Moonflower in the butterfly garden, by Margaret Simon
In May, my student Avalyn took on a project to create a butterfly garden at her school. When I returned to school this week, she couldn’t wait to show me how the garden was doing. It was full of flowers. The largest was this moon flower. My friend Mary had donated a small plant in the spring and now it is huge! Yesterday we found a fat green caterpillar on it and researched. The caterpillar is a tobacco hornworm and will become a moth. We also found gulf fritillary caterpillars on the passion vine. They’ve eaten it all. I have a passion vine in my own butterfly garden that hasn’t been touched. I will bring some cuttings to help these little prickly cats along. Raising butterflies is a Joy!
Today write your own poem in any form about the moon, this flower, garden pests, butterflies, etc.
Tobacco Hornworm Nonet
Moon flower night bloomer bright white fragrance among the children feeds tobacco hornworm. Watch how he chomps on the leaves; Aggressive eater, camouflaged soon will burrow to emerge as moth.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Have you ever loved a dog? Or the more important question, has a dog ever loved you? Dogs tend to love without any conditions. Of course, they want their treats. Charlie would almost hyperventilate when it was pill pocket time. And how did he know to tell time? 6:00 AM and 6:00 PM, he would start with the begging.
“Lord, help me be the person my dog thinks I am.” I bought this bumper sticker years ago and taped it on the utility room cabinet. Charlie thought I was delicious. He wasn’t a face licker, but show him your bare toes and he would lick till it tickled.
Strangers were new friends to Charlie. The repairmen that visit our house look for Charlie so they can toss him the tennis ball. He would play ball 24/7 if you let him.
Charlie loved a walk. Sometimes he would get out, and the way I coaxed him back was showing him the leash and saying, “Petey’s here!” Petey was my mother-in-law’s dog and we walked together for years after my father-in-law died. These walks made Petey and Charlie best friends, and Anne “Minga” and I grew closer, too.
This week is Ethical ELA’s Open Write. When I read the invitation to write about food from Stacey Joy, I thought of the cinnamon bread my neighbor (and fellow dog lover) left at my back door. Another neighbor who I walk with these days, Shirley and her lab Claire, made me oatmeal cookies. If you’ve had a dog, you can relate to the empty feeling. When I get up in the morning, I go to the back door, turn the lock, and look for Charlie. He’s not there.
Charlie lived a wonderful life. We got him in the fall of 2007 and named him one of our boy names, after my grandfather Charles Liles. It was the perfect name. He was the perfect dog. I miss him, but I have no regrets. He was 16 and in renal and heart failure. He gave me the look that said, “Let me go.” I will sprinkle his ashes in the butterfly garden.
Cinnamon Bread
Lisa brought me cinnamon bread when my dog Charlie died. Shirley made oatmeal cookies as though sweet carbs could fill me, help me forget the lonely
walk without holding a leash, opening the door without the wag of tail.
Can I take a taste inside to keep sadness away?
Can I drop a crumb and not look down for the dog to lick it up?
There are days he lived only to comfort me. Little ankle licks to let me know I was loved.
Familiar becomes foreign until time adjusts us, keeps us upright ready to be crushed again.
This week I have felt nearer to normal. I’ve been thinking about teaching and preparing lessons for my return on Monday. I’m pushing away concerns that I have no control over. Yesterday I invited a neighbor, a retired teacher, to cut and paste magazine words onto Jenga blocks, an idea that originated with Paul Hanks and used by Kim Johnson. (See this post.)
I get a lot of poems in my inbox. Some days it’s too overwhelming to read them all. Some days I find inspiration in a line or a form or an idea. This week I found a first line from Ching-In Chen’s poem Breath for Metal.
Breath for Flesh
This a story I’ve kept inside my soft body. I’ve discovered
breath dissolves fever–practiced pulling in, hold, hold, hold– sigh.
I am being gentle with her, speaking softly through tears like a light rain in fall.
