Moonflower in the butterfly garden, by Margaret Simon
In May, my student Avalyn took on a project to create a butterfly garden at her school. When I returned to school this week, she couldn’t wait to show me how the garden was doing. It was full of flowers. The largest was this moon flower. My friend Mary had donated a small plant in the spring and now it is huge! Yesterday we found a fat green caterpillar on it and researched. The caterpillar is a tobacco hornworm and will become a moth. We also found gulf fritillary caterpillars on the passion vine. They’ve eaten it all. I have a passion vine in my own butterfly garden that hasn’t been touched. I will bring some cuttings to help these little prickly cats along. Raising butterflies is a Joy!
Today write your own poem in any form about the moon, this flower, garden pests, butterflies, etc.
Tobacco Hornworm Nonet
Moon flower night bloomer bright white fragrance among the children feeds tobacco hornworm. Watch how he chomps on the leaves; Aggressive eater, camouflaged soon will burrow to emerge as moth.
I chose to find beauty every day in the month of September. It’s everywhere, if you look. I’m sharing my photos with #septemberbeauty on Instagram. The photo I chose for today came in a text from my daughter who is overseeing a photo shoot in Florida for her ad agency. She was scheduled to go when Hurricane Idalia arrived.
I am lucky that my three daughters communicate almost daily in a group text with me. They send videos and photos and general check-ins. Last night Martha sent a photo of baby June at 8 months gnawing on a piece of pork. They are in the stage of trying out different foods with her. We all enjoyed the funny image.
Katherine sent a beach sunset photo with the message, “My evening.” We know she is working, so the image is not quite as stress-free as it looks, but I found it beautiful and hopeful.
South Walton Beach, Florida by Katherine Simon
I sit beside you feel your pain; smooth ruffled fur. Loving to the end.
Margaret Simon, haiku draft
I didn’t mean to place my sadness here, but poetry is like that. It pulls it out of your soul. My dog of 16 years is dying. I’m struggling to let him go.
Please write a small poem of your own in the comments. Encourage other writers with your comments.
Creative endeavors are returning to me. It feels good and right. I recently read the poems in The New Yorker of August 28, 2023. The poem What’s Poetry Like? by Bianca Stone was popping out to me as a perfect erasure poem. I enjoy whittling down to essential words. I found another poem here with a slightly different meaning than hers. I hope she is the type of poet who knows the highest form of flattery is imitation.
Poetry
Poets play love essential moment, shared written
resuscitate wildlife disappearing ourselves
Poetry finds deficient words, immortal hunt
you’re trying to get back bittersweet tongue, all the emoting, all the surrender
reckless insight, hidden wisdom slips into truth
the form itself words that sing yet-
unspoken things wafting waiting to be opened.
Margaret Simon, erasure poem from What’s Poetry Like? by Bianca Stone The New Yorker, August 28, 2023
The Poetry Friday round-up today is with Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm.
Patricia sent the Spiritual Journey bloggers (all are welcome) her topic for September: “Life at the speed of grace.” This topic is fitting for me as I have been forced to slow down to a full stop because of illness. I have moved beyond why and into acceptance. Each day in September I am posting a photo on Instagram of #Septemberbeauty.
I’ve never thought of September as a beautiful month. It’s still hot. The school year is usually moving along quickly after Labor Day. But when I stop, when I look, notice nature and my immediate surroundings, I can see beauty.
Hummingbirds come in September. Since I’m home, I can sit for a while and watch them frolic. Yesterday, the male and female at my feeder mated right before my eyes. It was like a hummingbird tornado, how they twirled in a fury dance. Then flew off in separate ways.
Patricia wrote a small poem here. I’m borrowing a line to do a quick write of my own.
Grace is Here
Grace abides here– a hummingbird mating dance a flutter of evening owl.
Grace fills me– supermarket flowers a friend tells a story.
Grace heals me– words in a poetic card light from the window.
Today is the first day of September and it comes with a full Blue Moon and slightly cooler temperatures pointing the way to fall. Ah, me! I breathe in deeply and sigh.
August has been a dark month for me, and I am just beginning to emerge from the cocoon of illness. When I asked the Inklings to study and use the tool of enjambment in a poem, I had no idea how my whole life would be enjambed. My hysterectomy in June had the worst possible complication, an opened and infected incision. I had a second surgery on Friday, August 18th. I was in the hospital for 5 days and in bed at home for 10 days following. As I begin to feel better and the cloud is lifting, I am cautiously optimistic that I am healing.
