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Poetry Friday is hosted today by Carol at Beyond Literacy Link

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!

Margaret Simon, draft

To see other Inkling poems, visit their blogs:
Linda @A Word Edgewise
Mary Lee @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Molly @ Nix the Comfort Zone (and oh boy, did she ever…)
Heidi @my juicy little universe
Catherine @ Reading to the Core 

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.

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Photo by Jeff Simon in downtown New Iberia, LA.

With Toto in her arms, Dorothy clicked her heals and repeated “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

Brainstorm your thoughts around the word home. You may use Dorothy’s iconic words as a title. Or describe a place in your life that feels like home.

I used a form created by J. Patrick Lewis called the zeno based on a numerical sequence for syllable count: 8, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1 in which each one syllable line rhymes. For more examples, I found this 2014 post from Today’s Little Ditty.

Snow transformed home to wonderland,
silent ocean
of white
flakes
reminding us
climate
wakes
imagine us
safe from
snakes.

Margaret Simon, draft

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

In the book “90 Ways of Community”, Kim Johnson writes about a quirky family tradition of hiding a Where’s Waldo figurine around the house for others to find. We all have quirky traditions. I thought about a quirky tradition we have in my classroom. I decided to use a haibun form.

I remember the day that Chloe wrapped the tail of Jack-the-lemur, a class plushie,
around the bars of her chair and left him there for other students to find.
From then on, magically around the first of December, Jack comes alive.
He travels each day to a new space–hanging on the American flag,
digging in the mailbox of origami figures, even riding a cardboard prothonotary warbler
hanging from the ceiling. Where will he go next? Years later, my students wait for this month
of wonder.

Who needs elf-on-the-shelf
when there’s Jack-the-lemur?
Quirky classroom fun.

Margaret Simon, draft

Jack the Lemur playing Mastermind

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Poetry Friday is hosted by Jan at BookSeedStudio.

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, 2025

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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 driving to school this morning, I wondered if the snow we had last week was all part of a dream. Every time I saw something white, I turned my head. Is it snow? No, there are still white sheets covering plants (ghosts of snowmen) and litter of white plastic (ghosts of snow drifts). But our temperatures are back to normal southern winter, 40-60 degrees, and there are few signs that last week we were covered in snow.

My students were so eager to write about their experience last week, a historic snowstorm. Most reminisced about the snow-people they built. Some wrote a Slice of Life without my prompting. I spoke with a colleague whose students were similarly inspired to write.

Kailyn described her snow-person: “Let’s talk about what my snow woman was made out of. Her eyes were flowers from my mom’s office, her nose was obviously a carrot, and her lips were a jelly belly sour pucker lip. She wore a Mardi Gras scarf, quickly changed to a light up necklace along with a coffee cup in her hand. We stuck a branch of leaves in her head for hair.”

Carson’s mother sent me a photo of him making a snow angel.

Carson, 3rd grade, makes his first ever snow angel.

James, 4th grade, wrote an I am From poem about a photo I posted of a Cajun Snowman.

I am from
The winter breeze
I am from
wearing jackets
I am from
The chilly snow
I am from
Drinking hot chocolate
I am from
Making snowmen

I encouraged my grandson, Leo, to create a journal page about the experiences we had together. His writing is coming along, but most of all, I’m excited that this is something we can do together. You have to love his signature.

I hope all of our children remember this experience, but we know it will fade, as the snow has faded. I decided to create a photobook for our family. No one seems to do photo albums anymore, so with a photobook, I can remember alongside my grandchildren, who are probably too young to remember. Maybe they will. The magical wonderland of Narnia. Our own time warp through the wardrobe.

Grandmother Oak in the snow.

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Poetry Friday is hosted today by Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference.

This week has been weird. Weirdly wonderful. Here on the Gulf coast, we had a snowstorm that broke records all the way back to 1899. The snow fell all day on Tuesday and shut down the whole area for two days. Businesses opened up on Thursday, but we haven’t gone back to school. Our water systems are not built to handle this kind of weather and single digit temperatures, so water pipes have burst and water pressure is down. In Coteau, where one of my schools is located, they cut off water for 12 hours. But my students and my grandchildren have had a blast!

