Poetry Friday round-up is with Carol at Carol’s Corner.
As I prepared this PF post, I had to go through new steps in WordPress that annoyed me. It seems once you get a sense of comfort with a platform, someone thinks it’s a good idea to change it up. Is anyone else struggling with the new way to insert an image? What a rigamarole!
I subscribe to Merriam-Webster’s word of the day. On June 4th, the WOD was Rigmarole, not rigamarole as I had always used. My curiosity got hold as well as my inner poet. I turned to a form that my Swagger partner, poet-teacher friend, Heidi Mordhorst invented–the definito.
The rules are a free verse poem of 8-12 lines that ends in the word being defined. Heidi being Heidi usually includes word play aspects as well.
A list of verse, ragman roll persisted to mean foolish roll of tongue, rattling-on-confusing set of directions, steps here then there rambling forward to a destination, required mouse-trap of a rat-race ending in the achievement of a goal– Rigmarole.
This week’s photo comes from Bonne Terre Louisiana, studio, retreat, and farm stay in Breaux Bridge, LA. My friend Jen Gray owns this farm and retreat center. I haven’t been in a few years due to the pandemic, but it’s on my list for this summer. Her Instagram feed is creative and artistic.
Elder flowers are in full bloom. They grow wild and free and scent the early summer air. I found that elder flowers have medicinal qualities that I did not know about. There is always more to learn about Mother Nature and her miracles.
Elderflowers by Jen Gray
Buds popcorn as summer sunshine brightens. Elder flowers wake, flare up the forest lair, offer scented medicine. Buds to blooms to berries to wine– Like rainbow gold, a treasure to find.
Margaret Simon, nonet draft
Please join in with your own small poem draft in the comments. Encourage other writers with comments. Thanks for stopping by.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Recently I listened to the podcast “We Can Do Hard Things” with Glennon Doyle. The theme was Fun. Their definition of fun came from Abby Wombach who said that fun is when you enter into an activity without knowing the outcome. That is the definition of every day for a toddler.
Monday was the first day of Camp Mamoo. (Thomas (21 months) calls me “Mamoo”) He and his mother, daughter Katherine, are visiting and cousin Leo, 2 1/2, spent the night. Leo has come to know that when Mamére takes him someplace, it will be fun. “Going to ‘nother fun place.”
“Today we are going to a farm.”
“Yay!”
When we passed a horse, Leo yelled, “I saw a horse. That’s great!”
The farm is in nearby St. Martinville. Belle Ècorce Farms sells goat cheese in a small portable using the honor system, a locked money box. A small town luxury.
When we got to the farm, we walked around to see some of the animals. The boys were mesmerized. Or scared.
The loose animals, rooster, chickens, and geese were particularly frightening. A billy goat in a fence came up and climbed onto the fence, expecting something good to eat.
“You don’t have to get close. Just watch.” The boys stood still as statues to watch the billy goat.
I haven’t decided yet if this was a fun experience. The boys were easy. They stayed close to us, no run and chase games. We talked on the way home.
“What did we see at the farm?”
“Moo,” says Thomas.
“Umm, rooster!” says Leo.
All I know for sure is that a day with toddlers is a day of Fun.
Poetry Friday round-up is here! Scroll to the bottom to add your link.
Last month I participated in two challenges: Spark and Sunday Swaggers. Spark is an exchange between writer and artist led by Amy Souza. I partnered with Jone MacCulloch. I sent her a poem. She sent me this amazing photograph.
Lady Bird Johnson Grove by Jone Rush MacCulloch
How Do We Stand?
I go to Lady Bird Johnson Grove to be among these giant trees.
Fenced forest of ten thousand branches diffuses blue sky radiation illuminating tunnels in the midst
of roots ungrounded–a path to the great unknown.
Moved by stillness, we pass ancient ruins, an army of roots intertwined. I’ll lock arms with you
through dark spaces where rays of light are swallowed and breathe in blue forever.
Margaret Simon, all rights reserved
Molly Hogan challenged our Sunday Swagger poetry group to write after Cheryl Dumesnil’s Today’s Sermon. I created a collage. Sometimes doing this helps me focus and inspires creative juices. After playing with collage and word collecting, I pulled together a poem using the anaphora of Today’s Poem.
