Are you enjoying retirement? Isn’t retirement fun?
Questions I’ve heard nearly every day since retiring, but I haven’t settled into it quite like I thought I would. This morning my enneathought of the day said “Ignore your feelings.” Yeah, sure, you try!
In my notebook I wrote about this nagging anxiety, how every day I feel like there’s something I’ve forgotten to do. I had to buy a day planner. I’m making more lists than I ever did before. But I can’t shake the feeling.
A Box for my Anxiety
I’m putting anxiety away in a wooden box that latches with a key like the one for my childhood diary. Two matching tiny silver keys on a chain buried beneath bracelets where I can’t find them readily.
This feeling that belongs to me is useless, a hidden weed choking vibrant growth.
Be still, my sweet heart, you got this. You know what to do. Get busy.
Margaret Simon, draft
What feelings are you grappling with and need to put away?
The Roundup today is hosted by Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe. We switched dates, so I will round up on Friday, Sept. 5th.
My mother at the piano
After Packing my Suitcase for the Funeral
Then I turn to a portrait of you at the piano (Were you 12 or 13?), your smile the same one I saw in the last days when moving was hard. Your long fingers like a metronome holding rhythm on the bedding. At the funeral, we will cry. We will let you go, ashes to ashes and all. Sing you into heaven and praise the glow of the summer sky.
Margaret Simon, draft
Today I will be traveling to Mississippi where our family will gather and celebrate the life of my mother. I can’t seem to write a poem this summer that does not have her in it. Forgive me, but it seems necessary at this time.
Tabatha Yeatts of The Opposite of Indifference coordinates a poetry exchange. She sent me a poem she wrote based on a podcast she heard and thought of me. I love this Poetry Friday community and how we share poems as well as life events. Thanks, Tabatha for sharing your creativity with me.
Butterfly children
by Tabatha Yeatts
Jo Nagai, boy-scientist,
believed in love-memory,
thought his caterpillars greeted him
after becoming aeronauts, hovering
close as though he was
a dark-eyed flower.
Their memory not wing-scale thin,
but thick as honey.
He loved the before,
the tickle of their round bodies
held on his arm as he conducted his tests
so he shared their small pulse of discomfort.
He loved the after,
the wobbly wings,
the legs slim as a kite’s string.
Jo noted everything,
page after page,
as the butterflies responded
the same as their caterpillar child-selves.
No matter how great the metamorphosis
of being swaddled in the chrysalis
and rebuilt in the soup of creation,
even into the next generation,
young butterflies swooped into
the future’s flowers with messages
from their ancestors:
before you break open,
here’s what I know.
Inspired by Radiolab’s episode “Signal Hill: Caterpillar Roadshow” about a Japanese second-grader who scientifically studied what butterflies can remember.
One of my recent monarchs, “legs slim as a kite’s string.”
Spiritual Journey First Thursday is being gathered by Leigh Anne Eck at A Day in the Life.
Leigh Anne asked us to write about family this month. Family is my priority always, but since retiring, I find myself dedicating more time to my children and grandchildren.
This week as my husband and I celebrate 43 years of marriage, I am caring for my grandchildren in New Orleans. My colleagues are going back to school and while I admit to feeling a pang of “I should be there”, I am grateful I am not. My mind and body are more relaxed, and I am able to devote energy to my family. What a blessing!
Next weekend we will all gather in Jackson, MS to celebrate my mother’s long life of 89 years. My mother, Dorothy Liles Gibson, was dedicated to family. She taught me the value of being fully present. I have selected this poem to read at her service: “Let the Last Thing Be Song.” My mother was a musician all her life. She taught piano lessons and got her masters in piano. She was a founding member of the Jackson Music Forum. She was also an active choir member at St. James Episcopal Church. I look forward to being with all of my children and grandchildren, siblings and their families, as well as friends and cousins. We will raise our voices to praise her life.
I am taking a poetry workshop with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. This week she used a model poem by Alberto Rios, “When Giving is All We Have” to talk about paradox in a poem. She gave us a prompt with a variety of anaphoric phrases. I chose prayer. “We pray because…” I’m sharing the draft of my poem.