I chose to find beauty every day in the month of September. It’s everywhere, if you look. I’m sharing my photos with #septemberbeauty on Instagram. The photo I chose for today came in a text from my daughter who is overseeing a photo shoot in Florida for her ad agency. She was scheduled to go when Hurricane Idalia arrived.
I am lucky that my three daughters communicate almost daily in a group text with me. They send videos and photos and general check-ins. Last night Martha sent a photo of baby June at 8 months gnawing on a piece of pork. They are in the stage of trying out different foods with her. We all enjoyed the funny image.
Katherine sent a beach sunset photo with the message, “My evening.” We know she is working, so the image is not quite as stress-free as it looks, but I found it beautiful and hopeful.
South Walton Beach, Florida by Katherine Simon
I sit beside you feel your pain; smooth ruffled fur. Loving to the end.
Margaret Simon, haiku draft
I didn’t mean to place my sadness here, but poetry is like that. It pulls it out of your soul. My dog of 16 years is dying. I’m struggling to let him go.
Please write a small poem of your own in the comments. Encourage other writers with your comments.
When was the last time you wrote a card or letter and put a stamp on it and raised the little metal flag on your mailbox? With emails and texts, it’s easy to send a quick message to a friend. But when someone is sick or going through a tough time, many (women for the most part) turn to the old-fashioned card in the mail. I have quite a collection of cards from my multiple health issues. And many of them came from my blogging community.
I recently got a notice from WordPress: Happy 14th Anniversary! I have been blogging for 14 years. When I started, I had no idea what I was getting into. A writer friend was doing it, mostly to review books. So I tried it out. Found Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Challenge and through that community found Poetry Friday. I coordinate the Spiritual Thursday group and This Photo Wants to be a Poem.
All along the way I thought I was self-serving, getting my writing out in the world, craving comments and recognition. But something entirely unexpected and beautiful happened. I built a community of friends. Friends who see me, know me, care about me, and send me cards when I’m sick.
Today I celebrate You! You are a buoy, a gift of friendship, and my circle. Thanks for the comforting words, the beautiful cards, and especially for the thoughts and prayers. I am healing and taking each day step by step. I believe my experience will help me be a better friend to my widest of circles.
Cards left to right, top to bottom, from Connie Castille, Dani Burtsfield, Michelle Kogan, Linda Mitchell, Laura Shovan, and golden plant butterfly from Jan Annino.
(Message from Jan)
Down near the bottom of the crossed-out list of things you have to do today,
between “green thread” and “broccoli” you find that you have penciled “sunlight”
Creative endeavors are returning to me. It feels good and right. I recently read the poems in The New Yorker of August 28, 2023. The poem What’s Poetry Like? by Bianca Stone was popping out to me as a perfect erasure poem. I enjoy whittling down to essential words. I found another poem here with a slightly different meaning than hers. I hope she is the type of poet who knows the highest form of flattery is imitation.
Poetry
Poets play love essential moment, shared written
resuscitate wildlife disappearing ourselves
Poetry finds deficient words, immortal hunt
you’re trying to get back bittersweet tongue, all the emoting, all the surrender
reckless insight, hidden wisdom slips into truth
the form itself words that sing yet-
unspoken things wafting waiting to be opened.
Margaret Simon, erasure poem from What’s Poetry Like? by Bianca Stone The New Yorker, August 28, 2023
The Poetry Friday round-up today is with Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm.
Patricia sent the Spiritual Journey bloggers (all are welcome) her topic for September: “Life at the speed of grace.” This topic is fitting for me as I have been forced to slow down to a full stop because of illness. I have moved beyond why and into acceptance. Each day in September I am posting a photo on Instagram of #Septemberbeauty.
I’ve never thought of September as a beautiful month. It’s still hot. The school year is usually moving along quickly after Labor Day. But when I stop, when I look, notice nature and my immediate surroundings, I can see beauty.
