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This Photo wants to be a Poem: Color

Posted in Photography, This Photo Wants to be a Poem, Writing, tagged #beingmamére, canna lily, color poems, June, mandevilla, red on July 26, 2023| 6 Comments »

What is your favorite color? This is a hard question. Somedays it’s the cyan blue of the sky; others it’s the purple center of a gladiola. Yellow is my favorite color of summer, but I don’t often wear yellow because years ago I had my “colors done” and yellow makes me look pale. I recently asked a friend what her favorite bird was. She first said dunlins for their murmurations, then she said, “house finch.” And finally, after some thought, she texted a photo of Anna’s hummingbird. Do you have a favorite bird?

Today for this photo, think about your favorite color of the moment, and write a Color is poem.

On my back deck I have two red flowers blooming. They seem to be heat resistant. I used the portrait mode on my iPhone to take these photos.

Red is hot
waving in the summer breeze
like a warning flag
to stay inside
and drink iced tea.

Red is June’s skin
so rosy it’s almost purple
as she crawls across the floor
looking back
to smile at Pépère.
Margaret Simon, draft

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Spice (Slice) of Life: A Handmade Journal

Posted in Gratitude, Slice of Life, Writing, tagged handmade journal, Julie Burchstead, quotes on July 25, 2023| 8 Comments »

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

I have made so many true and talented friends in this world of blogging. In 2014, I met up with our Slice of Life bloggers for a face to face dinner at NCTE. There I met Melanie Meehan who bought a copy of my first ever middle grade novel Blessen and read it on her plane ride home. She wrote an email inviting me to join her writing group, and the rest is history, as they say. But Melanie is not in our group any more. (She is an active contributor to Two Writing Teachers.) Even though the writing group has changed faces, our bonds are strong. One of those 2014 members was Julie Burchstead. Julie and I have never met face to face. She lived in Vermont and then retired to Oregon, but we keep in touch through Facebook.

I kept seeing posts from Julie of beautiful handmade journals. I sent her a Direct Message, and she offered to make me one. (I did pay her.) The book is lovely, made of soft leather with a handmade butterfly button closure. vintage paper, spring flower binding, and 3 signatures of 98 lb. multi-media paper. (Yes, she wrote it all out on a notecard.) The braided thread wraps around and tucks into the button with a variety of beads, among them a silver bee and butterfly. She wrote, “May this journal always call your muse.”

So far I haven’t brought myself to scratch out a rough draft poem inside, but I am collecting quotes.

Thank you, Julie, for giving me something to comfort and inspire me.

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Poetry Friday: Ode to Molly’s Strawberry Jam

Posted in Gratitude, Poetry Friday, Writing, tagged Molly Hogan, Neruda, ode, strawberry jam on July 20, 2023| 27 Comments »

Poetry Friday Round up is Here!
Scroll down to add your link.

One of the pleasures of summer is fruit in abundance. My fridge is full of strawberries, blueberries, apples, watermelon, and more. Fruit is how I satisfy my sweet tooth.

I had surgery three weeks ago. My friend and fellow Inkling Molly Hogan sent me some strawberry jam with strawberries she picked herself on a farm in Maine. I have been so touched by how wide my circle of friends reaches.

I subscribe to a lot of poetry emails. The Poetry Foundation featured an ode by infamous Pablo Neruda praising tuna, Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market. I noted “write an ode about food.” Then I received News from the Fishbowl newsletter and Poets & Writers The Time is Now. Both of these prompts came from Neruda’s tuna poem. The universe was telling me to write an ode.

Looking at this poem again, I want to adjust that last line. Maybe delete it altogether. My thought was to have color in my face, but it could be associated with blood (yuck!). My grandson Leo loves to talk about bleeding. He wanted to see my belly button scar. Maybe he will grow up to be a surgeon.

But I digress. Friends, please put your links in the Inlinz below. Thanks.

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This Photo Wants to be a Poem: Africa

Posted in This Photo Wants to be a Poem, Travel, Writing, tagged Africa, Kenya, Mo Daley, monotetra, zebras on July 19, 2023| 8 Comments »

Travel has not been on my summer agenda, but I have been enjoying travels of my friends by scrolling social media. Recently Mo Daley experienced an amazing trip to Kenya with infamous Kwame Alexander. I held down my jealousy and let her photographs take me back to a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Tanzania in 2016. Mo’s photos taken from her iPhone were incredible. You should check them out on Facebook.

