Reflections on the Teche

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

I’m thinking of the song “How can I Keep from Singing.” This week of Open Write at Ethical ELA, I can’t keep from writing. Writing about my mother, every day. I am visiting her for her birthday which was Sunday. She turned 87. We took her out to a local Asian restaurant where my brother, a professional musician, was playing. Family gathered around the table. I rocked baby June who was getting a little tired. We took a four generation photo. In all outward appearances, this was a wonderful celebration. In the video, my mother doesn’t take her eyes off of my brother as she sings along.

However, the true picture is one of a family slowly losing their matriarch to devastating Alzheimer’s disease. How can I keep from writing? How can we keep from singing? Music and singing, laughter and poetry bring me healing and bittersweet joy.

The Irony of Roles Reversed

I nursed three babies
while she watched
milk flow–mother nurture.

She holds a baby doll
while I watch
tender rocking–daughter lost.

She doesn’t call my name.

Margaret Simon, Sevenling (Prompt on Ethical ELA)

I have also set up a fundraising page for The Longest Day, a fundraising even for the Alzheimer’s Association. If you would like to consider a donation, my page is located at this link.

I cannot stop the disease from taking my mother, but I can do this one small thing to prayerfully hope that others do not have to experience this. My sister-in-law is making bracelets as thank you gifts for a donation of $50 or more. If you donate, email me your home address if you would like a bracelet pictured below.

I grew up in North Jackson, Mississippi in the 60’s and 70’s. In those days, kids were let loose in the summers to explore. I didn’t have to go far because we had a creek beyond the fence of our backyard at 375 Beechcrest Drive (I loved that our address held a rhyme.). The creek was called Purple Creek. We’d spend endless days exploring the woods beyond the waterfall. This waterfall was man-made with brick-a-brack concrete. It was also a place where hooligans would party at night, leaving behind a sundry of whiskey bottles. I found it all quite disgusting. But there was a tree I especially loved that grew in an open grove. I’d heard tales that some campers had left a campfire burning, so it had burned all but the remaining surviving tree. I can’t recall what kind of tree it was, but it provided shade on a summer’s day.

I am back at Purple Creek today, a little farther north and in a more pristine area of office buildings and hotels. There is still the same familiar smell. As I walked this morning, I had to dodge Canada Geese turds. Coming home at my age feels comforting and awkward. I long for the child I used to be. And I long for the mother my mother used to be. She is happily living in a memory care facility close by. She’s not the same and neither am I. Role reversal. However, I am coming to accept it all and embrace the moments we do have together.

The Longest Way

to Purple Creek
was over the waterfall,
a trickle over concrete–
Toe-dip
into cool sand,

Bare-footed, looking out
for broken glass
for venomous snakes.
Then the hike
into Pine
Forest
lingering scent of campfire
echo of bobwhite, bobwhite!

Joy we didn’t know
we owned
running behind Lucky,
our cocker-poo
who liked to chase cars,
so we took him along.

I remember Lucky’s soft cream-curls,
my favorite survival tree,
long summer days
away from home
within earshot
of a call to dinner–
pure
Happiness.

After Nikki Giovanni “The Longest Way ‘Round”

Margaret Simon, draft