Kim Douillard who blogs at Thinking Through my Lens hosts a photo challenge each week. The theme this week is “One Tree.” Armed with my new camera, I decided to create a photo poem about the Grandmother Oak who stands in my backyard.
Mr. Jim tells me this oak is more than 200 years old.
Her name is Grandmother.
Yes, my tree has a name.
Her name defines her
as strong and old and able to bear
the weight of the whole world
as gently as she would hold
a small child
or a cardinal’s nest.
She holds the weight of the world as gently as she holds a cardinal’s nest.
A rope swing waits
swinging in the soft breeze
remembering the children
taking turns to ride
and lean back to view the sky,
squealing delight,
making Grandmother smile.
Rope swing
Branches as wide as she is tall
twist and reach across
the yard, a place of shade
protection form the harsh sun
or the whipping wind
of hurricanes; she’s seen a few.
She knows when to shed and when to hold.
She knows how far to bend before she’ll break.
She knows.
branches wide and open
When I look up, the smallest branches
spread a canopy of tiny leaves
high and open to the blue
of sky, clusters of brothers
and sisters, a playground for squirrels,
a nesting place for Mr. Jay and his mate.
Branches high and small open to the blue of sky.
Grandmother Oak holds her jewels
of resurrection fern and Spanish moss
like modest ornaments.
As a grandparent would, her home
is clean and fresh,
waiting and wanting
for you to stop by
and have a cup of tea.
–Margaret Simon
For Celebration Saturday, I offer this celebration of Grandmother Oak.
Ruth Ayres invites us the celebrate each week. Click over to her site Discover. Play. Build. to read more celebrations.
Join the Spiritual Thursday round up at Reading, Teaching, Learning.
For Spiritual Thursday, we are writing about each other’s One Little Word for 2016. Today we are exploring Violet Nesdoly’s word, Mindfulness.
Mindfulness
My mind is full
like the bayou after a long rain
that today blows wild
waves, cold and moving.
My mind wants to rest
like the dog at my side
snoring softly,
warm and content.
My mind seeks to understand
like that student who questions
and questions, driving me
to stop and think.
My mind is aware
of light coming through the window,
a spotlight on my hands,
open and close.
My mind turns to you
like the wind chimes chanting Om mani padme hum
carries me across the rough water
to a place of peace.
Mindfulness, much like my own One Little Word present, means to “be still and know that I am God.” I sing this mantra over and over, making my mind clear to notice the spirit within me, to notice that I am not alone, to notice my love is enough. Stillness leads me to understanding. Presence to mindfulness.
Where does a poem come from?
From play with words?
Intention of language?
Simply throwing confetti to the wind?
A poem takes shape
whether I am present or not.
Some days the muse is mine.
Others I merely stroke the fire
waiting for the flame to ignite.
William Stafford said I should kneel
in the deep earth and dig.*
I kneel.
I pray.
I sing.
Then I open my notebook,
lay my pen against soft paper,
and wriggle these fingers.
A gift is given.
I will not let go.
–Margaret Simon
I’ve been thinking about where poems come from and whether the joy is in the process or in the product. I don’t know the answer. But I enjoy asking the question.
Kevin Hodgson sent out postcards. I got one and added my given word on the padlet he created. In this instance, the process was the fun. The sending and receiving of postcards in the real mailbox was exciting. None of us are really quite sure what the product means, but we all agree it’s cool.
* “Successful people cannot find poems; for you must kneel down and explore for them.”
–William Stafford.
Join the Spiritual Thursday round up at Reading, Teaching, Learning.
For Spiritual Thursday, we are writing about each other’s One Little Word. This week is Irene Latham’s word, Delight. Irene is a poet, so I wrote a word poem.
Delight is an enchanting word that dances
in the light of the sun
and looks to the moon for inspiration.
Amusement is her cousin
who laughs easily, giddy really.
Not delight.
She quietly relishes in God’s creation.
Watches the birds at the feeder flit and fight.
She wonders about clouds
and contrails in the sky.
Delight is never in a hurry.
If she were, she might miss something,
Miss something delightful.