I can’t stop writing about it. On Tuesday, the Ethical ELA Open Write prompt was introduced by Erica Johnson. You can read the full prompt and lots of great poems here.

Enzo Blizzard 2025

It wasn’t until I walked in the snow
that I discovered
snow is wet. In the movies, actors
never seem bedraggled.

And now as a historic blizzard
pours down snow, I remember
my rain boots in the dusty box,
dig out the snap-on hood for the coat,
and place a towel by the back door.

And yet, snow is silent
surprising me with a steady
fluttering rhythm of soft white flakes.

I know this phenomenon is unreal,
ethereal, a moment I want to keep
in a photograph to cherish
and hold.

Margaret Simon, draft

The back of our house in the snow. photo by Maggie Simon LeBlanc.

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Cajun Snowman

Acadiana in Louisiana has gotten a rare, historical snowstorm. Cajuns all around are reconnecting to their Canadian roots and building snowmen. This one was posted by a colleague at my school, Alice Suire.

It’s still bitter cold here, so the snow is sticking. Another snow day! For those of you not familiar with French, the word couillon means fool.

Snowman Elfchen

Snowman
On truckbed
Rare Louisiana snow
Old family traditions reinvented
Couillon

Margaret Simon, draft

Please leave a small poem in the comments. Respond to other writers with encouragement. And stay warm!

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

I woke up this morning to snow, snow, snow! That may not be so unusual for those of you in most of the country, but to us in South Louisiana, this never happens. It’s never happened in my 42+ years of living here. The prediction was for 4-8 inches, and I believe we have reached the higher mark. I’m sure it’s a problem for some because our systems are not prepared for this, but I’m enjoying all the texts of photos and videos of my grandchildren. I’m staying warm and safe.

Here’s a gallery of photos:

Winter Storm Enzo Pantoum

Flakes of white flutter in the wind
as snow layers over green.
Festival of inches is a historical event–
One hundred years before snow returns.

As snow layers over green,
dim light shines on bayou brown.
Will snow return in a hundred years?
“This snow is awesome!”

Dim light shines on bayou brown;
Old boots from a dusty box I found.
“This snow is awesome!”
The world stops, watches, and listens.

Old boots from a dusty box I found
stomp in a festival of inches, a historic event,
while the world stops, watches, and listens
as flakes of white flutter in the wind.

Margaret Simon, draft

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Poetry Friday is being gathered today by Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect

Last week I read Rose Cappelli’s post. She decided to write a poem each month using her One Little Word. I have actually picked two words: Still and Believe. I’ve been determined to train my puppy Albert “Al-Bear”. He is an 11 month old miniature golden doodle with a lot of energy. He’s been developing some bad habits. One of them is barking at us when he wants to play. I bought a collar with a vibrator on it, so I can give him a little buzz (remote control) every time he barks at us. It’s working…slowly.

I receive a prompt each week from Kelly Bennet called News from the Fishbowl. Last week she introduced me to a form I hadn’t heard of, Shadorma. It’s from Spain. There are 6 lines with a syllable count of 3, 5, 3, 3, 7, 5. The topic can be anything, but usually the poem is all one sentence.

Puppy Training

I believe
this puppy can learn
to be still
to cuddle
warming my cold morning lap–
blending our perfume.

Margaret Simon, draft

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Dawning Wolf Moon

The full moon greeted me on a frigid morning this week. I don’t think Iphones are great at taking moon photos. This photo with its automatic longer exposure blurred the cloud cover creating an interesting effect, don’t you think? I know I’ve featured moon photos here often. Like ocean view photos, I never tire of the peaceful feeling of a full moon, especially the bright light on a cold morning.

Dawning Wolf Moon

Moon’s perfect circle
holds me in her gaze.
Her royal crown welcomes dawn.

I look up and belong
to her still space.
In her light, I find
my footing.

Today as I write, I am thinking about word choice. The last line has a few scratches in my notebook. The choices were:
I belong to the night
I become myself
I see light that welcomes me

There are many choices when writing a poem, and I am never sure which one is the right choice, and perhaps they are all good. How do you decide what words to choose? What makes a final draft? Is there really such a thing?

Join me today in writing about the moon (again) or anything else that is needing to be written. I offer a safe place where you belong.

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