I’ve been participating in VerseLove over at Ethical ELA. Today, Fran Haley invited us to write a triolet. This is a form I find challenging because the repeated lines, while they should be easy, make it hard to create an original poem in which the flow doesn’t seemed forced.
I love nature and observing the intimacy of birds. Recently I witnessed a cardinal couple feeding. Such a sweet moment to see the male feeding the female. In case you are wondering, I intentionally changed the last line to play with metaphor.
Looking at the calendar-chart plan for this month, I realize I haven’t written a cinquain yet. This form is a five-lined verse with a syllable count 2, 4, 6, 8, 2. Yesterday was the most perfect spring day after a raging storm the night before. The air was breezy with a touch of cool. Perfect canoeing weather, so Jeff and I seized the day and paddled for a couple hours. One of our goals for each paddle is to clean up crap junk from the bayou. Yesterday we retrieved a basketball, a soccer ball, and a few cans and water bottles, one large piece of styrofoam. A small part, but we had a good time finding and trying to retrieve it.
Notice how light dances on bayou’s belly rolls washing us with soothing hopeful Nurture
I got sidetracked from using the daily calendar that Molly and I created for our National Poetry Month Project. Even though we decided it was flexible and not a commitment, I wanted to check off another form with today’s poem.
One of my favorite forms for playing around with words is Heidi Mordhorst’s Definito. What a clever form! It’s a poem for children of 8-12 lines that uses word play to define a word. I had a draft started about the word Shenanigans. Isn’t that a fun word to say? After spending a night with grandson #2, I was taken back to it.
This week was hard but good. I’ve been busy. That helps. One year ago my father died. It’s been a whole year of missing him. I’m getting better at dealing with grief. But somehow it bubbles up when I write. The Ethical ELA #VerseLove prompt today was from Allison Berryhill was to write a poem about what you missed. Check the prompt here. I recall a Ted Kooser poem about what a loved one who passed was missing on a fine spring day. I can’t find it, but if you know it, please let me know.
What you Missed the Year You’ve been Gone
Since you’ve been gone, spring sprang again with bright cypress green and pops of buttercups along the roadway.
Baby June was born on winter’s solstice. She’s blooming, too. You’d want to make raspberries on her strawberry cheeks.
Since you’ve been gone, we’ve moved Mom twice finding better and better care for her. We think you’d approve
because I walked beside a woman with a dog who told me about her mother. We talked and talked
then she said her name was Beverly like your favorite niece whose southern drawl comforted like a soft pillow.
I miss you on days like this, when the birds sing opera, the sun hides behind the clouds. I kiss your great grandson.
He’s forgotten you died and says, “Where’s Pop?” I haven’t forgotten, but I think I see you in his smile.
Today’s Poetry Friday Round up is with Jone, a gentle creative who always holds others up on her strong shoulders. Today she is gathering classic found poems. I forgot to do one. I have a good excuse. I’m presenting today at the Fay B. Kaigler Book Festival in Hattiesburg, MS with my friend and fellow children’s book author Leslie Helakoski. But I don’t like missing out, so I may try to get to it sometime this weekend. At Mary Lee’s post, I found a link to a poem video done by Jone’s student, Kimberly Taylor. It’s an amazingly powerful interpretation of Mary Lee’s poem Dandelions.
Leslie wrote a book entitled “Are Your Stars Like My Stars?” It’s a beautiful book about diversity in perspective using a patterned phrase i.e.”Is your blue like my blue?” I read the book to my students and had them write their own poem based on the pattern. Using blank books, they turned their poems into books. I’ll be sharing these with our session participants today. I wanted to feature Adelyn’s poem today. When she wrote it, it brought tears to my eyes because at such a young age of 10, she sees with more wisdom than many adults. And this gives me hope. Poetry gives me hope. Children’s book authors give me hope. You give me hope.
Do You Like What I Like?
Staring at the stars in cozy blankets, porch bound. Are your stars like mine? A fluff in my arms, a fuzz in my head. Do you sleep like me?
Hugging them tight, don’t want to let go. Do you love like I do?
When you’re sitting down, about to eat your food, whether it’s makizushi, chimichurri or gumbo. Think, do I do what you do?
I have trouble counting by eights but love doing equations. Do you do math like I do?
I read some advanced books and read lots of chapter books. Do you read like I do?
Sometimes when I get yelled at or I try to tell someone something and they don’t listen, I get overwhelmed and sometimes cry. Are your feelings like my feelings?
I have dirty blonde hair and blue eyes and freckles. Are your features like my features?
I like the winter but summer not that much. Do you like seasons like I do?
When you lay down in bed, getting ready to sleep, do you ever think of these things like I do?