For the enjambment challenge, I offered my friends a model poem from former Louisiana poet laureate Jack Bedell.
Ghost Forest —Manchac, after Frank Relle’s photograph, “Alhambra”
1.
Backlit by city and refinery’s glow these cypress bones shimmer
on the still lake’s surface. It’s easy to see a storm’s
coming with the sky rolling gray overhead and the water
glass-calm. Even easier to know these trees have weathered
some rough winds, their branches here and there, pointing this
One early morning this week, I sat outside (at the urging of a close friend) and watched the bayou. This small draft of a poem came to me. I offer it here because it’s the only thing I have and doing this makes me feel normal again. Thanks to all of you who have expressed concern and sent cards and messages.
Is it the play of light on the surface or air bubbles moving over glass-calm
water I watch still, quiet bayou breathe, like me, slow and deliberate taking in life- giving oxygen.
We are trying to survive, bayou and I, trying to make this day meaningful all the while knowing breath is all that matters.
Margaret Simon, draft
Bayou Teche Sunset, by Margaret Simon
To see how other Inklings used enjambment, check out their posts.
I hope this post finds you happy and healthy and enjoying the last dog days of summer. My friend, fellow teacher-poet Molly Hogan has been getting outside and taking amazing photos in nature. I borrowed this photo from her Facebook page. She identified the flower as phlox. The water droplets transform this image into something new entirely. I’ve been watching a great white egret appear on the bayou each day, so my haiku turns the image to the egret. Use your imagination and write a small poem in the comments. Be sure to read others and encourage with your responses.
Deep down south we have many varieties of dragonflies. I love to watch them. They fascinate me and take me away from worry to a place of gratitude. Who doesn’t love a good Google search for meaning?
“Dragonfly’s can be a symbol of self that comes with maturity. They can symbolize going past self-created illusions that limit our growth and ability to change. The Dragonfly has been a symbol of happiness, new beginnings and change for many centuries. The Dragonfly means hope, change, and love.” https://dragonflytransitions.com/why-the-dragonfly
That first sentence grabbed me “self that comes with maturity” because this is the week of my birthday. I will be 62. If there is an age of maturity, I’d go with anything past 50, but now that I’m in my 60’s, stuff keeps happening that requires me to be mature, to change the things I can, and accept the things I cannot change.
Consider writing with us today. You can choose one of the many things that a dragonfly symbolizes or write whatever comes. This is a safe place to explore. Perhaps time yourself for 7-10 minutes. Turn off the critic and let the words flow. Leave encouraging comments for other writers.
Dragonfly dazzles a dry branch, revealing self-purity
Welcome to this free writing space. If you are moved to write a small poem, leave it in the comments. Support other writers with encouragement.
I made my first cup of coffee and added salt instead of sugar. I hope that doesn’t indicate the kind of day I will have. Some of our actions, thoughts, words do have a ripple effect. Ripples are on my mind today. I chose a photo from Mary Lee Hahn’s Instagram post from Dawes Arboretum in Newark, OH.
Dawes Arboretum, by Mary Lee Hahn
Ripple is a specific word. I decided to write a wandering word poem. I first saw this form years ago on Today’s Little Ditty in an interview with Nikki Grimes. You begin with the word you want to write about and then wander about exploring the word and its meaning.
Ripple is an organized word without a plan. It’s a matter of science, how force interacts with movement, sand or water, our words or actions. They swell, fold, curl upon themselves, spreading infinitely into the universe. Like a tide that comes in to rest on your toes, then moves back leaving tickling sand residue. When you are the one tossing the pebble, be careful, be kind. Remember the ripple.
Inspired by Denise Krebs at “Dare to Care”, I am writing a quick post on my phone at a coffee shop near the beach. Denise’s poem begins with These hands.
Have you ever really focused on a zinnia? They are one of the few flowers that can be grown by seed and withstand high heat. My neighbor, James Edmunds, posted the above photo of a volunteer zinnia. Volunteer means it was not planted by people. It just shows up, and usually in an odd location. I found the one below growing from a crack in a sidewalk.
Zinnia in the sidewalk by Margaret Simon
Reminds me of the Leonard Cohen lyric, “There is a crack, a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in.”
I’m also drawn to the flower in a flower of a zinnia’s center. There are multiple florets. These are important to the reproduction of the flower and most likely the cause of volunteers.
Please join me today in musing on zinnias and cracks and light and anything else that is on your mind. Leave a small poem in the comments. Encourage other writers with response comments. Thanks for being here.
Patience
Focus on the crack Feel the throb of pain Plant a tiny seed
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.