For 2021, I chose Inspire as my guiding One Little Word. How’s it going? Truth be told, I’m tired. This is our last day of school. This has been a weird year. Long in so many ways. Yet here we are again. Summer sun hangs high in the sky. Temperatures rise, and I crave the scent of chlorine and sunscreen.
Last week on a day when I was cleaning up and wondering how it is that I keep so much stuff from year to year, my colleague Erica came into my room. She teaches 4th grade next door to me, and I teach her daughter in gifted. She said, “I was channeling my best Margaret Simon. Look what we did! Black-out poetry!” She was so excited to show me the results.
As I think about inspire, I count the ways in which others inspire me; Artists, poets, musicians, all fill me with the desire to create. I hadn’t thought about how I inspire others. The 4th grade black-out poems made my heart swell. Erica knew it would.
Inspire is a communication of the heart, a creative connection, a gift to the world.
beautiful spring day no idea what was in store for me too perfect
This is (finally) our last week of school. Yesterday was my last day with my student Kaia. I arranged for the lead volunteer of the school garden, Jennie, to meet us in the garden for a tour of the plants there. We picked ripe plump blackberries. Loud mockingbirds serenaded us (or maybe they were shouting, “Get out!”). So much wildlife right there in the playground.
The garden had been neglected for 14 months since Covid prevented volunteers from gathering as well as the after school garden club. Overgrown vines and a few hurricanes had damaged the pergola structure, so the school maintenance crew tore it down. Jennie explained there was a plan for a new structure that would be sturdier, but this new greenhouse-like building would take funding.
I perked up! This is something Kaia is really good at, using her voice for change. I suggested to her that she gather information and write a letter to the school board. She did and I sent it by email to our superintendent. By 3:30, she responded that she had talked it over with the superintendent of maintenance and the garden “outdoor classroom” would be ready for the fall. How cool is that!
Of course, while I was in the garden I took pictures. Today’s photo prompt is a nest we found tucked into a tree. The tree had large thorns, but I managed to get my arm in for a shot. No eggs, but maybe that was why Sir Mockingbird was so angry.
A nest can be a garden watcher, songbird nurturer, the pot at the end of a rainbow.
Margaret Simon (with nod to Laura Purdie Salas’s Can Be series)
Please join me today in the “Secret Garden” and write a small poem response in the comments. Be sure to support other writers with your comments.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I don’t remember who recommended The Isolation Journals by Suleika Jaouad as a place to find prompts for writing, but on Sunday morning I was sitting with this idea of dwelling in possibility from Rhonda Willers.
Art made by Rhonda Willers
Saturday had been a full afternoon of Leo, my 2 1/2 year-old grandson. With his mom, my daughter, we attended a party in a small town, a gathering attended by some of Maggie’s high school friends, there with lots of young children. So much happens in 15 months of separation. Babies were born. Babies became toddlers. Toddlers became children. And they were all so happy to see each other.
At first Leo held up the wall.
Shy Leo watches the party from afar.
There was a yellow school bus parked in front of the building, a wonderful playground for toddlers who love to pretend to drive and fix things, curious and full of possibility. Where are we going? Who’s coming along. “The wheels on the bus…”
“Go round and round,” an echo from a nearby grandpa.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m a little obsessed,” pointing at Leo in the driver’s seat.
“I am, too,” he replied pointing to the toddler opening and closing the bus door with the handle.
Each of us knew what a bus was for. We shared that we were both elementary school teachers. But today, we were filled with the possibilities of where our grandchildren will take us.
“Look, Mamere, I’m driving the bus!”
A teenage girl with braces was painting faces. Leo stepped up shyly and sat completely still as she painted a Spiderman mask over his eyes. Looking around there were about 4 or 5 boys of various ages all wearing Spiderman masks. They were transformed into super heroes able to run, climb, fall and get back up with newfound confidence.
Transformation into Spiderman
I was chatting with a former boyfriend of Maggie’s, now a father of two, about his kids. He pointed them out and said, “He’s two and she’s almost six. This is the best time.” Whether he meant being past the scary baby stage or beyond worries about pregnancy or being free to go to parties and take your kids with you, he was right. Even for me, as the Mamere tagging along. This is the best time, dwelling in possibility.
“Be a good steward of your gifts. Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears. Be by yourself as often as you can. Walk. Take the phone off the hook. Work regular hours.”
