Welcome to This Photo Wants to be a Poem, a weekly poetry prompt modeled after Laura Purdie Salas’s 15 Words or Less. We invite you to write a small poem in the comments and write encouraging comments to other writers. No judgements here. Just playing with words.
Today’s photo comes from poet Donna Smith. She lives in Maine and recently biked near the Kennebec River. Maine is a place I’ve never been, but I imagine summer is for outdoors. Not like in Louisiana where you can only tolerate short bursts outside. Donna has returned to Maine after spending some time in Pennsylvania. She is happy to be back. On Facebook she draws a squiggle and writes a poem each day. Here’s a recent one:
The Stairs
The stairs go up The stairs go down They also turn and Turn around They go from here And end up there Just when you think You know just where The stairs will lead You to a place You’ve never set your foot or face But don’t despair Don’t cry or mope The stairs mean that There’s always hope Hope for a place Of peace and love Of open doors And blue above I know it’s there And you can, too Step up, step down Keep stepping true. Then all at once You will arrive The steps lead you To full alive.
By Donna JT Smith, 8/18/2020
“Me and my bike relaxing by the Kennebec on a beautiful summer evening.” by Donna Smith
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Temperatures are high in these parts, and the virus doesn’t care. I haven’t seen my parents in person since Christmas. My mother sent me a Portal that works like Facetime through Facebook Messenger. The screen props up on the counter in the kitchen. Every time Leo (20 months) comes over, he points to it and says “Pop!” That’s my dad. That’s how he knows them, through the Portal.
My father has not been big on social media, but in the last month, he’s posting almost daily reports, “Reports from an independent retirement home.” They have been on lockdown for two weeks and were finally released on Saturday (Covid tests negative) to go downstairs for meals again. Here is one of my dad’s posts.
What does one look forward to when you are in quarantine? It’s different I imagine for everyone. As days go by, the options diminish. It gets down to such things as the next nap, the next meal, the next unexpected package, even the mail. Then there’s TV, which ends up being a search for the never found good program. My solace is a good book, which often ends up being the next nap. And so the circle goes on and on. The challenge becomes the acknowledgment that where you are is where you are and you’d better adjust to it. Part of the adjustment is to occasionally posting my thoughts. I hope you don’t mind.
John Gibson
Dad doesn’t know it, but I’m collecting his posts. I started doing this thinking I’d make a found poem, but now I like the way they speak themselves, full of his unique voice.
Andy Schoenborn posted the #OpenWrite prompt on Monday’s Ethical ELA. (Click the link to see the full prompt and read some amazing poetic responses.) Here is my poem draft:
My dog, Charlie
Weather Report
The dog lies at my feet on the cold floor because Heat is unbearable at 91 in dog years, the age of Mac in human years, when the virus took him.
Heat doesn’t care if you are young or old or if you have people who love you. I see my parents through a screen. Their weather changes daily with temperature checks, sticks up the nose. (It was reported that my dad yelled from the pain.) Funny if we didn’t care so much about isolation, the comfort of a friend to eat ice cream with.
Hurricanes come in late summer when we’ve let our guard down, when masks fall to our chins, when we just want to hug because another person, human, grandmother, friend has died.
The weather channel broadcasts 24 hours a map covered in red.
On Tuesday I treated myself to a virtual writing marathon sponsored by the National Writing Project. #WriteAcrossAmerica. I showed up for the last stop on a journey across the country. I’m sorry I missed out on all the other stops. This last one was in New Orleans where the writing marathon originated.
Years ago I would spend some time each summer at the New Orleans Writing Marathon organized by the Southeastern Louisiana Writing Project. Three to four days of walking the French Quarter and writing led to lifelong friendships and a few memorable writing pieces.
Unfortunately, the virtual marathon happened in my own house through a screen, but because of the miracle of technology, I was able to connect with new friends and see some old ones. We had three writing sessions and shared in small break out rooms.
The third writing session led me to this poem, still quite drafty. I was just getting my writing muscle to work and the whole thing was over, not a marathon at all, but a quick 75 minute sprint.