Do you ever think about how different other people could be and think about how different you are from others?
We are all different and that’s okay. As long as you are, YOURSELF
Do you believe in signs? Rainbows, red birds, messages from our loved ones? I’ve been looking for a sign from my father. Some people say I’m trying too hard. On Tuesday, my brother, his wife, and I were touring assisted living facilities for my mother. She has Alzheimer’s and is living in an independent living facility. It’s getting harder to find good caretakers who understand the disease. Kara, my sister-in-law, told me when we pulled into one of the places we were touring, there was a red bird above the parking lot sign that read, “For future residents.” Whether it was a sign or a coincidence, we don’t know. But humans will human, and we believe Dad was letting us know we were doing the right thing.
I’ve been following a number of different poetry projects this month. My friend and fellow Inkling Catherine Flynn is using a form she is modeling after a book Q is for Duck to write short poems about Hope. We can all use more hope these days, so today I am borrowing her form.
I’m traveling today in Mississippi from Jackson where I grew up and my mother and brother still live to Hattiesburg for the Fay Kaigler Book Festival where I’ll be presenting on Friday. I won’t have much time to respond to poem posts, but I invite you to drive along the southern highways and see the buttercups in bloom. Write your own poem in whatever form you choose in the comments. Support other writers with encouraging responses.
B is for Hope
because
buttercups bloom along the roadside, opening pink palms to a foggy morning inviting me to … presence.
Margaret Simon, draft
The Progressive Poem is with Dave Roller, Leap Of Dave.
I am following #VerseLove at Ethical ELA. A few days ago the prompt was taken from a poem by Clint Smith (linked here). Spending time back in my home town of Jackson, MS always brings up memories. When I was 15, I spent my summer volunteering at a church sponsored camp for underprivileged children who were referred by their teachers as struggling readers. The experience launched me into a lifetime career of teaching. Do you remember why you became a teacher? or whatever your chosen career? Why do we make these choices in life? How do we know it’s the right choice? I’ve always known teaching was right for me.
I became a teacher the summer I turned 15, volunteering for “Operation Life Enrichment” Ole’!
We gathered the underprivileged children from the dregs of Jackson Public Schools– children struggling to read and know things like zoo animals and swimming pools and reciting the ABC song.
Their skin was the color of cafe ole, smooth caffeine that entered my veins in their hugs, their fingers in my soft blonde hair.
I learned how to cradle their heads, singing to them the lyrical language of picture books.
I knew then as I know now my passion, my calling, my purpose is teaching.
Margaret Simon, draft
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I traveled north to Mississippi to be with my mother for Easter. Since I don’t see her every day, it’s hard to know what to expect. She was surprised and overjoyed to see me. She knew my name. It was like old times, except when she’d start a sentence, she would pause because something was lost. I got her dressed for Easter services and discovered she had pajama pants on underneath her jeans. She misinterpreted my directions to the caretaker and said, “Now look what you did. I have to take all these pills.”
Church was the balm! We arrived early and were able to hear the brass ensemble and the choir practice. Mom sang along. She used to be an alto in the church choir. She can still read all the words and the notes. Alzheimer’s is a puzzling disease. She could call out names I had forgotten in my years away, and then tell me that Dad would be the usher today. Dad’s been gone almost a year. One lucid moment, she said, “I wish John (my father) was here. I’m doing OK, but I just think he would love this service.” Both of my parents passed down to me a love a good Episcopal ceremony with incense, bells, and trumpets!
In her book, Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer speaks about ceremony and its importance in our traditions, in our souls. I felt this strong connection sitting next to Mom on Easter Sunday. I will hold onto this moment when things get harder.
Ceremony
breathes life into an ordinary day. My mother next to me laughs and remembers all the words, even the alto part. We sing in ceremony together, closing a circle of love around us– the two of us mother daughter incense, gerber daisies, brass bugling, a woman preaching, “It is not raining! New life is the path beyond the empty tomb.” We look at each other with glowing tears. I see her love. We celebrate life on an extraordinary day.
Happy Easter! I gave myself permission to not post today, to take a day off after writing 31 Slices of Life in March and 7 poems-a-day, but inspiration comes as inspiration will. On Facebook, I was tagged by a friend who knows I love birds, Louisiana wildlife, and photography. This photo by Gary Meyers is an amazing photo of roseate spoonbills in flight. I remembered that I wrote a poem once about the bird. One of the ideas Molly and I had for our poetry project was to revise an old poem, so what better exercise to do when I don’t want to write. I borrowed the photo and created a Canva to include the poem.
The Progressive Poem is with my friend, Inkling, best librarian poet I know, Linda Mitchell. Hope to this link to see her Easter bunny gift of a line.
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 