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
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
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
image created by Carol Varsalona Read more Spiritual Journey posts at Donna’ Blog, Mainly Write.
Fear is the opposite of Love, so how do we live through this fearful time with Love?
I read an article from Time magazine that helped. The Bible does not turn away from fear. God’s word embraces the fear in us and replaces it with love. N.T. Wright says that we should turn to Psalms. Within the Psalms, God grieves with us. The psalmist draws us into the lament so that we are comforted by the connection, person to person.
The point of lament, woven thus into the fabric of the biblical tradition, is not just that it’s an outlet for our frustration, sorrow, loneliness and sheer inability to understand what is happening or why. The mystery of the biblical story is that God also laments.
N.T.Wright
I turned to Psalm 22 which typically we read on Maundy Thursday as the altar is stripped. As a congregation, we won’t be reading together this year. Yet, the lament is more real now than ever before.
The poetry prompt from Ethical ELA by Glenda Funk is to write a Blitz poem. I felt this form would work for a psalm-like poem based on Psalm 22.
Forsake me Forsake my words My words roar My words cry Cry in the day Cry at night Night is holy Night I trust Trust our God Trust deliverance Deliverance from evil Deliverance from scorn Scorned people Scorned me I am a worm I am a child A child in my mother’s womb A child on my mother’s breast My mother’s breast comforts My mother’s breast gives hope Hope is a garment Hope is far from me Far as a raging lion Far as help Help my soul Help my darling My darling hears me My darling calls my name My name praises My name vows Vows of worship Vows of my heart My heart loves My heart seeks Seeks food Seeks a seed A seed serves A seed is planted Planted in the soil Planted in praise Praise for a kingdom come Praise for a will be done Done to us Done for us We see salvation We declare righteousness Righteousness of God’s world Righteousness to those born Born of God’s hands Righteous to live and love
Welcome April! My favorite month of the year when skies are blue, flowers are blooming, and poetry abounds!
I am committing myself to writing a poem a day this month, but I am not committing to a prompt. I will get inspiration from where ever the muse takes me. Last night as I was settling down for the night, I found NaPoWriMo. The early bird prompt posted on March 31st was to write about your favorite bird.
Here is my first draft:
A Prayer
Everyone was supposed to pray with the pope tonight, but I got struck silent while watching a hummingbird at the feeder hovering as on angel wings disappearing into the green like a spirit.
Where does our spirit go when we die? Does it hover like the hummer watching and waiting for the lift off?
I wonder if the pope even knows? We pray what? What should I say? There is nothing to be done but stare at the feeder and wait for another sighting of wings.
Margaret Simon, 2020 draft
Hummingbird at the feeder in my backyard. Taken August 30, 2016. Photo by Margaret Simon
The first line of the Kidlit Progressive Poem is a multiple choice from Donna Smith. The progression of the poem is in the side bar of my blog. Scroll down.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Looking up into the old cypress tree in my backyard.
Dear Readers, I know this Covid Quarantine is dragging on, and things look bleak if you watch the news for any length of time. So why not turn it off and come to the bayou. There is always water flowing, a breeze blowing, birds singing. Nature is something we can find solace in, and something we can count on when the world is weird.
I’ve enjoyed creating videos for my students. I can’t believe how easy it is. I bought a bendable stand for my phone that looks like an android dog. I can video straight from my phone and upload it to YouTube in no time. Voila! An instructional poetry writing video.
Share these if you want or just watch for yourself to enjoy some time outside on the Bayou Teche. If you choose to write to the prompt, please share it with me in the comments. During this time of no-direct contact, I like feeling a connection to you through your words.
Welcome back to This Photo Wants to be a Poem, a low stress way to wake up your creativity by writing and sharing a short poem. Please leave your poem in the comments and encourage other writers by writing comments on other poems. We are not looking for brilliance here, just a playful way to be writers together.
by Molly Hogan
This photo seems to want to be a whole story. Who was here? What was he or she doing? Could it be an artist’s still life?
Buried Treasure
With shovel and ax. we poke and dig while gold lies in the search.
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 