See the way the cat turns
over and over in the grass.
Delight is with the cat
feeling the soft sweetness of dew.
Delight opens her mouth for snowflakes in winter
And runs in a field of bluebonnets in spring.
Delight fluffs my words up like feathers,
lifts them slightly up to catch the wind
so they may fly to you.
–Margaret Simon
Moss delight: See the way the moss sways in the wind?
Join the Two Writing Teachers blog for Tuesdays Slice of Life Challenge.
February is not National Poetry Month. That’s in April. But Laura Shovan has a birthday, and she invites us all to play with poetry during her birthday month. I love a good word game, so when Laura Purdie Salas. posted about writing Found Moon Poems with 4th graders, I borrowed this idea to write a poem for Laura Shovan’s project. (Found Object Poem Project with Laura Shovan.)
Wonderopolis is a super-duper place to find nonfiction information. When Linda Baie sent the above picture for Laura’s project, I saw a porcupine. I quickly discovered that this was a pufferfish skeleton, not a porcupine, but too late, I had found a Wonderopolis article. Using copy, paste, and strike-through, I isolated words for a poem. When I started putting the poem together, it sounded like two voices to me. Thus a found poem for two voices.
I haven’t tried this activity with my students yet, but I will. I hope they enjoy collecting words as much as I do.
Poetry Friday round-up with Kimberley at Written Reflections
Inspired by Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem How Long Peace Takes from 19 Varieties of Gazelle, my students and I wrote our own How Long poems. The repeated line “As long as” followed by images works well to inspire poetry. I wrote one about healing. I am slowly recovering from my tailbone injury. The bayou seems to appear often in my poems and as I am recovering, I have watched the bayou every day. Such a peaceful place to heal.
Peak through the old cypress to the brown bayou.
How Long Healing Takes
As long as reflections of tall trees on a winding bayou.
As long as the slow mowing of a field of grass.
As long as the the thread of soft yarn
winds its way into a baby’s blanket.
As long as the body insists
on being separate and human.
As long as instinct is ignored
and we just talk louder to each other.
As long as the cat
finds a box in the closet,
comfort in cardboard.
She hides all day invisible.
As long as the flowers in the vase
smile their peachy-orange smile
and say stay,
rest,
be well.
–Margaret Simon
And now for a few students’s poems.
How Long Patience Takes
As long as you rise at dawn
As long as the sun rises above
to shine upon us
As long as the teapot sings
a steamy song
As long as long as you make a wish
at 11:11
As long as you blow out you candles
on your special day
As long as you have
patience
As long as you leave at dusk
–Emily, 5th grade
How Long Creativity Takes
As long as you’re reading
with a smile on your face
so deep in your book
you can’t hear anything
As long as you’re drawing
letting the pencil control you
light and dark lines
here and there
As long as you’re brainstorming
with ideas flowing out left and right
shouting them out like you don’t care
while you peacefully think of some more
As long as you’re writing
with a pen in your hand
as you think of a story
and poem at the same time
As long as you let your imagination flow
making dreams a reality
and never losing hope
and letting your mind run wild
As long as you never stop believing
believe in the impossible
step out your comfort zone
and live a creative life
Laura Shovan is a poet who shares the love. For her birthday month, February, she commits to writing poems every day and shares the experience with anyone who dares to jump in to the party. Read her introduction to the project here.
I have joined in her project every year and find the experience challenging, inspiring, and enriching. I don’t know if I get better at writing poems, but I know for sure that this is a welcoming and passionate-about-poetry group. I am honored to host today.
In preparation for this month of writing, Laura called for images of found objects. I sent her this image of lotus seed pods I picked up out of the swamp on a winter canoe trip. They sit in a pottery piece that is also reminiscent of nature.
Diane Mayr was considering skipping today. And that very thought made her write a skippy poem. You never know where the muse may hide. I love the rhythm of the flower names and of course, the final truth.
Mama Planted a Garden
(a skipping rhyme)
Mama planted a garden,
but it came up weeds.
Oh, my silly Mama!
