My classroom neighbor is connected with a door between our rooms. Often she or I will knock and visit. One of those visits I talked about my weekly blog post of a photo, and she showed me photographs from her dance troupe. I was moved by the seeming still life of a dancer in flight. Kim got permission from both the photographer, Jon Rabalais, and the dancer, Lacey LeBlanc, for me to post this photo as a poem prompt. I hope you are inspired as I was to write about this amazing photo. Thanks to Jon and Lacey for sharing it with us.
My poem is a bit of word play, changing nouns to verbs. I enjoyed creating my poem. Please leave a small poem in the comments and encourage other writers with your comments. Honor the artistry of dance and photography with words.
Looking at the calendar-chart plan for this month, I realize I haven’t written a cinquain yet. This form is a five-lined verse with a syllable count 2, 4, 6, 8, 2. Yesterday was the most perfect spring day after a raging storm the night before. The air was breezy with a touch of cool. Perfect canoeing weather, so Jeff and I seized the day and paddled for a couple hours. One of our goals for each paddle is to clean up crap junk from the bayou. Yesterday we retrieved a basketball, a soccer ball, and a few cans and water bottles, one large piece of styrofoam. A small part, but we had a good time finding and trying to retrieve it.
Notice how light dances on bayou’s belly rolls washing us with soothing hopeful Nurture
Happy Easter! I gave myself permission to not post today, to take a day off after writing 31 Slices of Life in March and 7 poems-a-day, but inspiration comes as inspiration will. On Facebook, I was tagged by a friend who knows I love birds, Louisiana wildlife, and photography. This photo by Gary Meyers is an amazing photo of roseate spoonbills in flight. I remembered that I wrote a poem once about the bird. One of the ideas Molly and I had for our poetry project was to revise an old poem, so what better exercise to do when I don’t want to write. I borrowed the photo and created a Canva to include the poem.
The Progressive Poem is with my friend, Inkling, best librarian poet I know, Linda Mitchell. Hope to this link to see her Easter bunny gift of a line.
For National Poetry Month, Molly Hogan and I committed to a flexible schedule of writing different forms of poetry, but I insisted on a weekly space for writing to a photograph. While out on my walks these days, I may open the Notes app and hit the microphone to dictate a poem. Yesterday while I walked, I contemplated the Ethical ELA prompt from Jennifer Jowett to write from an ungrammatical stance making nouns into verbs. See her prompt here. I observed the trees along my path, and spoke the words, “When I tree.” Then I saw the shadows from an overhead street light. Shadows are intriguing. I took this photo.
Shadows, by Margaret Simon
Broken Dawn
When I tree, bayou-bell’s song echoes in me. Yellow twinkle of sweet olive scents my breath. Legs ache from last night’s climb. Turn to eastern broken dawn.
Margaret Simon, draft
Please leave a small poem in the comments and respond to other writers with encouraging words. Are you poeming daily this month? Here is a safe place to play with words.
On wooded trails, under the wild strawberry a fresh fern unfurls, new leaves replace old heartshapes of gold, a forest in rebirth.
Margaret Simon, draft
Rainbow collage collection, Lake Fausse Pointe trail photo by Margaret Simon
On a recent yoga Women’s Wellness Retreat, I collected things as I walked a forest trail. The instructor suggested collecting a rainbow. My collection includes an unripe blackberry, a piece of dead wood, a fiddlehead fern, a few wildflowers and leaves. When we stopped for a short break, I arranged them into something that pleased me and took this photo. I left most of it in the forest where I found it. I kept the heart-shaped leaf, fern fiddlehead, and the purple wildflower to press and tape into my notebook. We poets are pretty good at assigning symbolism to things. If this collage arrangement speaks to you in some way, write a small poem in the comments. Be sure to support other writers with comments as well.
I am planning a National Poetry Month project, but This Photo Wants to be a Poem will continue to be part of it. Consider adding this practice to your own NPM project. Follow my blog to get updates in your inbox. If you teach, you can use this prompt with students. Please share students’ poems as well.
I will also be posting links each day to the Kidlit Progressive Poem. I’m excited for April, my favorite month of the year.
Welcome to a weekly Wednesday photo poetry prompt. If you’d like to get this in your inbox each week, please subscribe to my blog. Join in the community by writing a small poem in the comments and encouraging other writers with your comments.
Today’s photo is one I took at my daughter’s house last weekend. I had returned her two children from a morning at the museum and was getting ready to leave when I saw the shoes posing. Perhaps my daughter had placed them there, but more likely it was Stella who, at the age of two, likes a certain order to things. Her mother was like that, sorting all the cans in the cabinet by size and color at a very young age. She gets that from her father, and her father gets it from his mother. I once took a personality test that labeled me “abstract random” and my husband as “concrete sequential.”
No matter what type of order your keep or don’t, this photo is sure to charm you into writing something. At Ethical ELA this week we wrote a Pile of Good Things poem. I think I could add “Three pairs of shoes all in a row” to my pile.
Photo by Margaret Simon (permission to freely use)
These shoes have seen the hills of North Carolina and the backyards of Louisiana but they are most happy lined side by side on a bench in the home where they belong.
