Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Watching. Noticing. Listening. There’s more time for being more aware these days. More aware of the nuances of nature.

Welcome to another This Photo wants to be a Poem episode. Observe. Notice. Research, if you will. Then write about 15 words or so as a snippet of a poem. Leave comments on other poems.

My neighbor has been posting pictures of her century plant almost daily for the last few weeks. I’d never heard of one before, but a century plant blooms once in its lifetime. And hers is about to bloom. Patience is keeping us waiting.

Century plant with moon, photo by Anne Darrah

I commented on one of her photos that this plant needed to be a poem. I can spend (waste) a lot of time down a research rabbit hole. Here are some quick bullets copied from Google about this plant.

  • Although it is called the century plant, Agave Americana typically lives only 10 to 30 years. It has a spread around 6–10 ft (1.8–3.0 m) with gray-green leaves of 3–5 ft (0.9–1.5 m) long, each with a prickly margin and a heavy spike at the tip that can pierce deeply.
  • Although century plants are quite long-lived — though not nearly as long as their name would suggest — they die right after flowering. As soon as flowers set seed and drop, the plant withers and dies.
  • The plant is called the “century plant” because of this “once a century” bloom (actually the plant lives an average of 25 years).
  • Agave plants are easy to grow, but they do have a few “needs” to thrive. They need at least 6 hours of direct sun and well-drained soils. Planting in well-drained soil is particularly important in preventing root rot, especially in North Florida where cooler winter temperatures may add stress to your plant.
  • The massive flower clusters (1-8 m long) are borne at the top of a very robust flowering stem.
Century plant taken 4/14/20 by Anne Darrah
Century plant full view, photo by Anne Darrah

Once in a Lifetime

Stairway to heaven,
one step at a time,
blossoms in the sky!

Margaret Simon, draft

Read Full Post »

Today is my prompt day at Ethical ELA. Please stop by and write an analogy acrostic.

On Sunday, Stefani Boutelier prompted on Ethical ELA a “Where I’m From” poem like the ever popular George Ella Lyon poem. I’ve done this exercise many times over the years and have never been happy with my results. The poem seems over-sentimental. I went ahead and tried again. This time, I’m happier with the poem and even shared it aloud with my sister, brother, and our parents on Easter morning over our FaceTime.

Photo by Steve Johnson from Pexels

Where I’m From

I am from piano keys and pot roast,
From Charles’ Chips in a can.
I am from the pine forests of Mississippi,
Beechcrest Drive and Purple Creek,
pink azaleas line the red brick house
while a concrete “waterfall” waits
at the edge of the woods.

I am from writing notes,
tucking them into your locker
between classes.
From shade of a sycamore–
broad-leafed Daddy’s pride.

I’m from singing carols around the grand,
a gallery of books climbing high as the ceiling.
From Liles and Gibson trees,
arms of Margaret and Eugene.

I’m from church on Sundays.
From hurricanes and a Pearl River flood.
From pot-liquor
with turnip greens, black-eyed peas, and cornbread.

I’m from war stories, Anglican prayers, and theology
over the dinner table set with woven mats,
pottery, and cotton napkins.

I’m from home movies, reel to reel,
stored in tins
that playback Love within.

(c) Margaret Simon

Read Full Post »


Traditions can be a comfort when life is not as it should be. The tradition of a Kidlit Progressive Poem started in 2012 by Irene Latham. Last year sometime she decided to pass it on. I said yes to coordinating this year, and so far, it’s been an easy job. The Progressive Poem is such a well-oiled machine that it just works. Each poet takes their turn. I haven’t had to remind anyone…yet.

This year Donna Smith started us off with a choose-your-own-adventure style by giving a choice of two lines. Subsequently, each poet has done the same. Choose a line. Compose two lines. Move on.

The first stanza wasn’t following a strict rhyme scheme. However, stanzas 2 and 3 unfolded in rhyming couplets.

Leave it to Kat Apel to stir things up a bit. From across the globe in Australia, she introduced some suspense. I’m good with that, but the two end words were snaps and glimpse. Try a search for rhymes, and you get impossible words like claps and wimps. When I left a comment for “katswhiskers”, she responded, “I confess, I wasn’t thinking ahead to any rhymes when I wrote my line. But now that you say that… I think a disruption of flow (and rhyme) is a good thing in a turning point. #permissiontobreakrules”

Sweet violets shimmy, daffodils sway
along the wiregrass path to the lake.
I carry a rucksack of tasty cakes
and a banjo passed down from my gram.

