On our second day in Glasgow, Scotland, we walked to St. Mungo’s Cathedral. The cathedral is the oldest building in Glasgow, its foundations dating back to 1100s.
This photo was taken of the doorway into the cathedral. I was intrigued by the layers of marble and mortar work. Like these columns, our lives, our ancestry, are made of layers.
Can you hear the stories blowing in the wind of Scotland? Wrapping layer upon layer hiding our innermost beauty in the heart of hewn stone.
Margaret Simon, draft
Please write your own poem in the comments and support other writers 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.
A week ago, I was on a tour of Edinburgh Castle, the heart of the UNESCO preserved area of Edinburgh, Scotland. During the reign of Robert the Bruce, the whole castle was destroyed except St. Margaret’s Chapel. I was drawn in to the history of Margaret, Queen of Scots, and want to claim her for an ancestor. Her life was from 1047 to 1093. She was an unusual saint because she had eight children and was not a virgin or a martyr. Yet she followed the teachings of St. Benedict and was pious and generous.
Yesterday I read a “poem a day” by Damir Soden found here. The commentary included this quote about poetry, “Poetry being the most sophisticated way of dealing with language is therefore of utmost importance when it comes to preservation of one’s identity.”
I want to preserve memories of my trip to Scotland. Preserve the feeling of being taken back in time. Preserve my connection to my name.
Edinburgh Castle, Scotland
Is like a time capsule toured daily by thousands walking back through time’s doorway into St. Margaret’s small chapel finding a sanctuary most sacred place in Scotland atop the highest point of Castle Rock spared by Robert the Bruce— a resting place.
How her spirit caused his pause… We pause to imagine to inhale the soft scent of gunpowder to rediscover holiness in a place of violence.
Can you feel the longing?
St. Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest preserved building at Edinburgh Castle.Simple adornments in St. Margaret’s Chapel.Stained glass window of St. Margaret by Dr. Douglas Strachan in 1922.
There is a guild of St. Margaret that keeps the flowers in the chapel. Anyone with the name Margaret can be a part of this guild. We are encouraged to place flowers in our own churches on St. Margaret’s Day, November 16th. Here is a prayer from the booklet I bought (charitable donation).
O God our Father, who didst kindle a flame of divine love in the heart of thy servant Queen Margaret and didst by her humility and kindness show forth the way of royal service: grant that, encouraged by her example and strengthened by her fellowship, we who bear her name may follow her in the joyful spending of ourselves for others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen
Today is the first Poetry Friday of September and time for an Inklings challenge from Molly Hogan: Write a love note to something or someone or some place. Go big or go small! You might be inspired by José A. Alcántara’s Love Note to Silence. You can read it here.
Dear Silence,
We’ve had a budding relationship, the kind that begins with a small bouquet of roses at just the right time.
You come to me in sacred spaces of air and breath and love.
Today, your hand feels heavy. What do you want to say to me?
Let’s just stay this way, cheek to cheek feeling the softness of the moment.
Some might call you expectant as the end of a grand symphony seconds before the applause.
I welcome you with disquietude, asking you to teach me to accept this breath of calm.
Will you stay a little longer?
Margaret Simon, draft
St. Margaret’s chapel at Edinburgh Castle
I’ve just spent a glorious week in Scotland. I found sacred silence in the countryside, the wild winds, and in the castles and cathedrals. I’m too tired now after 24 hours of travel to write, but I will after I’ve had time to process it all. For now, leave your link below.
My butterfly garden is a wild world of sunflowers and passion vine intertwining with mandevilla and a bottle tree. I would be inclined to trim it all, but it’s interminably hot in August and the butterflies and hummingbirds love it. I am hopeful I’ll see Gulf fritillary caterpillars climbing around soon.
Today, I am offering the elfchen form. This form contains 11 words in 5 lines. (First line: 1 word, second line: 2 words, third line: 3 words, fourth line: 4 words, and fifth line: 1 word.) More about the form can be found on my post for Ethical ELA.
Sunflowers wiggle, wobble late summer breeze yellow as yellow is uplifting
Margaret Simon, draft
I will not be able to comment today as I am traveling. There will not be a Photo post next week. Please write a poem in the comments and support other writers with encouragement.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
One of our family’s spirit animals is the turtle. As my daughters were growing up, my husband would always stop for a turtle crossing the road. We never had a domestic turtle, but we spend time together in nature trying to spot turtles on a log.
Turtles have spiritual symbolism.
Trust your path. Strength and endurance Stability Ancient wisdom Longevity
“The turtle is a symbol of the World and the Earth, inspiring us to chart our own course with energy and determination.” (fauna-protect.com)
Recently, my husband and I were on a long drive and I got an alert on my phone from the Ring neighborhood alert system.
It was dark and I was getting a little punchy, but this announcement cracked me up.
I sent it to the girls in a text group.
My daughter sent a response, “Your small domestic turtle is safe and sound.” Along with a photo of our dog, Albert, perched on her lap.
Are you enjoying retirement? Isn’t retirement fun?
Questions I’ve heard nearly every day since retiring, but I haven’t settled into it quite like I thought I would. This morning my enneathought of the day said “Ignore your feelings.” Yeah, sure, you try!
In my notebook I wrote about this nagging anxiety, how every day I feel like there’s something I’ve forgotten to do. I had to buy a day planner. I’m making more lists than I ever did before. But I can’t shake the feeling.