Delcambre (pronounced Del-comb) is about 20 minutes south of New Iberia. On Sunday evening, we attended a fundraising dinner for the seafood market. I even ate a piece of fried alligator which tasted a lot like fried chicken. We were there to support my cousin Andrew as he participates in a plein air (painting outside) competition. There will be more posts about this later.
Today I want to introduce you to Markavian. I don’t know him, and I’m not sure that’s how to spell his name, but when I took his picture, he proudly told me what his name was. He was beaming from having caught a huge catfish right off the dock. I asked permission to take his picture. There is so much that I love about this picture. His smile. The largest catfish I’ve ever seen. And how it captures the attitude of a fisherman. My husband says that our newspaper’s sports section is usually just men holding fish. It’s true fishing is a big time sport around here. Perhaps Markavian was competing with his brothers. There seemed to be a family in the background, and I caught him just as he was about to go show off his catch of the day.
Catch of the Day, photo by Margaret Simon
Yesterday was Pi Day, so my students and I wrote Pi-Ku, which is a small poem based on the number 3.14. Please leave your own small poem in the comments and encourage other writers with your responses.
Catch of the Day
Boy’s pride smile caught largest catfish
Margaret Simon, pi-ku draft
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
The neighborhood I live in used to be known as Paradise Woods. My husband tells me when he was a teenager, it was a popular spot for “parking”. When I walk, I cross over an empty lot to get to another street. Whose land is this? I often wonder. What was here before?
I’ve heard tales that this space was once a dairy farm. Cattle farming was common for early French settlers in southern Acadiana, where we live in Louisiana. Either the LaSalle family or the Daigles owned this property, likely using it as farm land. It’s all legend now. I love thinking about the history of this little walkway as it leads me under a beautiful cedar tree. Who walked this field 100 years ago? We’re all visitors for a short time. If the concrete could talk…
Where the sidewalk ends, photo by Margaret Simon
In the early morn before the sun rises before my work day begins, before the houses wake, I walk across this path more sure-footed on solid concrete– A path that leads to an old cedar tree, planted by a farmer making shade for his cattle. I speak to his ghost and thank him for his hard work, his dedication to the land, and his kindness to those who’ll pass here again
Margaret Simon, flash draft
Every week I invite you to write with me about an image. This post is also a Slice of Life post for this month’s daily challenge at Two Writing Teachers. If you stop by, leave a small poem in the comments and return the favor of reading other poem offerings and writing encouraging words. This is a safe place to write. No judgement allowed. Consider following my blog to get this weekly prompt in your inbox.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
A quick video of an egret in flight on Bayou Teche, Louisiana.
What do you do with a perfect day? The temperature was just right, 70 degrees. Not a cloud in the sky. Humidity low. Sunday is our day to catch up and get ready for the work week. We go to church and come home to our individual chores: cat litter, trash cans, lesson plans, laundry, grocery…and I had writing group. “You think we can squeeze in some paddle time?”
I decided that there were a few things I could put off like vacuuming, so I said a resounding, “Yes!” Perfect days are rare, so I feel we must embrace while we can. So we made a date for 4:00 PM. Jeff hosed out the canoe (ants), I grabbed the paddles, and off we went.
Heading directly into the sunset, the colors change. The old leaves on the oaks are a dark green while the new pollen fuzzies are a golden yellow. People complain about this popping of the pollen. It aggravates allergies and covers cars in a fine sprinkle of golden dust. All part of the healthy life cycle of a great live oak tree.
Pollen on the Grandmother Oak
Some, not all, of the cypress trees are showing new growth. These tiny needles are the brightest neons of green. The truest sign of spring.
cypress needles against blue sky
As we paddled home, Jeff noticed a plastic chair wedged in some tree roots across the bayou. He said, “I think that’s our lost chair.” A few storms ago, the water had risen and taken with it a plastic chair from our yard. Sure enough it was ours. Jeff managed to back the canoe next to it and grab it with his paddle. The chair was a little muddy but still in tact. I had to take a selfie to get a photo of it, so the angle and perspective are odd, but you get the idea.
Jeff rescued our long lost backyard chair.
We were home before the sun set and were treated to the appearance of a great white egret. Grace from God to praise this perfect day. Click on the video above to see this majestic bird in flight.
I have been off this week and joyfully participating in two writing challenges. I truly wish I could do this every day. Writing to prompts makes my creative juices flow. If I write a poem each day, I feel a certain satisfaction that I’ve accomplished something.
This week the Poetry Sisters challenge was to write an ekphrastic poem, which is a poem written to art. Their theme this year is transformation. In the February Project with Laura Shovan, Molly Hogan used photographs of abandoned buildings to prompt us to think about their story. I went to a mysterious place with this image.
Photo by Molly Hogan
I’ve always enjoyed writing about a mystery. In high school, I had a short story published in the school’s literary journal about a portrait in an abandoned house that ended with a question, a mystery. Many in the Facebook group wanted to know more. Mystery is like that. We want to know. I recently heard on a podcast “surrender to the mystery.” I believe that we don’t know all the answers, and we are not supposed to. So let this poem sit with you in all its unknown.
Shattered
She left the curtains hanging, the window open, the cat in the yard. She left when the air was warm and damp fearing her shame would shatter her dream.
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 