When Prayer is all We Have
After Alberto Rios “When Giving is All We Have”
We pray because we are lost. We pray because we are found.
We pray because prayer changes us. We pray because prayer changes nothing.
We hold hands to pray. We kneel alone in the sand.
Prayers have many ways to begin: Our Father Dear Lord Ah, me I am here
Silence can be a prayer.
Prayers connect us to the dead. We are helpless in prayer.
What I do not have, I offer to prayer—an empty voice, a sigh of desperation. Does it matter who is listening?
This first day of August is time for a new Inklings challenge. Catherine Flynn asked us to write a triptych poem using Irene Latham’s model poem here. I also looked at Summer Triptychby Linda Pastan.
This summer with my mother’s passing, I have been thinking about the three summers that stand out in my mind in the long process of losing my parents. The first summer I had to face the reality of their aging was 2019 when they decided to move to an independent living apartment. They left the house full, and my siblings and I had to clean it out.
In the summer of 2022, I was grieving the death of my father and searching for a sign of him. And this year, my mother…
Solace, peace, comes to me in this poem. I hope you find it there, too.
Summer Bird Triptych
July 2019
The hummingbird feeder, blown glass swirling primary colors, reflects the sun, attracts a ruby throat hovering while I sit alone on the porch,
Remembering.
July 2022
I hear a tap, tap at the window. A bright yellow prothonotary. Does he see his reflection? Does he want me to come out?
Is it you, Dad?
July 2025
The crows seem angry. The Merlin app identifies fish crows. They call with a fervor I feel deep in my belly, calling me back to nature
My mother died a few weeks ago. It was expected. She suffered for years with Alzheimer’s. My grief for her loss has happened over time. I feel relief now that she is no longer suffering. Nevertheless, we had to clean out her room at the memory care home where she’s been for two years. Many of her clothes were soiled and worn. Most of them were trashed. Some we gave away. I was grateful for my husband who was with me. He hauled the trash bags to the dumpster.
When I came upon a hanger of silk scarves, I couldn’t bear to give them away. I don’t even know why they were still there. So while Jeff was taking out the trash, I tucked them away in a box to bring home. I wore one to a funeral last weekend and felt comforted.
My mother’s silk scarves
Silk Scarves
I saved her silk scarves, each one a bright replica of art. I couldn’t bear to place such brightness into a black trash bag.
We worked quickly making choices to give away or throw away. Why? I asked myself did these scarves call to me?
I remember when appearances were important to my mother. She never left the house without coordinating clothes, make-up, jewelry. The end erased who she had been.
Lord knows I don’t need any more scarves. Tiffany stained glass (butterflies) will soften my neck above the black dress.
Margaret Simon, draft
This poem was written in response to an Ethical ELA Open Write prompt found here.
Today’s roundup is hosted by Jan Annino at Bookseedstudio.
My well has been running dry lately. I could use the excuses that I’ve had a lot on my plate, but the real answer is I haven’t felt much like writing.
When I get this way, it helps to turn to poetry prompts. Georgia Heard sent out a monthly newsletter with a calendar inviting us to write daily tiny letters.
Today, to make myself accountable, I will share two of them from my notebook.
Dear Breath, Find my sorrow. Lift it up. Draw from within a purple flower a single petal remembering how to bloom.
Margaret Simon, draft
My butterfly garden is overflowing with passion vine waiting for the Gulf Fritilary butterflies.
Dear Voice, From your hiding place, come home. Give me strength to know when to say no, when to say yes. Be there as a guide when silence grates on my nerves like the rain clanking through the drain. Wake up, oh voice of mind. Find my comfort zone. Come home.
Margaret Simon, draft
Angel Trumpet (New Orleans)
If you are not familiar with poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, I have found her poems uplifting and accessible. I signed up for a poetry class with her that begins next week. I am hopeful she will put me back in touch with my own voice. She has released an album of spoken word. This amazing and uplifting poem is included. Take a moment to listen.