I follow the tracks of deer and raccoon
and echo the call of a wandering loon.
A whispering breeze joins in our song,
and night melts into a rose gold dawn.

Deep into nature’s embrace, I fold.
Promise of spring helps shake the cold.
Hints of sun lightly dapple the trees,
calling out the sleepy bees.

Leaf-litter crackles…I pause. Twig snaps.

As I pass this pleasant romp to the lake on to Leigh Anne, I decided to go the way of near rhyme. Will our hero fall? Or will they handle the pressure with mindfulness? You choose…

Option 1: I stumble, reach out… there’s nothing to grasp.

Option 2: I gasp! Shudder! Breathe out. Relax…

You can follow the Progressive Poem using the links on my sidebar. Thanks for stopping by.

Read Full Post »


I’ve been following Laura Shovan’s #WaterPoemProject. Margarita Engle, one of my favorite poets for children, prompted us to write an ode to a body of water. I write over and over about my bayou. Ha! I even call it my bayou. Living near water brings me joy and solace.

This ode comes directly from our experience of canoeing on the evening of Good Friday, without the annoying gnats.

Ode to the Bayou

Even as a water snake winds its way
around concrete rick-rack, haphazardly placed
for a bulkhead, I will wander

through your neighborhood of cypress trees
dodging knees, paddling a path of no destination.

Perhaps we’ll head toward the bridge,
stop to gather blackberries or chat
with neighbors about wood duck eggs
and such.

Even as you stretch out like a snake
for miles ahead, I will wander,
wishing for longer days,
photograph your evening haze,
and end my voyage with
this praise. 

© Margaret Simon, April 11, 2020

Bayou Teche sunset Good Friday, 2020

Read Full Post »

This week as we continue to shelter at home, I’m encouraged by the families with young children spending quality time together. My neighbors have three boys (God bless them), and they live with her parents, so their house is full. I watch through my kitchen window each night as they emerge for their evening activities of bike riding, skateboarding, and chalk drawing.

When I saw Jen’s photo of her youngest covered in chalk, I asked permission to use it here. To me, it was begging to be a poem. This low stakes writing invites you to quick-write a poem of 15 words or fewer to capture your impression of the image. Leave your poem in the comments and try to come back to comment on other poems.

Chalking fun by Jen Reynolds

Chalk-a-bration*

Barefoot is best
when creating
a sidewalk
masterpiece.

Margaret Simon, draft
*This term was started by Betsy Hubbard of the Two Writing Teachers

Read Full Post »

I have been following #verselove on Ethical ELA. On Tuesday, teacher-poet Gayle Sands posted a selection of photographs to use for prompts for ekphrasis, poetry about art. I love how looking at art or photography can lead you to a poem, and many times to something unexpected.

Linda Mitchell and I are writing partners in a Sunday night critique group. After I wrote my poem to an image of Alice Paul, I found her poem, a golden shovel about the same photo. I asked Linda’s permission to post her poem along with mine. I think it shows how poets can take a different perspective.

The photo reminded me of my great grandmother who died just shy of her 100th birthday. While mine was more descriptive of the photo, Linda included historical information about Alice Paul and the Sewall-Belmont House.

I always feel the movement is a sort of mosaic.

   ~Alice Paul  to Woodrow Wilson May 2019

The gentlemen from Illinois and Texas, I
am certain, have lost their minds. Women have always
made way for men. It’s 1968. We feel
strength in Sewall-Belmont House since 1929. The
National Women’s Party movement
headquarters is a landmark, it is
not simply ground to lay gravel for a
new Senate driveway on Capitol Hill. What sort
of message does that send to the daughters of
our work? It would destroy the heart of our mosaic

© Linda Mitchell

4/7/20 #verselove

“There will never be a new world order until women are a part of it.”
Alice Paul (1885-1977)

 Alice Paul at Belmont House, 1972.

Alice Paul

Small but fierce
they’d say
about this woman
who wouldn’t be dared.
Hands on hips, head held
high as a carved marble statue
on a pedestal.

Like my great grandmother,
Alice Paul stood in white eyelet
eyes set straight, focused
on the photographer’s lens
like a beam of light daring
him to say,
“Smile!”

Margaret Simon, draft 2020

Read Full Post »

Today’s poem is a response to this week’s prompt from Today’s Little Ditty. “For this week’s challenge, I’ve selected “These Are the Hands” (Chapter 39) from Part 3 of My Shouting, Shattered, Whispering Voice. It’s a prompt about empathy— something we so desperately need more of in today’s world. The prompt was inspired by a poem by Gabriella Gutiérrez y Muhs, titled These are the hands that could sand a wooden bench.

