Poetry Friday is hosted today by Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
This month’s Inkling challenge comes from Heidi Mordhorst: I’m looking out at my yard, my garden, and no matter what’s happening outside or in, THE PLANTS KEEP GROWING. They rarely give up. There are so many ways in which we’ve all (but especially as women, as educators) had to be persistent, despite our weariness. Write a poem (for kids or adults) about PERSISTENCE.
Heidi suggested a model poem by Tony Hoagland, Please Don’t. I borrowed a few lines and the word swobtoggle.
Dandelion Garden
Hello, dandelions in the ditch,
You pop forth taller than I’ve ever seen, reaching higher for a taste of the sun
before the storm comes to swobtoggle* your seeds away.
You look at me with a wispy wink waiting for a child to hold & blow.
Persistent in your volunteer work knowing someday soon, you will fly.
Each summer Tabatha connects us kidlit poets by coordinating a poem swap. My first poem swap was with Kat Apel, all across the globe in Australia. Believe it or not, we have met face to face. She is a tall, sunshiny gal. I finally got around to sending her a poem yesterday, and she has shared it with the world today. Check it out here.
Kat loves nature and often writes about it. She has watched our wood duck nesting box project over social media. She sent me this poem a few weeks ago. She captured the photo from my video, so cute with two ducklings peeking out. The poem is a lai form (which I looked up here.)
I have a soft spot for the mimosa tree. One was growing in my grandfather’s yard when I was a child. My brother and I would climb its branches and use the seed pods in mud pie and “soup”. On a recent walk I took pictures of the mimosa blossom. It’s beautiful in its feathery flounce. When I took a moment to Google the tree this morning, I found out a few things:
The tree comes from Asia, known as the Persian silk tree or the pink silk tree.
The wood of the mimosa is brittle and prone to break. Thus the tree has a short life span.
The tree is an invasive species from China.
The tree attracts webworm.
The mimosa pod (which my brother and I used in pretend play) is poisonous.
This mimosa tree was growing wild in Mississippi. I’ve also seen a few in our city park and near the bayou in a wooded area. Write a poem based on this image and put it into the comments. Please reply to 3 other writers with encouragement. Thanks for being here.
Fran Haley is leading the Open Write at Ethical ELA today. I used her prompt to create my poem.
Mimosa
evanescent blossoms perky pink feathering flames of flower power invasive Asian tree reaching for the sunlight my childhood memory
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Two months ago today, I took my mother to see my father in the hospital for the last time. He was not responsive. She held his head and kissed it over and over saying, “I love you.” He died the next morning.
I never heard my parents say “I love you” to each other. My father told me he believed that if you said it often, it would lose its meaning. Ten years ago, after he had colon surgery, I vowed to tell them both I love you every time I talked to them on the phone. Mom would respond, “hmm hmm.” Dad would say something like, “me, too.” Over Covid isolation, they finally said an audible “I love you.”
But this doesn’t mean they didn’t love us or each other.
Yesterday in the dining hall of the retirement home, a resident said she’d never seen such a loving family. She said we cradled my mother. I said, “I wish I could cradle her every day.”
Alzheimer’s is trying to take my mother away from us. She knows Dad died. She knows we planted a tree in his memory. She visits it every day. However, when we took her across the hall to look at a one bedroom apartment for her to move into, she said, “Is Dad moving, too?” I hugged her and said, “No, he’s gone. But he’s in your heart.”
My brother said, “Taking up less space.” We laughed. That’s something Dad would say. He loved irony.
Then Mom said, “You suppose I could find another man?” More laughter.
Mom at the Columbarium visiting Dad on Father’s Day.
Honestly, I’m not sure if I’ll be home soon. I’m glad you were able to see me. I love how you hear a different story from my eyes,
how we find honesty under the moon– a strawberry moon rising– like a beacon through the trees.
You read me with an elder’s wisdom. Tears well up when you hold my heart with your eyes, how they flow with knowing. Your own tears leaking onto your cheek.
You never even met my father, but he was speaking through you, his presence nowhere and everywhere.
Honestly, the well of deep compassion grows when watered with our tears.
Welcome back to This Photo Wants to be a Poem. I am finally in full summer mode and able to dedicate time each day to my writing. Whew!
Today’s photo appeared in my Facebook feed from Molly Hogan. I keep telling her I want photography lessons, but she just tells me it’s luck. Luck or persistence? Molly has a steady hand and an eye for beauty.
Dandelion Seed, by Molly Hogan
Hope is the thing
with seeds to blow beyond our thoughts and what we know.
Hope drifts on waves of air.
Margaret Simon, draft
You are invited to respond to this photo with a small poem. Write encouraging comments to others. I feel such a sense of peaceful joy to be back here with you.
This week was the first week of Simon Summer Camp with the visit of Thomas, better known as Tuffy. We have had a wealth of experiences each day. How do you build memories for a 2.9 year old? Why, you sing about it, of course. Tuffy and I have been singing along to the brilliant and everlasting Raffi. (If you’re a grandmother, you must download his songs.)
I haven’t had much time to spend alone writing poetry, but that’s as it should be. I missed posting yesterday on actual Friday. His mother is back from her “trip.” The song we sang together to tell her about his camp week is sung to the tune of “If You’re Happy and You Know it.” When I sang it to him last night at bed time, he cuddled up on my shoulder, and I looked at my daughter and whispered, “I think I’m going to cry.” He popped his head right up and said, “Don’t cry, Mamère!” Then we all laughed and laughed. Pure Joy!
Uncle Ric fixed your tires, so you could stroll. Svitlana gave you vegetables to grow. CeCe watered flowers and plants in her yard, And Mr. Al waved good-bye.