A Box for my Anxiety
I’m putting anxiety away in a wooden box that latches with a key like the one for my childhood diary. Two matching tiny silver keys on a chain buried beneath bracelets where I can’t find them readily.
This feeling that belongs to me is useless, a hidden weed choking vibrant growth.
Be still, my sweet heart, you got this. You know what to do. Get busy.
Margaret Simon, draft
What feelings are you grappling with and need to put away?
Summer is winding down. Although, the temperatures remain high. Once again, I turned to teacher-writer-photographer Molly Hogan for a photo prompt. Molly captured this water strider in perfect stride to open up a world. The photo itself is a poem.
It’s a just right day for a haiku. Please consider writing a response poem. Leave encouraging comments for other writers.
Glass pebbles glide below water strider toes tapping into green.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
The altar flowers were purple and gold, a nod to LSU where my parents met.
This weekend my family and I celebrated the life of my mother, Dot Gibson. The funeral service was held at the church where I was baptized, where my parents were married, where my mother’s ashes are placed next to my father’s in the columbarium, St. James Episcopal Church in Jackson, MS.
The musical prelude was sung by my brother. He is a musician, and the song he sang was an original one he wrote about our parents. We were blessed to be raised by loving parents. They supported Hunter’s aspirations to be a performer, even when it didn’t seem like a practical vocation. In more recent years, Hunter has been performing at senior living places. My parents found their independent living apartment because Hunter had played there many times, and he felt it was a safe place for them.
Music has always been an integral part of my family’s life. Mom taught piano lessons and studied piano, receiving her masters and performing with the Chaminade Club of Jackson. She was on the founding board for the Music Forum of Jackson. Her legacy lives on in my brother.
Here are the words to his song, followed by a link to it on YouTube.
Reason That I Am
When I was just a boy, time went by in such a hurry.
Carefree days and tender nights, growing up without a worry.
Mother, Father, reasons for the man I am.
Don’t let go of the memory. Let it guide you to the truth. Don’t let go of the memories of the ones who tried to pave the way for you.
Even through the troubled years, love was always there to guide me. Not afraid to chase a dream. Knowing that you’d be there beside me.
Mother, Father, you’re the reason that I am.
Don’t let go of the memory. Let it guide you to the truth. Don’t let go of the memories of the ones who paved the way for you. The ones who never strayed from you. The ones who let you be just you.
The Roundup today is hosted by Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe. We switched dates, so I will round up on Friday, Sept. 5th.
My mother at the piano
After Packing my Suitcase for the Funeral
Then I turn to a portrait of you at the piano (Were you 12 or 13?), your smile the same one I saw in the last days when moving was hard. Your long fingers like a metronome holding rhythm on the bedding. At the funeral, we will cry. We will let you go, ashes to ashes and all. Sing you into heaven and praise the glow of the summer sky.
Margaret Simon, draft
Today I will be traveling to Mississippi where our family will gather and celebrate the life of my mother. I can’t seem to write a poem this summer that does not have her in it. Forgive me, but it seems necessary at this time.
Tabatha Yeatts of The Opposite of Indifference coordinates a poetry exchange. She sent me a poem she wrote based on a podcast she heard and thought of me. I love this Poetry Friday community and how we share poems as well as life events. Thanks, Tabatha for sharing your creativity with me.
Butterfly children
by Tabatha Yeatts
Jo Nagai, boy-scientist,
believed in love-memory,
thought his caterpillars greeted him
after becoming aeronauts, hovering
close as though he was
a dark-eyed flower.
Their memory not wing-scale thin,
but thick as honey.
He loved the before,
the tickle of their round bodies
held on his arm as he conducted his tests
so he shared their small pulse of discomfort.
He loved the after,
the wobbly wings,
the legs slim as a kite’s string.
Jo noted everything,
page after page,
as the butterflies responded
the same as their caterpillar child-selves.
No matter how great the metamorphosis
of being swaddled in the chrysalis
and rebuilt in the soup of creation,
even into the next generation,
young butterflies swooped into
the future’s flowers with messages
from their ancestors:
before you break open,
here’s what I know.
Inspired by Radiolab’s episode “Signal Hill: Caterpillar Roadshow” about a Japanese second-grader who scientifically studied what butterflies can remember.
One of my recent monarchs, “legs slim as a kite’s string.”
I wish I was a better photographer of birds. This one was taken with my phone out of my kitchen window. I wish you could see the red crown, but I do like the profile and how you see that sharp beak.
This tree is a satsuma tree that succumbed to the freeze this past January. I’m grateful we haven’t taken it down, though, so this beauty could come visit.
I’ve been taking an online poetry workshop with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. One of her mentor texts was a poem titled “Romance” by Timothy Liu. I borrowed the opening line for this poem.
Renew
There is nothing renewable about the frozen satsuma tree, unwieldy branches outside the kitchen window, grey with age, dead from winter’s storm.
Yet I see a small downy woodpecker tapping the old tree’s skin, jump-tap, jump-tap, searching for insects to eat.
How I search my fractured memory for signs of my mother, holding comfort of a long life lived, given over at the right time for renewal.
Margaret Simon, draft
Please consider writing your own small poem inspired by this photo. Respond to other writers with encouragement.
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 