Some of my Inkling writing group friends have been inspired to write poems using Wordle guesses. I’ve tried a few times, but as a person who plays Wordle infrequently and always starts with the same word, the practice didn’t appeal to me.
Mary Lee’s rule is when she guesses in three words, she writes a haiku. Yesterday I got it in three tries. I wrote the words down, pearl, rival, and drill, and went about my day.
Newly retired, I’ve found the mornings to be a sanctuary. I take a walk with my dog, fix a pot of oatmeal, and eat on my back deck watching birds. Oh, the retirement life!
At the feeder, I get a variety of birds. (Tufted titmouse, chickadee, cardinal) The thing about using Wordle words forces a metaphor that may or may not work. I was finally pleased with this one, so I am sharing today. Have you tried writing Wordle poems?
A pearl of titmouse rivals chipper chickadee early morning drill Margaret Simon, draft
I have lived in the same neighborhood for 21 years, and for all of that time, there was an empty lot in the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. This empty lot was my crossover space for walking from my street to a neighboring one that also follows the bayou. The crossover lot was also a picnic area with my grandkids. Together we named where the live oak drapes nearly to the ground “the forest”.
Earlier this week I walked to the forest with my grandkids. Many of the oak limbs were gone! And the rest of the trees had big white X’s on them.
“Mamére, what will happen to the trees?”
“Someone bought this lot, so they are taking down the trees to build a house.”
“So where will we play?”
Sadly, I had to explain that when someone buys their own property, they can do what they want with the trees.
I wish it weren’t true. My heart is sick over this loss.
Leo and Stella pause to pose in the old branches of the live oak in our “forest.” What is left of the tall sweet gum where we collected leaves and gum balls.This old cedar is the next to go.
The National Writing Project annual Write Out with the National Parks Service is happening now. Consider taking time outside to write and post with #writeout.
Prompted by Pádraig Ó Tuama’s invitation to write about a place you know go to, I wrote a poem for the trees.
Paradise Woods on Duperier Oaks
This one is for the trees on the empty lot, the tall sweet gum forever littering the street with spiked balls and feathery leaves, felled for a concrete driveway.
I weep as I pass the old oak whose branches, trimmed exposing bare skin and bones, once held children the “forest” where they played hide-n-seek, Catch-me-if-you-can. If I could, I’d save you now.
Old growth cedar, I apologize that the invasive sound of chain saws disrupts your silent steeple.
I praise trees, your seeds send roots, and secrets.
Trees, you are our saviors. Forgive us.
Margaret Simon, draft
Please head over to Laura Purdie Salas’s site where she features my little Wood Duck Diary and a tanka poem. Thanks, Laura!
Linda Baie has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Teacher Dance.
Boy in a canoe watching a great white egret
Last weekend we kept two of my grandchildren overnight. It was an opportunity to get them out in the canoe on the bayou. Leo is almost 7, so Jeff decided it was time to put him in the front to paddle. He doesn’t have a powerful stroke, but he knows how to put the paddle in and push. He was also very curious and aware of the nature around us. We watched an egret fly from place to place as we got closer to it.
I’ve been listening to Maggie Smith’s Dear Writer. I need to just buy a copy because I want to reread her wisdom and model poems, but the audio has her voice which I also love on The Slowdown. She has wonderful insight into metaphor, especially extended metaphor.
I offered this poem for critique with the Inklings last weekend. I used the metaphor cypress lighthouse and one of them asked, “What is a cypress lighthouse?” I guess I wasn’t clearly using the word lighthouse as a metaphor. Maggie Smith suggests letting the title hold more weight for a poem. I’ve attempted this because I wanted to keep the lighthouse metaphor.
To the Great White Egret in a Tall Cypress Tree
The new slant of autumn sun blooms in a cypress lighthouse.
You light up like a swamp lily, shining above our bayou.
How could I describe the richness of my life? Watching your white wings hold a stillness— a moment of daylight, perched and ready for what change may come.
Today is the first Friday of a new month, October, and time for an Inklings challenge. I asked my writing group friends to exchange photos for an image poem. I invite you to participate in image poetry every Wednesday right here with This Photo Wants to be a Poem.
My exchange partner was Heidi. She had the opportunity to visit fellow Inkling, Molly, in Maine this summer. I am quite jealous that they all made blueberry jam together. I could not resist the delicious collection of jars in Heidi’s photo.
Georgia Heard inspired my poem by sending her own recipe poem through her newsletter.
Click on each link below to see other image poem posts from Inklings.
I wrote the book of tanka and haibun poems to capture the miracle that my husband and I have witnessed each year by watching a Ring camera in our wood duck house.
Irene Latham wrote: “Readers of all ages will JUMP at the chance to celebrate the life of wood ducks in this inviting volume. Delightful verse, scientific facts, and striking photographs combine in this heartwarming tale of real-life animal adventure (and the humans that make it happen).”
The humans that made this book happen are my dear friends David Dahlquist and Mary Ubinas, through a donation to the TECHE Project. All proceeds will benefit the TECHE Project. One of the goals of the TECHE Project is to promote the well being of wood ducks along the 135 miles of the Bayou Teche through educational workshops and placement of wood duck houses.
My hope is this small book will inspire others to take the time to notice and wonder about nature and our environment. Wood ducks are beautiful birds that were once considered endangered. When we watch the dozen or more ducklings jump from the house a mere 24 hours after hatching, we do not know their fate. I don’t like to think about all the dangers lurking in the bayou waters, so I write poems about them. I’m sharing a few here. The book is available now on Amazon. I will receive my first shipment in a few weeks, so you can also order from me.
February 24
House Hunting (Haibun)
The hens are showing up! Now that the drake scouts have identified a safe nesting box and area, it is time for the hen’s approval as they begin to inspect the boxes for themselves.
Dawn, when sunbeams stream, an expectant glow invites a wood duck couple—
Female shimmies through the hole, Chatter-chipper to her mate.
la maison de chasse L’aube, quand les rayons du soleil coulent, une lueur d’attente invite
un couple de branchus— La femelle se trémousse dans le trou, Chatter-chipper à son compagnon.
Margaret Simon, from Wood Duck Diary
New Chicks
Gentle peeps echo. Jumping onto mother hen, New chicks jitterbug.
Like petals on a pinwheel fluffy down spins together.
Nouveaux poussins
Doux piaulements résonnent. Sautant sur maman canne, Nouveaux poussins font le jitterbug.
Comme des pétales sur un moulinet duvet moelleux tourne en rond.
I have been comforted by all of the sympathy notes and messages from this Poetry Friday community over the death of my mother this summer. I appreciate more than ever how this community supports and cares for each other.
In the summer poem swap, organized by Tabatha Yeatts, Denise Krebs sent me two poems, a raccontino and an acrostic of my one little word, Still. She also sent a beautiful crocheted twirly that I’ve hung in my kitchen window.
Still acrostic by Denise KrebsBy Denise KrebsCrochet Twirly from Denise Krebs
My response to Denise:
When a poem comes wrapped in swirls of gold and tied with a ribbon, I open, find, feel myself touching soft grass with my toes finding cool comfort there.
Thanks, Denise, for your comforting words and gift of swirly gold.
A new release from Laura Purdue Salas, Flurry, Float, and Fly!
On this hot, humid southern day when the temperature rises above 90 degrees, I received this cool to the touch advanced copy of Laura Purdie Salas’s next picture book all about the poetry and science of a snowstorm.
Without January, 2025, I’d have believed I would never see a snowstorm; however, we had one here along the gulf with enough snow to do all the fun things a good snow brings.
New Iberia, LA covered in snow, January 2025.
I look forward to sharing this book with my grandchildren who are just beginning to read. The text delights with rhyme: “From the north, a polar freeze…from the south, a humid breeze. All winds advance. They mix and dance.”
In addition to lively text, this book includes science that can be easily understood by our youngest readers. Did you know “each cloud’s type—how cold?—how wet? shapes each crystal’s silhouette.”?
Chiara Fedele’s illustrations show how white can be colorful and peaceful.
Illustrations by Chiara Fedele
Laura always has on her teacher hat when she creates a book. There is back matter including intricate photographs by Dr. Kenneth G. Libbrecht of the variations of a snowflake. Teachers can also find resources on Laura’s website here. If you click fast, you can enter a giveaway for a 30 minute classroom visit with Laura.
I highly recommend her for class visits. A few years ago, my students loved learning the back story of how Laura researches and plans her picture books. Author visits help students to see all the work that goes into creating a book as well as experience the passion the author feels about her topic.
Laura lives in Minnesota, so she probably sees snow every year, but her special book “Flurry, Float, and Fly!” took this southern girl back to a cool experience with a rare snowstorm. Relive your own snowstorm stories and share them with young readers. Publication date is November 11, 2025.
Today is the first Poetry Friday of September and time for an Inklings challenge from Molly Hogan: Write a love note to something or someone or some place. Go big or go small! You might be inspired by José A. Alcántara’s Love Note to Silence. You can read it here.
Dear Silence,
We’ve had a budding relationship, the kind that begins with a small bouquet of roses at just the right time.
You come to me in sacred spaces of air and breath and love.
Today, your hand feels heavy. What do you want to say to me?
Let’s just stay this way, cheek to cheek feeling the softness of the moment.
Some might call you expectant as the end of a grand symphony seconds before the applause.
I welcome you with disquietude, asking you to teach me to accept this breath of calm.
Will you stay a little longer?
Margaret Simon, draft
St. Margaret’s chapel at Edinburgh Castle
I’ve just spent a glorious week in Scotland. I found sacred silence in the countryside, the wild winds, and in the castles and cathedrals. I’m too tired now after 24 hours of travel to write, but I will after I’ve had time to process it all. For now, leave your link below.
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.”
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 