You planted the wrong seeds.
No, my little Missy,
they were the right ones.
A flower to a father
may be a weed to the son!
Buttercup, aster, and bergamot.
Maiden pink, dandelion, forget-me-not.
Columbine, bunchberry, periwinkle.
Violet, lady slipper, honeysuckle.
Always remember this,
my little daughter:
one person’s weed
is another one’s flower!
–Diane Mayr
Patricia VanAmburg did some research on lotus pods and found out there is a disease, Trypophobia—fear of holes. So she wrote a rather empty poem about that feeling of empty nest, one I know all too well.
Empty
Of what use this pod
Without her seeds
Temporary filler for
More fruitful flowers
But every life
Returns to earth
Fragile as the cradle
In an attic corner
Brittle as mother’s ribs
After every baby has gone
–Patricia VanAmburg
Jessica Bigi sent an image of a lotus flower while she takes us back to ancient rituals.
Photo and poem by Jessica Bigi, all rights reserved.
Carol Varsalona is cross-posting her poems on her blog. I love how she is digitally playing with the image as well. I imagine sitting with Carol enjoying a warm cup of coffee and the quiet.
As I sit by the window,
the morning sun
drifts on in,
singing the praises
of yet another day.
A zen-like quality emerges.
Rays bouncing from
winter white blankets
bring outdoors in.
A hushed quiet
envelops the room.
In a corner,
upon a mat of bamboo,
cut-open pods of grace
in triad formation
adorn a desk
of muted colors.
Indoor life merges
with outdoor sights
in a seasonal burst,
reminding me that
new life is waiting
in an early spring.
Violet also did her research on Trypophobia and wrote an erasure poem from an article on Mental Floss. Who knew? I certainly did not. Thanks for the learning as well as the poetry.
Trypophobia
skin crawls, heart flutters
shoulders tighten, I shiver
crazy revulsion to holes, bumps
images of holes, parasites
bot flies, worms, ravages of disease
pregnant suriname toad
lotus seed head
give people trypophobic
heebie jeebies
soap bubbles trigger
nightmares
~ Violet Nesdoly
Heidi Mordhorst digs into the earth to consider how an anthropologist looks at things.
Day 10
anthropology
once thought to be
an elaborately carved musical
instrument used
only on the wedding day
of a woman born under
the eleventh moon
it is now understood to be
a deliberately culled muscular
implement used
only on the winding way
of a man burned under
the oppressive soon
context is everything
Here’s another from Heidi. This one is a child’s wonderment at the things of this world.
Making Sense
First it’s something to see–
almost black among the greens and yellows,
scalloped around the edges like
crayon clouds or flowers,
clouds full of black hailstones–
or it’s a leopard-skin jellyfish.
Next it’s something to hold–
not weighty like a microphone
or a metal shower head,
but light and hollow, not plastic
and not wood, part smooth
and part ridged and rumpled.
Now it’s something to hear–
take it by the curving handle oh!
is that a stem? and shake, shake
shake–those blackish beads or
beans or oh! they’re seeds!
they make a marvelous rattling!
~Heidi Mordhorst 2016
all rights reserved
Donna Smith makes a simple poem reveal a truth of nature. Love the alliteration, one of my favorite literary devices. I think Donna is a little bit chilly in Maine, so she has thoughts of overcoats.
PODS
Purposefully plopping pondward
Out of open overcoat
Drooping, dropping down
Swamped seeds settle, silently sprout.
To write my own poem, I turned to form and tried out a Bio-poem. Laura Purdie Salas used this form with 3rd graders this week. See her post here.
Lotus
mystical, pure, beauty, enlightened
Daughter of Bodhi
Lover of muddy water, sun, and spring
Who feels spiritual, open to the light
Who gives wisdom, joy, and peace
Who fears storms, drowning, neglect
Who would like to see the ocean (Is it as blue as me?),
tomorrow (My life is fleeting.),
and world peace (Doesn’t everyone wish for world peace?)
Who lives in Atchafalaya Swamp
Who knows noble truths
Lily of the Mud.
