This summer it has rained every day here in South Louisiana. The effects of climate change are here, warmer air, warmer oceans, more water vapor=more rain. We are waterlogged. However, the plants seem to love it. The trees are greener than ever, covered in resurrection fern that only turns green when it is wet. I’ve managed a daily walk between downpours. I took this picture yesterday of the bark on one of our oak trees.
Live Oak, photo by Margaret Simon
There’s imagery here, metaphor maybe? Find your own way into a small poem and leave it in the comments. Be sure to respond to other writers with encouraging words.
This old tree frosted white with lichen brightens a trail to fairy heaven
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Covid numbers are rising in our community. It’s invaded my family. We thought we were doing everything right. We are all vaccinated. Apparently, the Delta variant doesn’t care. The good news is no one is very sick. The vaccine is doing its job. Needless to say it’s rocked my world. We thought we knew. Now we know nothing. Keep masking up, my friends. This awful ride isn’t over yet.
Trying to replace some sense of control, I planted a tree. I’ve been nurturing a red buckeye for years. My friend Jim gave me a seedling. I’ve kept it in a pot, then a bigger pot and a bigger one, but now it’s in the ground. I hope the roots are ready.
In January, my friend Marion died from an aggressive cancer. I did not get to say goodbye. Before her death, she and her daughter Robin cleaned out her yarn supply. They gifted me with two large boxes that I placed in a closet upstairs. I wasn’t ready to open them. Robin had asked that we plant a tree to memorialize Marion. When I planted the red buckeye, I thought of Marion and the yarn, so I opened one of the boxes. I found a piece of knitting and wrapped it and placed it in the hole before placing the tree. A simple gesture that I am writing about here, so I can remember.
red buckeye
Marion was a writer. We met in a writing group once a month for at least 18 years. The poem “Last Words” by Rita Dove appeared in The New Yorker shortly after her death. This poem was just what Marion would have said.
Let the end come as the best parts of living have come unsought and undeserved inconvenient
In the Open Write at Ethical ELA, Tracie McCormick prompted us to write a Golden Shovel. Here’s my Golden Shovel for Marion.
Bury the Knitting (Golden Shovel for Marion using the striking line from Rita Dove, “Let the end come as the best parts of living.”
I bury the knitting; Let dirt fall like rain on the stitches of your gentle hands. The end came too soon. I come to this tree today to pray as you did. The roots will ravel around the best parts of a daily life of love and care-filled living.
One of our teacher-writer-blogger friends Leigh Anne Eck is on vacation in Florida. Don’t you just love a vacation photo that you can sink your dreams into?
Florida sunset by Leigh Anne Eck
Treasure found in a sea shell, an open sky, a moment
with you.
Margaret Simon, draft
Take a moment to muse about this photo. Write a small poem in the comments. You may share on social media with #ThisPhoto, #poemsofpresence and #smallpoems. Be sure to leave encouraging responses to other writers.
Does anyone feel like summer is quickly going by? I did not, intentionally, make a list of goals for this summer; however, there is that running list in my head of things that are not getting done. So be it, right? Summer is for relaxing and taking each day as it comes.
When I look out of my window, I see this mandevilla vine going wild. It’s stretched beyond the reaches of the trellis. So be it… Let it go. That is what this plant teaches me. (This post is up later because I forgot it was Wednesday, another good sign of summer.)
Wandering Mandevilla vine, Photo by Margaret Simon
graphic by Carol Varsalona who is hosting the gathering of Spiritual Journey posts today.
This morning I turned the calendar to July and wondered where my summer is going. Carol invited us to write about Nurturing our Summer Souls for Spiritual Journey first Thursday. I thought I would wake up early and write, but the thing about summer is expectations fall into the sun. I woke up tired. The only thing I can figure is the water aerobics class last night has affected me in more ways than I thought possible. I have welcomed these classes, the time with friends, the cool of the water, and the invigorating feeling of exercise. But this old body is finding muscles that have been dormant. It’s a good thing, right? Remind me.
My summer soul is being nurtured by the National Writing Project’s #WriteAcrossAmerica virtual writing marathon. I’ve participated in three different stops. Each Tuesday a different project site takes on the marathon. This week I went to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a place foreign to me. The story map is full of places to explore and writing prompts to contemplate. I stopped at the Indian Village Site and followed a link to Margaret Noodin’s Ted Talk.
I’ve been fascinated by Margaret Noodin’s work since listening to Poetry Unbound from On Being. Margaret not only shares my name, but she also sings. She sings her poems in Anishinaabemowin and English. Being Episcopalian, I love a good chant and that is what Margaret Noodin delivers.