I was drawn to the zebras. On my trip with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law, we often talked about which animal was our favorite. It was so hard to choose. The tall majesty of the giraffe. The fierce calm of the lions. The gentleness of the elephants. But the zebras! Zebras feel like a joke from God. The contrast of black and white reflects our natural day to night rhythm. They were always seen in herds, with their friends.

I played around with the monotetra form this morning. Each stanza includes 4 rhymed lines, each line with 8 syllables, and the last line repeats the same 4-syllables. I took liberty to slightly change the repeated line. I think it adds more interest to the poem.

Monotetra for Zebras

For its black-white striped attitude,
God is laughing a beatitude.
I speak prayerful gratitude.
Erase bad mood. Embrace calm mood.
Margaret Simon, draft

Please play with words today and leave a small poem in the comments. Encourage other writers with your responses.

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This Photo Wants to be a Poem: Volunteer Zinnia

Posted in Photography, Poetry, Spiritual Growth, This Photo Wants to be a Poem, Writing, tagged #poemsofpresence, #smallpoems, Leonard Cohen, zinnias on July 12, 2023| 35 Comments »

Have you ever really focused on a zinnia? They are one of the few flowers that can be grown by seed and withstand high heat. My neighbor, James Edmunds, posted the above photo of a volunteer zinnia. Volunteer means it was not planted by people. It just shows up, and usually in an odd location. I found the one below growing from a crack in a sidewalk.

Zinnia in the sidewalk by Margaret Simon

Reminds me of the Leonard Cohen lyric, “There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.”

I’m also drawn to the flower in a flower of a zinnia’s center. There are multiple florets. These are important to the reproduction of the flower and most likely the cause of volunteers.

Please join me today in musing on zinnias and cracks and light and anything else that is on your mind. Leave a small poem in the comments. Encourage other writers with response comments. Thanks for being here.

Patience

Focus on the crack
Feel the throb of pain
Plant a tiny seed

Believe
someday… light
will reach… in

something… new
will grow.
Margaret Simon, draft

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Spice of Life: Eulogy for a Uterus

Posted in Poetry, Slice of Life, Writing, tagged gratitude, Lucille Clifton on July 11, 2023| 11 Comments »

The title is not a typo. I saw Wilson yesterday. He had figs to offer. No better summer treat than fresh figs. And he thanked me for writing a “Spice of Life” about him last week. So I decided to make Slice of Life into Spice of Life in honor of his good mistake.

Two weeks ago today I had a hysterectomy. I’ve been amazed by the kindness of my circle. I’ve received flowers, cards, cakes, food, figs, and numerous other ways people have shown gratitude to me. There’s this interesting twist of things when one who is a caretaker becomes the cared for. I’ve had to loosen some control and let people help. I called my neighbor to pick up my dog’s meds at the vet. I allowed my daughter’s father-in-law to sweep my kitchen floor. It’s a weird space to be in. Needy. Grateful. Humble.

Last week, on the day of the surgery, I got an email writing prompt from The Fishbowl. Children’s author Kelly Bennet sends a 7 minute quick write each week. You can see the prompt here.

In my 7 minute writing response, I wrote a eulogy for my uterus. Each stanza is homage to each of my three daughters’ births.

Betty, Wilson’s wife, says I need to breathe in green gratitude to replace my uterus. I’m honestly not there yet. My body is still quite angry about the whole thing. Maybe next week, Betty? But I did, after a few critiques, take out the slaughtered pig reference.

My uterus was a vibrant thing
after Lucille Clifton

was an egg in a nest
of brambles and moss holding
a suckling embryo

was a vase for spring flowers
bursting forth in April
shouting to the sky

was a silk blanket
wrapped around the soul
of the wrongs of the world

did not walk out on me,
was taken for its uselessness
a holy sacrifice

I groan for all it’s grown
and known–
blessed womb.

Margaret Simon, June 27, 2023

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This Photo Wants to be a Poem: Fort Pigeon

Posted in Photography, Poetry, This Photo Wants to be a Poem, Writing, tagged grief poems, maritime sunburst lichen, Molly Hogan on July 5, 2023| 19 Comments »

Molly Hogan posted this wonderful photo of a pigeon hanging out at Fort Popham in Phippsburg, Maine. Molly finds a variety of places to practice her photography in her place on the earth. Birds are often her subject. You can see more photos on her Instagram and Facebook pages.