This month’s Poetry Sisters challenge was to write a poem form called a raccontino, a poem of any number of couplets in which the odd-numbered lines (along with the title) tell a story. Even-numbered lines rhyme. This was a totally new form to me, so I looked for inspiration in an obituary, of all things. I liked how the woman was described as leaving a legacy of kindness. Who among us would not want to leave that kind of legacy?
She Leaves laughter and abiding love, a generous spirit echoing silly songs.
Her family holds her legacy. When every heart longs
to be of some use, of a place she belongs,
there is only kindness that lasts, healing all wrongs.
Last night I had the privilege of presenting poetry alongside my co-author, Dr. Phebe Hayes. Phebe talked about the life of Emma Wakefield Paillet who was not only the first Black woman, but the first woman to get a medical degree in the state of Louisiana. Emma was an unsung hero until Phebe uncovered her story. Years of research have led to release of our book, Were You There? A Biography of Emma Wakefield Paillet.
Historical marker commemorating Dr. Emma Wakefield Paillet in downtown New Iberia, Louisiana.
What struck me and my husband as we discussed the presentation was how Emma’s life personalized the history of the time period. Her tragedies were the tragedies of Reconstruction and Jim Crow laws, oppression of women and especially women of color, lynching, disease, etc.
I read a few poems interspersed with Phebe’s talk. One of the poems I wrote for the book is a Praise poem after Angelo Geter, a modern spoken word poet. It’s a hard one to get through without my voice cracking because at this time my mother is at the end of her life. I’m emotional when it comes to mothering. Today, I dedicate this poem to her.
If you are interested in a signed copy, please send me an email. Our fellow Poetry Friday writer Linda Mitchell wrote the educational guide.
Buffy Silverman is hosting today’s Poetry Friday.My summer writing space
This first Friday in June is time for another Inklings challenge. I am sitting outside on my back deck hoping something will come to me soon. Heidi challenged us with this:
Write a poem that lists or explains some things that you as a woman no longer care ‘bout for whatever reason. It does not have to be because of peri/menopause. Try to replicate Melani’s deadpan delivery, if that’s possible in a poem. TWIST: include something that you DO care about, that requires you to make space by jettisoning some of the other stuff.
Mary Lee used a conversational tone that I like, so I borrowed her format to write mine.
While we’re sitting here, let me explain
For starters, I don’t care to wear mascara anymore, no more black goop that smears every time I cry which is a lot these days. I care too much sometimes and my eyes show it.
Just so you know, I care about plants, but I don’t care to bend over in the heat to pull out the weeds, so you may not think I care until the air cools (which by the way the forecast looks won’t be until October). Deal with it.
Here’s the thing, I care about family first, so I may not answer your call or text if I’m with my mom, husband, kids, or grandkids. It’s not that I don’t care about you, I do. I’ll get back to you soon enough.
And while we’re on the subject, you should know that I care about the white cat at my feet and the echo of a red cardinal in the fruit tree. I want this beautiful space I live in to last longer.
Won’t you sit with me and write your truth, too?
I would love to know if you accept the invitation to write to this prompt. Leave a comment, if you care (dare).
Be sure to check out Linda’s and Heidi’s “We Do Not Care Club” poems.
I am finishing up a week of babysitting for two of my grandchildren this week. One of them, June, I kept during the day because daycare was closed. The other, Thomas, I kept after his day camp because his mother had a work trip.
This morning when I was dropping Thomas off for the last time, we had a talk about missing people we love. He started the conversation with “I miss my dad,” which could be viewed as a manipulative ploy for attention, but I didn’t take the bait. I said how much I would be missing him when I go back home.
He said, “Do you miss Papére?”
“Of course, I do. I miss Papére and Albért when I’m here with you, but I miss you and June when I’m home.”
Loving means you’re always missing someone. A conversation with a 5 year old brought me to tears.
This month I have been writing a poem each day using Georgia Heard’s May calendar. The prompt for today was “your favorite kind of silence.” The shadorma form fit nicely with the syllable count of 3, 5, 3, 3, 7, 5.
My Favorite Kind of Silence
Silence comes after summer rain before birds recall sun after a sung lullaby a sleepy child’s sigh
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 