers.

Two weeks ago my youngest daughter gave birth to my youngest grandchild, Sam. He is absolutely perfect. I marveled at him for days. All his tiny parts, especially his long fingers and his tiny toes. Two of his toes are webbed.

I can’t really write anything that isn’t sappy, but never mind, just dig right in to it. Grandmothers are made to be sappy.

Perfection Is

Ten fingers
ten toes
that treasure your gentle touch.

Fingernails
tiny and sharp—
His simple signature.

Two hands
two feet
fill a heart with love.

Margaret Simon, draft

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Sam William

Twelve days ago, this beautiful boy came into my world. Wrapped in the stitches I crocheted for him, he sleeps. While he sleeps, I breathe his newness and want to hold onto that feeling that all is well with the world.

Six days ago my mother, Sam’s great grandmother, died. She slipped out of this world that had been her home into a new one, where we will all be someday. I like to think it’s a better place, a warm welcoming embrace.

I got a phone call message from my aunt, Alabel. She was once married to my mother’s brother, and she has remained a part of our family. Her message said, “I have been so privileged to be a part of your family. I’m glad your mother is now free and happy and seeing Johnny (my father)…I hear you have a new grandchild. That’s how it works, the saints are leaving and the saints are coming.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

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

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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.

I am spending some time in New Orleans with my daughters and grandchildren. Soon a new grandson will be here. But in the meantime, I took a walk in the neighborhood. A city walk is different from my small hometown walk, so I took some pictures to set the scene. (Don’t forget to add 80+ temps and 60% humidity to your imagination.)

We took grandson Thomas to City Park and walked around the gardens.

Thomas, 5, looks for turtles in the pond.
Turtles, turtles…all around…
City Park stone bridge

My One Little Word for 2025 is Still. Even in the midst of city traffic and busyness, a moment of stillness can be found.

City Park Haiku

Turtles sun-basking
While heat rises from old stone
Bridges to stillness


Margaret Simon, draft

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Poetry Friday is hosted today by Karen Edmisten.

I am finishing up a week of babysitting for two of my grandchildren this week. One of them, June, I kept during the day because daycare was closed. The other, Thomas, I kept after his day camp because his mother had a work trip.

This morning when I was dropping Thomas off for the last time, we had a talk about missing people we love. He started the conversation with “I miss my dad,” which could be viewed as a manipulative ploy for attention, but I didn’t take the bait. I said how much I would be missing him when I go back home.

He said, “Do you miss Papére?”

“Of course, I do. I miss Papére and Albért when I’m here with you, but I miss you and June when I’m home.”

Loving means you’re always missing someone. A conversation with a 5 year old brought me to tears.

This month I have been writing a poem each day using Georgia Heard’s May calendar. The prompt for today was “your favorite kind of silence.” The shadorma form fit nicely with the syllable count of 3, 5, 3, 3, 7, 5.

My Favorite Kind of Silence

Silence comes
after summer rain
before birds
recall sun
after a sung lullaby
a sleepy child’s sigh

Margaret Simon, draft

A rainy morning with Thomas

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