KiKi showed you sculptures you could touch. She told you all about them, oh so much. Sophie made quesadilla out of play dough, And Rylee chased water rainbows.
Life has been a challenge for many these days. I’ve adopted the mantra “We Can Do Hard Things” from Glennon Doyle. Because we can, and we do. But today, Ramona suggests we reflect on celebrations. I have a list that includes celebrations big and small.
A family wedding! It’s always joyful to spend time with family. Our family (including all my children and grands) gathered in Seattle, Washington a few weeks ago for the wedding of my niece. The setting was on the Puget Sound facing the Olympic Mountains at sunset. Six days later my sister-in-law brought me to a beach nearby the wedding location as I recovered from Covid. I celebrate beauty, beach, fresh air, and family love!
Me on Puget Sound, Ballard, WA.Doctors Joey and Claire Nelson
2. Flowers are blooming! My friend and former student Jennifer and her husband grow fields of sunflowers and hold “You Pick” days. (Petite Anse Farm) I took my grandson Thomas “Tuffy” on Sunday morning (This was our church service) and picked a bucket of sunflowers. Thomas enjoyed having his own pair of scissors and feeding the chickens with Farmer Andy. I celebrate summer, flowers, and farmers who adore curious toddlers.
Thomas and bucket of sunflowersSunflowers in a blue vase
3. I was absent the last week of school. My colleague next door, Erica, packed up all the books on my shelves (I have a lot of books!) to prepare for summer cleaning. I went to check on things on Monday and was met with this amazing surprise. Also my principal’s daughter, who is 10 going on 11, was there to help with “Tuffy” while I did a few more things. I celebrate the kindness and consideration of colleagues and teaching in a school with this welcoming environment.
4. My friend and unofficial spiritual director Ellen sends me daily quotes. I am amazed how many times the quote she sends hits the exact right spot. Last week when I was recovering she sent me this list. Just what I needed. I celebrate the spiritual guidance of others who give us strength when we need it.
Image by Linda Mitchell Round up this week is with Karen Edmisten.
Today is the first Friday of June, so that means Inkling Challenge! My writing group rotates a challenge for each month, and we post on the first Friday of the month as a group, The Inklings! This month Molly Hogan challenged us to write about a domestic task.
Truth be told, I did not read the mentor poem or write about spring cleaning because the truth is I’ve been very ill. I got Covid on a family trip to Seattle and had to stay alone in a hotel room for five days. My husband’s brother, who is a doctor, was nearby and on call for me, but there wasn’t much he could do. I just had to get through it, so I could fly home. I made it home on Saturday night. I’m still recovering, but I no longer have the virus. On Sunday morning, I read The Writer’s Almanac and used the poem “Joy” by George Bilgere as a mentor text. His poem was about recovering from the flu. I borrowed a few lines. The form helped me write again which brought me Joy.
Joy
after George Bilgere
Today I sit in the kitchen with a glass of Gatorade, on ice, my daily cocktail. The door is open to let in cool morning air. I sit with my body, just the two of us for a change. Covid has left us and moved on to someone else, with its knife well-sharpened to gut and leave behind loose limp skin.
I am sitting in amazement that I am able to be here breathing. Amazed at a body’s will to survive even in the deepest dark cave of fear.
For a while I thought I would never get better. That I would dissolve into dust in a hotel room alone, not discovered for days.
But every day there are miracles. We wake up. We taste and smell the air. Tiny eggs in a nest hatch into finches that will fly.
Today I sit watching a prothonotary flutter at the window, make a mental note to refill the feeders. The desert rose at my front door welcomes me home with a fireworks show.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
As I was resting on the sofa in my living room, I heard a light tap on the window. Oh, no, I thought. We’ve had times before that a bird has flown into the window and either died or been stunned. I expected to see a poor thing lying lifeless on the deck, but instead was surprised by fluttering. The little guy flew to a nearby branch and stayed long enough for me to identify him as a Prothonotary Warbler.
I studied this swamp beauty when I was writing Swamp Song (which has yet to find a publisher).
Prothonotary Warbler
Prothonotary warblers live in wooded swamps and forage above slow moving water. They hop among branches of downed trees searching for insects and snails to eat. They are a bright yellow color with blue-gray wings and tail. The male will select a nesting cavity in holes left behind by woodpeckers and chickadees. Prothonotary warblers are declining due to habitat loss. Prothonotary warblers got their names from the bright yellow robes worn by clerks for the Pope in the Roman Catholic Church known as prothonotaries.
From Swamp Song by Margaret Simon
I am on the council for the T.E.C.H.E. Project as an education consultant, so I called our president who is a biologist and knows about birds. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Patti, I know some people believe their parents come back to them in cardinals, but I think my dad is visiting me in a Prothonotary Warbler.
Patti: Yeah. Yeah?
Me: No, really. This male bird is coming to my window and fluttering wildly. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself. What should I do?
Patti: It’s likely a young juvenile who sees himself in the reflection. They are very territorial. He’s stupid. He thinks he sees another bird.
Me: So, he’s just strutting his stuff!
Patti: Yeah, he’s showing off for ya’!
My first thought was my dad was not that kind of guy. Showy. No strut. But he was one who liked to tell jokes and hear people laugh. So before I chased the bird away from the danger of the window, I looked up at his sunny self and smiled! Thanks, Dad!
Prothonotary Warbler in cypress tree. (Not a bad shot for through a window with an Iphone.)
I live on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. I love teaching, poetry, my dog Charlie, my three daughters, and dancing with my husband. This space is where I capture my thoughts, share my insights, and make connections with the world. Welcome! Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 