When I first looked at this photo, I thought (assumed) the yellow spots were wildflowers, but on closer inspection, they are stains on the stone wall. I did a quick Google and found that it’s maritime sunburst lichen, nurtured by the droppings of birds. So, in essence there is a symbiotic relationship here between bird and wall, pigeon and lichen. Isn’t the natural world fascinating?

Consider joining me in musing today about this photo. Leave a small poem (or even random thoughts) in the comments. Encourage other writers with your comments.

On the rock of my past,
a pigeon perches on my soul
filling me with a sunburst
of your love.
Margaret Simon, draft

A little note of connection: Molly and I both lost our fathers in 2022. We have shared lots of grief poems. When I was deep in my grief last May, a prothonotary warbler came to my window. I had never seen one close up. I gasped and thought immediately of Dad. Of course, every thought was of him, but I latched onto yellow as the color for him.

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Slice of Life: Meet Wilson

Posted in Slice of Life, Writing, tagged Job's tears, Wilson LeBlanc on July 4, 2023| 9 Comments »

Wilson goes to my church, lives in my neighborhood, and is the father of my gynecologist. He’s a retired engineer from the sugarcane industry. A few years ago he gave me a bleeding heart plant that he had cultivated. I thought it had frozen this winter (sadly due to my neglect to bring it in for the freeze), but it is flourishing back. It seems to love the heat. Nevertheless, Wilson won my heart through this small gesture.

A few weeks ago, I was out on a morning walk, so I stopped by his house. He had promised to show me around his yard-nursery. I was immediately taking photos with my phone. Look at this gorgeous lotus blossom in a tiered fountain.

On a tour of Wilson’s backyard, he showed me a spot where he plants cuttings and plant pups. His wife Betty says, “These are his babies.” Then he showed me a young fig tree. He said it could be mine. The best time to plant them is in the fall, so I will be back to pick it up when the air turns cool.

The photo to the right is a grassy plant that produces little seeds called Job’s tears. Wilson picks the seeds and takes out the center which leaves a perfect hole for making beaded bracelets. I was honored to receive one of his bracelets.

Wilson makes beaded bracelets from multi-colored Job’s tears.

Wilson and Betty have transformed a backyard shed into a “winery” where Wilson experiments with different fruits for making wine. Betty said the hardest part is the waiting.

Wilson shines a flashlight and says, “This one’s close. Look at this color.”

Wilson reminds me that we should do the things we love. Grow and cultivate plants, make bracelets, create a new wine. Wilson has to be careful because of a back injury, but not long after his surgery, I saw him biking in the neighborhood. Keep moving. Be like Wilson.

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Poetry Friday: Celebrating the Moon

Posted in Writing on June 30, 2023| 10 Comments »

Round up is led today by Irene Latham whose book **The Museum on the Moon: The Curious Objects on the Lunar Surface** publishes soon. I pre-ordered and she sent me an Apollo XII patch.

Irene asks, “Is there a poet among us who has NOT at some point written about the moon?” So I asked my blog search engine and found the moon to be the topic of all of these This Photo Wants to be a Poem prompts:

Blue Moon: photo by Molly Hogan

Full Wolf Moon: photo by Jone MacCulloch

Full Moon Setting: photo by Margaret Simon

The moon is evocative of our emotions, it stirs up wondering, words, and wisdom. It doesn’t surprise me that Irene (or any other full time poet) would have a full collection of moon poems. Visiting other poetry blogs, I collected some lines and played with them. I borrowed a line from Amy Ludwig VanDerwater for a Golden Shovel poem.

Your wishes will become moonlight. Amy LV

Darkening day hides your
joy. We hand our wishes
to the evening air. Hope will
find its way, and light will become
new again. For now, we breathe moonlight. 
Margaret Simon, draft

Full moon above Grandmother oak, Margaret Simon

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This Photo wants to be a Poem: Crepe Myrtle

Posted in Photography, This Photo Wants to be a Poem, Writing, tagged Crepe Myrtle trees, summer blossoms on June 28, 2023| 21 Comments »

This summer I have been walking every day. It has been fulfilling in more ways than the exercise. I’m getting to know my neighbors. The other day I walked and talked with a former student. He’s all grown up with grown up kids. When did that happen?

This is the time of year that crepe myrtles are in bloom. I played with the Portrait mode on my Iphone camera. I like how this one focuses on the blossoms.