Hummingbirds come in September. Since I’m home, I can sit for a while and watch them frolic. Yesterday, the male and female at my feeder mated right before my eyes. It was like a hummingbird tornado, how they twirled in a fury dance. Then flew off in separate ways.
Patricia wrote a small poem here. I’m borrowing a line to do a quick write of my own.
Grace is Here
Grace abides here– a hummingbird mating dance a flutter of evening owl.
Grace fills me– supermarket flowers a friend tells a story.
Grace heals me– words in a poetic card light from the window.
Patricia Franz sent me this photo a few weeks ago following Hurricane Hilary near La Jolla, CA. The photo was taken by her friend Lynette Barravecchia. This photo has a definite Pacific Coast vibe about it. I live near the Gulf Coast, and the Pacific behaves very differently, much rockier with large waves are to invite surfing. I don’t think I would feel safe wading into the waves. I love to watch them, though.
After the storm, near San Diego, California by Lynette Barravecchia.
A ghostly mist rises over ocean flow bidding mystery
Margaret Simon, draft
Where does this photo lead you? Are you drawn to the invitation to write? Leave your small poems in the comments. Encourage others with your responses.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I often find that when I read poetry, I am inspired to write poetry. Yesterday I read the poems in August 28, 2023 issue of the The New Yorker. I loved Major Jackson’s poemThe Nature of Memory. In this poem, he describes a happy memory using the specific names of his children. His final line grabbed me: “I hope they love themselves loud as that day,/ light-drunk, kicking up sand. I opened my notebook and poured out the story of Sunday afternoon as I observed my grandchildren Leo (4.5) and Stella (2.5), and their friend Nils, side-by-side creating their own art under the watchful yet permissive eye of my daughter. Did I ever allow such free art in my own children? I hope so.
Love Themselves Loud
I watch the side-by-side play of toddlers. Leo like a turtle crouched on the table laser-focused drawing a rocket heading to earth, a round blue and green ball. Stella paints her hands pressing layers of color into a star of hands. She moves
to her feet making them pink like her beach shoes. Nils beside her paints his hands and feet green– his body a canvas for a green monster.
Later they come together in toddler madness jumping from the top bunk. “Only jump onto the bean bag.” No one is injured before the game changes to Lego building and pizza.
I hope they love themselves loud as this day painting a landscape, making their mark.
Today is the first day of September and it comes with a full Blue Moon and slightly cooler temperatures pointing the way to fall. Ah, me! I breathe in deeply and sigh.
August has been a dark month for me, and I am just beginning to emerge from the cocoon of illness. When I asked the Inklings to study and use the tool of enjambment in a poem, I had no idea how my whole life would be enjambed. My hysterectomy in June had the worst possible complication, an opened and infected incision. I had a second surgery on Friday, August 18th. I was in the hospital for 5 days and in bed at home for 10 days following. As I begin to feel better and the cloud is lifting, I am cautiously optimistic that I am healing.
For the enjambment challenge, I offered my friends a model poem from former Louisiana poet laureate Jack Bedell.
Ghost Forest —Manchac, after Frank Relle’s photograph, “Alhambra”
1.
Backlit by city and refinery’s glow these cypress bones shimmer
on the still lake’s surface. It’s easy to see a storm’s
coming with the sky rolling gray overhead and the water
glass-calm. Even easier to know these trees have weathered
some rough winds, their branches here and there, pointing this
One early morning this week, I sat outside (at the urging of a close friend) and watched the bayou. This small draft of a poem came to me. I offer it here because it’s the only thing I have and doing this makes me feel normal again. Thanks to all of you who have expressed concern and sent cards and messages.
Is it the play of light on the surface or air bubbles moving over glass-calm
water I watch still, quiet bayou breathe, like me, slow and deliberate taking in life- giving oxygen.
We are trying to survive, bayou and I, trying to make this day meaningful all the while knowing breath is all that matters.
Margaret Simon, draft
Bayou Teche Sunset, by Margaret Simon
To see how other Inklings used enjambment, check out their posts.
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 