Palm Sunday

These hands
weeding, discovered palms,
and wondered…
Will these old palms
make supple crosses?

These hands
cut long strips
of granite green.
A mind-memory of angle to knot,
thread through, criss-cross.

These hands
delivered simple gifts
to lonely, sheltered neighbors,
a churchless congregation
praying together. 

@Margaret Simon, draft

Read Full Post »


For National Poetry Month, I am trying to write a poem each day following whatever muse I can find. Yesterday I tuned in to #verselove on Ethical ELA. Glenda Funk offered a prompt for writing an etheree. I’ve been seeing this form around the Kidlitosphere, so I wanted to try it out. It’s a 10-line form using syllable counts from 1-10.

When I was writing, I looked down to see the bracelet I was wearing. Last summer we cleaned out my parents’ home when they moved to a retirement home. We found all kinds of treasures. One was a box of jewelry from my godmother whom I didn’t know well. She died years ago. My parents had inherited some of her treasures.

In the box was a broken necklace of amber beads. My sister-in-law is talented at making bracelets. She took the beads and other beads from a necklace of my mother’s to create a new bracelet for me. And now I muse over it.

Etheree by Margaret Simon

Read Full Post »

Poetry Friday round-up is with Heidi at My Juicy Little Universe.

For this first Friday of the month, my Sunday Poetry Swagger group writes together to a shared prompt. This month Linda Mitchell suggested the Poets.org #ShelterinPoems project. I decided to do an “after” poem from poet Barbara Crooker’s April poem that she posted on her Facebook page. I love Barbara’s writing, how it flows beautifully line to line.

BIG LOVE
I’d been traveling and missed this spring’s shy
unfolding. So when I returned, it was as if
a magician had walked around the yard
with a glossy black wand: Pow! Lilacs,
purple, white, wine-colored; scent to rock you
back on your heels. Bam! Dogwoods,
a cotillion of butterflies on bare black branches.
Shazam! Peonies exploding, great bombshells
of fragrance and silk. Tada! A rainbow row
of irises, blossoms shooting from green stalks.
Azaleas! Rhododendrons!. Everywhere I look,
the yard is ready to send its bombs bursting in air.
So push down the plunger! Let every twig and stem
erupt into flowers. Soon, it will be June, and all
of this opulence will be spent confetti littering
the lawn. I’m standing here, slack-jawed
and gob-smacked, shell-shocked into love.
Out by the bird bath, one by one, the poppies
slip their green pods, slowly detonate
into silent flame.
~Barbara Crooker

Bayou Sunset (photo by Margaret Simon)

Backyard Spring

I’ve been sheltering and missed this spring’s green
beginning. So when I walked out, it was as if
Jack had been by with his magical beans: Bada-bing! Cypress
needles feathered like peacocks showing wings; emerald
out of the blue. Bravo! Clover, a-dime-a-dozen flaunting
purple lily-like miniatures. Good heavens! The wisteria vine
drapes around, around. Everywhere I look,
the yard is ready to dance the day away.
So grab your partner! Take a two-step (six feet apart)
and let the green lawn party commence. I’ll invite
the wood ducks, squirrels, and herons. Set up
swing-back camp chairs. Out by the bayou, we’ll watch
the sunset draw orange curtains
into silent flame.

Margaret Simon, after Barbara Crooker
Clover on the lawn (photo by Margaret Simon)

Swagger Group #ShelterinPoems

Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise
Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
Molly Hogan at Nix the Comfort Zone
Catherine Flynn at Reading to the Core

Check in on the Progressive Poem with Jone today.
Poem read aloud on the bayou with ideas for writing your own poem.

Read Full Post »

I have a confession to make. I forgot to post this today. When I started this weekly prompt, I decided to do it on Thursdays because that’s the day Laura Purdie Salas would post her 15 Words or Less prompt. Thursdays felt right.

In this time of every-day-is-just-like-the-last, I forgot it was Thursday. The good news is my caterpillar has started to pupate. This monarch caterpillar was hanging on to a milkweed plant I bought last weekend. When I found the little thing, I put the whole plant into the butterfly net. Yesterday I couldn’t find the caterpillar. I looked and looked and finally saw that it was curled up under a leaf.

Please write a small poem (15 words or so) in the comments. Support other writers by commenting on their poems. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a definite kinship with this caterpillar.

Curled up
in the blanket
of your love,
I will emerge
renewed.

Margaret Simon, draft

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »