Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Sun dappled live oak on Bayou Teche
EnneaThought® for the Day
Type Four EnneaThought®
“Are you still yearning for your ideal life? Appreciate the small daily pleasures, kind words, and heartfelt exchanges that are already present. You’re already more appreciated than you may think.”
I am a type four on the Enneagram. I’m the one who cries, who ponders over the past, and who turns to romanticism. Daily the message for me is to be present. Be still and know…
Recently I have felt rushed and busy. I try to take some time or myself in walks and in writing time. What space can I give to just being in the moment? How can I slow down to breathe and be present?
In poetry, I find a place to be present. When I write with specificity and imagery, I feel present. I also like the comfort of anaphora, a phrase that leads to a new thought. This poem I wrote in response to a prompt on Ethical ELA here from Sarah Donovan. She used the mentor poem “A Place to Breathe” by Christine Hartman Derr from a free Ethical ELA anthology Just YA.
There’s a Way to Breathe Today
It’s the way the sun dapples the oak tree with a halo of light.
It’s the way the cypress needles pop out like green leprechauns.
It’s the way a bayou runs through and around a town of ancestry.
It’s the way I sit at my table with coffee and a pen. Margaret Simon, draft
I hope you find a little corner to breathe in today. Find stillness. Find peace. Write about it.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Each week I find a photo to write about. This form of poetry is called ekphrastic poetry, verse written in response to art. I invite my students to write alongside me on Fanschool. I ask my blog visitors, too. No pressure. If you feel inspired, write a small poem in the comments. Encourage other writers by visiting Fanschool or responding to writers here.
Butterfly Garden: Swamp Milkweed
The spring means time to ready the butterfly gardens. This year I have to put my butterfly plants in pots due to a puppy that likes to discover things by nosing, peeing, and chewing. Last night he was chewing and chewing. When I finally scraped his mouth, I found an electric wire. Yikes! That could have caused all kinds of damage.
If you could name a just right plant for feeding pollinators this spring, If milkweed, fennel, or parsley are on your garden list, swallowtails and monarchs, too, may stop by this place for a day or two, drop off an egg upon a leaf to start a new life.
If you could name just one small plant, and save it for the spring, you’d plant a lifetime once again where butterflies can come back home.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
The “I am From” poem form has been a tried and true form to model with students. A few weeks ago, I pulled it out again in hopes to get my students to write for a hometown poetry contest. It didn’t really work out. But while I wrote with them, I ended up with a version that I liked.
I had to explain “pot liquor” to my students because the alarm bells went off when they heard the word liquor. Isn’t it funny how you can know something so well that you don’t even notice? Pot liquor is the distinctly southern delicacy of the broth from boiling greens. (AI says it is also “potlikker”.) My mother would mix it with corn bread and black-eyed peas and eat it with a spoon from a coffee mug. I never developed much of a taste for pot liquor, but what I wouldn’t give to smell it again.
I am From “The most important aspect of love is not in giving or the receiving: it’s in the being” Ram Dass
I am from a gold pearl ring on my right hand. I am from a grandmother with my name– (Margaret, meaning pearl)
I am from Dot, too, from her laughter at things funny, not funny, from her nimble fingers playing classical piano. From lazy afternoons with a Ding-Dong and a Coke.
I’m from photos by the azalea bushes full pink blossoms rising behind our blonde heads. From pot liquor with black-eyed peas and pecan pie fresh from the oven on Thanksgivings in Morton.
I open my mother’s jewelry box, a calm of pearls and golden beads slip on easily. Margaret Simon, 2025
I put this one off, I admit. I knew I had a week of break to prepare, but still I created this last minute. I went back to the poems I wrote for Laura Shovan’s February project using the theme of Space. I had a different poem in mind when I found one I had written about the Aurora Borealis. I had just talked with a friend whose daughter had seen the Northern Lights on a trip to Norway. He shared fabulous photos from his phone. Definitely a bucket list item for me.
I realized I could transform my poem into a weather forecast. The creation part took some time using Canva and playing with placement of lines. I tried to adapt some of the words actually used in a forecast. Forget time; I was in Flow. The image is a bit busy for my taste, but I had to get this post done for the early Poetry Friday posters.
If you are interested in participating in the Kidlit Progressive Poem, click the link and leave a comment or email me your name, date chosen, blog name, and URL. Thanks!
Please sign up to add a line to the Kidlit Progressive Poem coming April, 2025. On your chosen day, you will copy and paste the previous lines of the poem to a blog post and add your own line. When you sign up, create a hyperlink to your home page. For example, Margaret at Reflections on the Teche. Thanks!
Poetry Friday is hosted today by Denise Krebs at Dare to Care.
Alma Thomas, The Eclipse, 1970, acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of the artist, 1978.40.3
Each day this month I have written a poem. I know that this sounds impossible. It certainly feels impossible to me. I joined a group of like-minded poets arranged by Laura Shovan to celebrate her February birthday with poetry. Writing in a community can feel impossible. How can I meet the standards? Who am I to believe I am a poet?
But I did it, every day. This makes me believe that impossible things are possible. I have hope that we can exist in a world where poetry brings solace, hope, and community. Today, Heidi Mordhorst posted a similar art piece to compare our group to a circle of stars. I went to the linked page and found The Eclipse. There are different perspectives from each person in our galaxy. Some may see a circle, some see the dots of paint, and some focus on the dark center. However you view art, poetry, or time is yours alone. You get to decide.
But as Heidi so wisely said, “Some days, our circle was a parachute, lifting or sinking, catching or launching you. Some days our circle was the deepest well or mirrorest puddle, and maybe there was a day when our circle was a black hole of obligation, until the next day when you caught sight of a certain name, a certain voice, and our space became a sequin of possibility again.”
Tomorrow I will begin another writing journey, the annual Slice of Life Challenge from Two Writing Teachers. Today it feels impossible to write a blog post every day in March. If you read my blog, you are always welcome to swipe left and delete it. But I hope you’ll stick with me, cheer me on, and remind me that impossible means “I’m possible.”
Learning to write can seem impossible to a 6 year old. As I watch my grandson develop his reading, writing, and drawing skills, I am amazed at the capacity of our brains to learn. Here is a poem I wrote this month beginning with the space we make between words.
What space are you giving to yourself? How are you doing impossible things?
Today is my husband’s birthday. I wrote him a poem. The poem came from a prompt from Georgia Heard during her Write Bites workshop with Ralph Fletcher. She shared Imperfection by Elizabeth Carlson. Elizabeth’s poem begins with the line “I am falling in love with my imperfections.” It’s a wonderful poem about accepting your faults. I turned my attention to the imperfections of our house. If you own your own home, you’ll understand. This week we had a water heater go out. Oh my, how we take hot water for granted until it’s gone.
I’m learning to love the smell of dust gathering in soft corners how mold creeps in the crevices of window sills.
I’m finding joy in the left behind sliver of soap, stash of tea-stained cups, single smelly sock.
Our house has become a home of imperfections. That door never stays shut. That switch doesn’t turn any light on.
We are ignoring the leak streaking the living room wall. I’d rather sit next to you on the sofa, make space for the dog between us, talk about the day behind, the future ahead.
Let the house be. Let the rain come.
Margaret Simon, 2025
The Big White Castle in the snow of January, 2025. (We call our house a castle because it has a turret, a unique mid-century modern architecture feature of the early 70’s.)
Last Friday and into the beginning of this week, my students worked on heart maps inspired by Georgia Heard. To see their “maps” and poems, see this post.
I wrote an epistolary poem to the violin. Inspiration flowed when playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The violin is my favorite instrument. My grandmother was a violinist, though I never heard her play. When Jeff and I hear Cajun music, my favorites are the waltzes with dual fiddles. The instrument is universal to all kinds of music. In the poem, I used my One Little Word Still.
I have left a card on the kitchen counter for my husband. We’re in our 43rd year of marriage. I am blessed with long love. Here is the note (poem) I wrote for him.
Acknowledgement
“Acknowledge the many ways in which your life and relationships are good.” Enneathought of the Day 1/17/25
Life is good. I don’t have to sit on the floor for hours talking so you will understand, but I would and so would you.
Even in the silence of making the bed, we hold each other.
We can laugh at a photo and bring it up later with only a word; giggles rumble like rainbow bubbles between us.
We are not One. We are Two dancing a waltz of life-is-good together.
Margaret Simon, draft
Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope your heart is full. Take a peek at Carol Varsalona’s padlet. A few of my students are featured there.
On the first Friday of the month, Inklings (my trusty writing group) respond to a challenge. Mary Lee made it easy this month. She asked us to type a color into the public domain image archive and find a photo to write about. I chose lilac. I immediately got a photo I knew was telling a story. I imagined that Lilas and the bug are having a conversation.
“Unhappy the man who never had his eyes fill with tears at the sight of a particular flower. Such a one can have been neither a child nor a youth. He can have had neither mother, sister, nor affianced bride. He never loved.” This is the tone and tenor throughout Les Fleurs animées (The Flowers personified), a collection of floral — and sometimes florid — writing, featuring playful illustrations by J. J. Grandville (1803–1847), engraved and hand-colored by Charles Michel Geoffroy.
How Lilas Learns of Love (a cherita)
With draping lilacs for long locks,
Lilas questions Sir Ladybug, “Where will my love grow?”
Love grows from a starter seed planted small in your heart until with wisdom, grace, and tender care…Blooms!
Spiritual Journey first Thursday is gathered by Bob Hamera.
Bob suggested we ponder the idea that doors may close while another one opens, how focusing on the closed door may lead us to miss the open one. My father spoke about this in his firm belief that there is always a resurrection. Jesus showed us in a very real sense that when someone dies, it is not the end. I’ve always prided myself on a belief in the resurrection; however, when faced with an actual closed door, a death of something in my life that I put my trust in, whether it be a job, a friendship, a manuscript, I get lost and lonely and question. That is the rough part of the death/resurrection story arc.
I am following a path to a new journey to retirement. This is a door I’ve chosen, but even so, I have mixed feelings. So many of my days with my students are good, happy, and fulfilling. I will miss teaching, I know. I also know I’m a teacher through and through. I chose this career when I was 15 years old. I will find ways to still be a teacher. I keep telling myself this truth, but it’s not easy. When I tell people I’m retiring, I hear “Congratulations!” I wish I could feel excited. Is it the closed door I fear? Or the open one I’m unsure about?
Resurrection fern is grey when the sun is out, but turns to bright green after the rain. May God bless us with the knowledge and grit to survive the grey and thrive again after the rain.
I don’t often join the Poetry Sisters challenge, but I felt this month’s was within my reach: a tanku which is a tanka in conversation with a haiku. I recently attended a workshop, Write Bites with Georgia Heard and Ralph Fletcher. Georgia’s writing prompt was to write about a word. One suggestion she had was to have a conversation with the word. That draft led me to create a tanku around one of my two words for this year.
Believe
What do I believe? Remove my rear view finder Need a reminder– blinders to understanding, “I don’t believe you heard me.”
I say to the wind; It says, “I believe in you. That’s true, you will see.”
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 