–Margaret Simon
And here is Laura with another of my favorite forms, a Fib poem. Read more about Fib poems here.
Lotus Pod Fibonacci
By Laura Shovan
Three
brown
pods shake
rattle, roll.
Seeds fly. We stomp them
into the ground, part of the dance.
Molly Hogan was flying under the radar with her first attempt at haiku. This challenge is pushing us all to find what form fits best.
Day 10 –My first attempt at haiku.
Autumn maracas
Invite you to merengue
Shake a leg, baby!
–Molly Hogan
Catherine Flynn found the lyrics to the life cycle of a lotus at the New York Botanical Garden.
Photo and poem by Catherine Flynn, all rights reserved.
Buffy Silverman offers another haiku, which is the ultimate nature poetic form. Hard to capture a moment in few syllables.
dried lotus pods
shriveled and moored in mud
cradle tomorrow
–Buffy Silverman
What’s a poetry parade without Charles Waters? He bounced in with this sunshine.
LOTUS FLOWER (HEY BUDS)
Fuchsia covered buds
stretch out in praise of morning
revealing their sun-shined heart.
(c) Charles Waters 2016
lotus pods
seed mysteries
three days
of flowering
rebirth
an open heart
If you have a poem for today’s found object, put it in the comments and I will add it to the post. Thanks again for joining us and for reading all the way through to the end. Mardi Gras ended yesterday, but this is a joyful parade of poems to keep you passin’ a good time!
Join the Spiritual Thursday round up at Reading, Teaching, Learning.
For Spiritual Thursday, we are writing about our little words. Today is dedicated to Justin’s word for 2016, Faith. This winter I’ve had a few physical trials that have been frustrating to say the least, but not life threatening. I know I will heal. Sometimes faith is hard. Sometimes faith forsakes. Faith challenges.
Bayou reflection, January. by Margaret Simon
Only in winter
with a certain slant of light
a forest reflection
mirrors a standing of trees.
My eye draws a straight line
up from earth
down to water, this perfect line
dissolves as the sun rises higher.
Yet, I am still standing.
I plant my feet into the earth,
walk a muddy path
holding bare arms out
to catch the wind.
I want to feel your breath
on my skin, Lord. Know you are
with me in all things.
Take hold of my hand.
Whisper all will be well.
All will be well.
Head over to Laura Shovan’s website to see a feast of fresh market, vegetable soup poetry. I am writing my poems on the yellow notepad on my laptop. Somehow this feels more like a quick draft place; I don’t have to commit to save it. More playful. Less need for excellence.
Peppers
Peppers purple
peppers green
squash
squash
squash
I see ya, eggplant
think you’re hiding
in your shiny skin?
Market days
are silver dollar days
when fresh is
as fresh does.
Join the Two Writing Teachers blog for Tuesdays Slice of Life Challenge.
Saffron roses I bought for myself. They make me happy!
This weekend while I was laid up by my tailbone injury, I messaged Clare that I wouldn’t make it to the Renegade Writers meeting. Unless…maybe we could Google Hang-out. The Google Hang-out didn’t quite work as planned, but she called and Debra gave me the prompts. I wrote, then they called back when they were sharing and passed the phone around the table. Almost like being there. I was able to write and share and hear everyone else’s writing. This group is not a critique group. One person leads with prompts. When we share, we thank the writer with no comments.
The last writing prompt of the day was to write down 5 situations in which you feel vulnerable. You meet a stranger. Write about your encounter with the stranger. Thanks, Renegade Writers for letting me join in from my sofa.
Face to Face
When you look at my face,
do you see
confidence
or fear,
wisdom
or wounded,
beauty
or age?
I place my order–
tall vanilla latte
no fat
Do you know how to spell
my name?
Can you see my pain?
I smile.
Say, “Thank you. Have a nice day.”
Lift my voice a few octaves
to sound cheery.
I could be your friend.
The coffee warms my hand.
You sprinkled cinnamon on top.
How did you know?
The circles of our lives crossed
for a minute, maybe two.
We are no longer strangers.
You know my name.
I know yours.
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 