Jane Kenyon, Writer’s Almanac May 23, 2021
I’m keeping Jane Kenyon’s quote as a summer goal.
I read a prompt on Denise Krebs’ blog, Dare to Care, about taking a mentor text and writing its opposite. I think the prompt originated with Jericho Brown. I had saved a Jane Kenyon poem because I wanted to use it as a mentor text.
Inertia
by Jane Kenyon
My head was heavy, heavy; so was the atmosphere. I had to ask two times before my hand would scratch my ear. I thought I should be out and doing! The grass, for one thing, needed mowing.
Just then a centipede reared from the spine of my open dictionary. lt tried the air with enterprising feelers, then made its way along the gorge between 202 and 203. The valley of the shadow of death came to mind inexorably.
I enjoyed playing this game, using a thesaurus to find antonyms. You should give it a try sometime.
Energy
Mirror Poem
My toes were light, light; so was the earth. I had to half question why my finger scratched my nose. I didn’t think I should be inside and lazy! The sky, for one thing, needed viewing.
After a while, a mosquito flew over the belly of my open notebook. It tried the air with indolent wings, then made its way along the nibble between scar and creativity. A Cricket in Times Square came to mind doubtfully.
It must be easy for the right wing to know what the left is doing. and how, on such an afternoon, when the earth is bright and attentive, how does it end with feeling orderly and lighthearted?
Well, it had its fill of poetry. I watched it pull its body under the crease of the page, and appear in a stain on my finger.
You know how sometimes without any prompting from you a “memory” pops up on your phone, a photo that you’d totally forgotten about and most often, enjoy seeing again. Jogging a memory of another time and place. But I’ve noticed when it comes to flowers, the memories are a repeated vision of the flower I took a picture of yesterday. That happened to me twice this week. Blooming seems so miraculous and random and something we have little control over. It just happens. There is consistency in the blooming of a flower. They come back around again.
This week I took a picture of this amazing gladiola. I shared a small poem in response on my Instagram.
This May morning shows its gladiola heart sipping summer sun. Margaret Simon, #haiku #poemsofpresence
I found a similar photo in my phone album from a year ago. Last year during lock down when I was walking every day.
On Monday, I heard a call for poems from Kwame Alexander on NPR. He creates crowdsourced poems based on small poems people send in. This week’s prompt was from Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I Rise.” I wrote and sent in this small poem.
Still, I rise with the sun following a path through watermint where the scent fills me.
Still, I rise to feel her gentle kicks inside a waterwomb knowing love grows from my seed.
Still, I rise to watch ducklings drop to waterglory following Mama hen through fervent streams.
Margaret Simon, all rights reserved
So I rise each day for a walk. I take photographs of flowers again and again. I will keep taking photos of flowers. Why not? They make me happy!
This Canna Lily came back after the big freeze. I take a picture of it every year.
Gardenia is my favorite scent. I’ve been unsuccessful at the growing of a gardenia bush. For now, I enjoy cut ones in a vase in the church hall.
My friend, poet-librarian, Linda Mitchell nudged me to follow her colleague Hope Dublin’s Instagram @hopesview2021. As I perused her amazing photographs, this one grabbed me. It seemed to be asking to be a poem.
Photo by Hope Dublin
I take pictures of things that hold beauty or intrigue. Sometimes it is a bit of both.
I can’t wait to read the words inspired by the photo. It was taken at Riverview Cemetery in Strasburg, Virginia. The title of the book is The Last Unicorn, a fantasy novel by Peter S. Beagle, published in 1968. I go on a lot of walks and one of my favorite places to walk is a cemetery. They are peaceful, beautiful, filled with hints at history, or stories waiting to be told.
I should also tell you that I discovered the book in a little free library and happened to be carrying it on my walk. I put it down to take a picture and thought it made a more interesting image than the gravestone I was originally going to take a picture of at the time. The book was opened on a random page but happened to be page 13.
Hope Dublin
Join me today in this cemetery with your book in hand. What is it about? Why do you carry it with you? Who is present in this place? Write a small poem in the comments or link to your blogpost. Leave encouraging comments for other writers. (I am happy with my draft, and that is not something I say every day.)
Sometimes we carve our stories onto headstones for the world to notice.
Sometimes our stories hide inside dandelion seeds blowing in the wind.
Sometimes, our stories are told over & over time until someone has memorized the words.
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 