Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Weekly (almost every) on Wednesday I post a photo as a prompt for poems. I invite you to craft a small poem response and type it into the comments. Please encourage other writers with your comments. This space is meant to be a low stakes drafting space.
Somewhere on Instagram I saw a poetry prompt to begin each line with because. I decided to give it a try today.
Friendship Park, Ridgeland, MS
Tie a Blue Ribbon Round the Branch
Because she was running and lost it in the wind.
Because his eyes are still blue
Because we are walking together in silence
Because rain is falling softly
Because the moon is full tonight
Because there is a war and someone is waiting at home
Susan Thomsen posted a prompt from David Lehman to use the last line of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself as a first line to a new poem. I have my grandchildren spending the night, and we read a silly scary story called The Dark Night. I went back to a New Year’s prompt from Pádraig Ó Tuama for a pantoum about the night.
The Dark Night I stop somewhere waiting for you. Footsteps clonking on wooden stairs— Womblike whoosh of your sound machine, Your shadow shape shifts in the low light.
Footsteps tender on wooden stairs. Owl “who-cooks-for-you” wakes; its shadow shape shifts in this low light. Time stands still.
Owl hoots who-cooks-for-you as I breathe your scent before you’re here. Time stands still. Will my love be good enough?
I breathe your sleeping scent. Womblike whooshes from your sound machine. Will my loving arms be enough? I stop somewhere waiting for you.
This weekend we visited the Lauren Rogers Museum of Art in Laurel, Mississippi. There was a special show entitled “Art Evolved: Intertwined.” The exhibit featured the “convergence of quilting and basketry—two ancient, tactile traditions reimagined through contemporary fiber arts.”
This quilt was titled “Oil Spill”. My friend commented, “How can something so cheerful and vibrant be about an oil spill.”
“Oil Spill” by Michelle Lipson, quilt included in “Art Evolved: Intertwined” exhibit at Lauren Rogers Gallery of Art.
My eyes focused on the center panel with the yellow and purple “road”.
A Drop of Oil
forms a perfect circle on the sidewalk of her yellow-brick road— jazz spills out on the streets of New Orleans. Don’t forget your dancing shoes. Step lightly over the mess in the streets. Margaret Simon, draft
While I didn’t attend Mardi Gras this year, my social media is full of the images of others reveling. It is a fun time, but not without its share of mess.
Please join me in writing a draft of a small poem and share it in the comments. Support other writers with your comments. Thanks for being here.
I’ve been walking a different route recently and have seen this weird owl in the neighborhood. Let it be your muse today. In the comments, write your own small poem and encourage other writers with your comments.
Today I’ve chosen a tricube form. Three syllables each line, three lines per stanza, and three stanzas.
We haven’t had snow here in south Louisiana, but today on my walk I found a wooly glove missing its owner and these glasses that look like they were intentionally set into the oak tree root. Should I start collecting these items for the possibility of a snowman? Does the tree root have eyes to see? Some deep wisdom?
Having spent my weekend at a picture book writing retreat, everything becomes a possible idea for writing. Today, join me with your imagination and write a small poem in the comments.
I’m sharing a Zeno (8, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1 syllable count and the one syllable words rhyme) I wrote a few years ago that I’ve revised to go with this photo.
Enchanted
I follow the enchanted path leading me to unknown trails. I trust, listen as wisdom hails mirrors and sounds of charmed tales.
It is a new year, and I’ve been contemplating whether or not to keep posting photos on Wednesday. I’ve skipped a few weeks and the world keeps going. In 2026, I’ve chosen sacred simplicity as my one little word(s). What can be more simple and sacred than this pure white camellia blossom.
One of the gifts of living in the Deep South is camellias. They are in full bloom this month. People are talking about it. Was it the big freeze last year that brought on the full blooms this year? Nature knows.
If you are feeling a little lacking in the inspiration department, stop by and write a small poem.
My poem draft comes from a word card I chose from Georgia Heard’s newsletter for January, “Quiet” and uses an anaphoric word “Today.” The last line turned melancholic as I have experienced some losses this week.
Today the downy white camellia blooms quietly in the winter yard.
Today the cold spills inside touching my toes.
Today seeds are waiting. My heart is still. Every note from songbirds scratch the surface of morning dew.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
This weekend was Ethical ELA’s Open Write. On Monday, Gayle Sands led us to use the ever-faithful Where I’m From form to write about holiday traditions. This prompt took me far back into my childhood neighborhood and our Christmas traditions.
I am from the scent of Douglas fir on a frosty morning, Mom on piano playing ”Oh Holy Night” while Uncle Stu sings in perfect tenor tone.
I am from hanging long wool socks for Santa to fill with oranges, chocolates, and candy canes. I sat “Thank you” with a knowing nod to Mom.
I am from an Advent wreath of purple and pink candles we argued over whose turn it was to snuff, watching the miraculous steam rise.
I am from Aunt Alabel’s Charlotte Russe on Christmas Eve, her cheerful voice talking nonstop, whispered giggles and stolen crescent rolls.
I am from bright lights in our eyes on Christmas morning. Mom held the light bar while Dad rolled the movie camera. Our silent Oohs and Aahs as the three of us explored the land of toys. Chatty Cathy waited quietly on the couch.
I am from rising at dawn, Mannheim Steamroller on the record player, comparing gifts with the neighbors, all of us outside on new bikes, roller skates, a bouncy basketball. Middle America on Beechcrest Drive.
Finding writing inspiration in the murals of Denver, this one took me two days to write, so I am posting on Thursday (rather than Wednesday) with a note about my process. I am experiencing some frustration with writing these days.
Yesterday when I looked at this image, I wrote “Her braid/ like a river/ binding her/ to the land.” I waited to see if something more would come to me.
Today I decided to play more with syllables and consider different articles (a river or a desert?) (binds her to her land or this land?)
I typed up the post and came back to it later. Sometimes the smallest of poems pose the hardest challenge.
Her braid, blue like sky, like river in a desert binds her to this land.
Margaret Simon, draft
If you find inspiration in this image, please write a small poem in the comments. Support other writers with your responses.
After NCTE, my Inkling friend Mary Lee also stayed in Denver as a tourist. She sent me some of her photos of murals. I chose this one today to pair with Georgia Heard’s prompt “Write about a sound in nature that calms you.”
In my Wordle attempts this morning, I used the word “flame.” The line of hot pink at the bottom of this mural reminds me of the burning of cane fields that happens this time of year.
When you write today, can you find a word to use in a new way, playing with metaphor?
Morning wakes with the call of barred owls hooting up a flame of grass fire filling this day with sweet light.
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.
Morning quiet
Warm poodle on my lap
Fog on the bayou
Sleep
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 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 