As I listened I wrote. This poem follows her words and weaves in my own words as if we became a confluence of thoughts, two rivers meeting and flowing together for a time.
Minowakiing: The Good Land
Languages teach us of place. In this Good Land, we can keep ourselves alive, hearts beating wild, transforming the world in a net, networking, working in interconnection.
I see lessons in light see a word East move into melting transitioning time to place word to word.
Listen to sounds singing of fish bobbing in the water. Let’s listen to each other. Remember we are in a good place.
Remember the bird knows, the grass knows, the old oak knows
We inherit the language of our ancestors, reminded how to find the road, the map to our own lives. Here. Together.
Summer is hot, no matter where you live, and the best way to beat the heat is to play in the water. This photo is sure to cool you off. It’s from Lisa Davis’s Instagram feed. Lisa was the site director for the National Writing Project at Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, LA. (pronounced Nak-a-dish) She is currently retired (I think) and enjoying being a grandmother. I couldn’t resist her post of her granddaughter dancing in the sprinkler.
Dancing Girl, photo by Lisa Davis
Is it possible to fall in love with a day? Joy catches me in its spray!
Margaret Simon, draft
Add your flash draft of a small poem in the comments. Return to give feedback to others who write. Thanks for stopping by!
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Every summer I look forward to Kate Messner’s Teachers Write virtual writing camp. The first week is this week. Kate invites us to go outside and reflect on a time when we felt fully whole. I went outside and ended up weeding a flower bed. It wasn’t too hot, and for a minute, it wasn’t raining. I had a “clunker” line from Linda Mitchell to work with. “August was long of light.” There was a time when we didn’t start school in August, and it felt like summer would go on and on.
Mississippi Heat Wave
August was long of light in a Mississippi heat wave that summer of ‘72. On the path to Purple Creek, my flip-flops kept the stickers away and mosquitos preferred Missy’s freckle-juice. Covered in Off and Coppertone, we’d hold hands to cross the waterfall, tip-toe trickle over a concrete slab. On the other side was an endless pine forest. We’d walk the path of dirt bikes, side-stepping ruts in the muddy red clay. Avoiding under-the-bridge where the smoking kids hung out, we’d wander to the stables, pick out a favorite horse, pretend they were ours. Endless summer days stretched out like a Gulf Coast beach burned our tender noses, streaked our blonde hair, became a backdrop to childhood memories.
Margaret Simon, draft
Pine forest in Mississippi, photo by Margaret Simon
The summer solstice makes it officially summer. What’s more summery than the ocean? Following Kim Douillard on Instagram takes me to the Pacific Ocean. She lives near San Diego, California. During the school year, she teaches third grade. Her happy place is taking photos at the beach. On her blog, Thinking through my Lens, she writes poetry, shares writing lessons, and posts amazing photographs. Last night I saw this picture which totally took me to a new place. Let’s see if we can make this photo come more alive with poetry offerings. Join me in the comments by writing your own small poem.
San Clemente, California by Kim Douillard
How to be an Ocean Wave
Rise up with grit. Roar with spirit. Open your heart and hands. Make life grand!
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Last weekend with grandkids in tow, my daughters and I traveled to Mississippi to see my parents. Mom celebrated her 85th birthday on Friday. We had an amazing dinner together, all four generations.
Pop with great grandchild, Stella, 6 months.
Over at Ethical ELA, it’s Open Write time. Denise Krebs posted a prompt that pushed me to write a poem for my father. Her poem prompt was based on Langston Hughes’s poem I Dream a World.
He Dreams a World (for my father, John Gibson)
He dreamed a world where hope would be our North Star guide, a world where we could care, embrace each other’s side.
But dreams read daily news on print as small as stars. His weathered hands held fast so futures could be ours.
Today he watches them and wonders where they’ll go, more treasures to be found and promises of hope.
Margaret Simon, after Langston Hughes
John Gibson, Pop, watches toddler artists Leo and Thomas.
Last week I took both of my grandsons to a local farm. See this post. They were cautiously curious. While we walked around, multiple young cats circled and rubbed up against us. Leo has a cat at home, but I think this was his first experience with this gentle, yet intrusive cat behavior. I found this photo in my phone and made it black and white. Don’t you love how you can do that with a slide of your finger?
Photo by Margaret Simon
I don’t want to touch you. Would you please go away? Your gentle mew invites me. Can we be friends?
Margaret Simon, draft
Write your own small poem in the comments and please come back to read and comment on other writers. Happy Summer!
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 