Muses
Muses have a lost sense of time. They live in the back of Napoleon’s Bar drinking Pim’s Cups.
I’ve asked them to visit me here on the bayou steeped in cafe au lait brown buzzing with cicada song.
They come in the long shadows of a summer afternoon. or in the fractal face of a sunflower in bloom.
Muses mock me with their silver linings, here then there, then nowhere, hiding in plain sight.
Welcome to This Photo Wants to be a Poem, a weekly poetry prompt modeled after Laura Purdie Salas’s 15 Words or Less. We invite you to write a small poem in the comments and write encouraging comments to other writers. No judgements here. Just playing with words.
Today’s photo comes from teacher/poet/photographer Molly Hogan. She lives in Maine and recently photographed the marsh. This photo with its sepia tones attracted me. The soothing sway of nature keeps me sane these days, and I am grateful for Molly and others who post such wonderful natural landscapes.
Marsh by Molly Hogan
In this yellow light, an elegant ballet of marsh grasses shine.
Today is my 38th wedding anniversary. Yesterday I was buying a last minute card for my husband, and I told the clerk, “I almost forgot; tomorrow is my 38th wedding anniversary.”
She smiled under her mask and behind plexiglass and said, “That’s so nice.” Something in her voice made me hear her longing for love in her own life.
I replied, “It is nice when you find the right one.”
I’ve been blessed I found him so early in my life. I was not yet 21 when I walked down a long, candlelit aisle knowing with confidence I was doing the best thing I could ever do. And I was so right!
On Sundays we change the sheets. Sometimes he’ll put them back on the bed before I know it, a sweet surprise. And sometimes we make the bed together. I am reminded of this love poem by Li-Young Lee from Behind My Eyes. Li-Young Lee turns this chore into a love song.
to hold :: li-young lee
So we’re dust. In the meantime, my wife and I make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet, we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight, measuring by eye as it falls into alignment between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I’m lucky, she’ll remember a recent dream and tell me.
One day we’ll lie down and not get up. One day, all we guard will be surrendered.
Until then, we’ll go on learning to recognize what we love, and what it takes to tend what isn’t for our having. So often, fear has led me to abandon what I know I must relinquish in time. But for the moment, I’ll listen to her dream, and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling more and more detail into the light of a joint and fragile keeping.
I am rounding up Spiritual Thursday posts with inLinkz at the end of this post.
Sometimes when I try to write, I do lots of other things. My mind wanders and wanders, like a butterfly trying to light upon the perfect flower. I really don’t recall where my mind was when I suggested the topic of Spiritual Art for this month’s Spiritual Journey posts. It was probably way back in January when our lives were rocking along at a normal pace in a normal way.
I have to admit this extended time of isolation has been easy for this introvert. I do not mind quiet time. I am rarely bored, but the losses are getting too close for comfort. Our local newspaper logs an average of 10 obituaries a day. We are facing a delay to the start of school. The news goes from bad to worse. Finding some art to bury my head into would be welcome.
In my sorting and shifting to find more distraction, I opened the latest Smithsonian Magazine and found this image.
Nicola Muirhead created this image by putting dishwashing liquid on a Polaroid photograph of her husband and her hands touching. She described her process, “Contact and physical connection are, of course, two of the most dangerous things you can do during the pandemic with someone outside your household. I have been so grateful to have my partner, Faraz, with me during this time, and we are able to hug and kiss and touch. Still, sometimes even touching your loved one can be filled with anxiety. When he goes out for the shopping or I for a walk, and return home, there is always the fear of carrying back the coronavirus. These are the thoughts I have had during the pandemic—adding to the anxiety of lockdown. This Polaroid was washed and then disinfected with bleach. I used dishing washing soap around the edges of the frame to draw the viewer into the hands touching, distorting everything else around it. (Nicola Muirhead)“
Art can help us know more about ourselves. Observing this art, I found myself wanting to be the hand feeling the loving touch of another. Touch is what I miss most. I see my children (grown adults), but I don’t touch them. I spend time with my mother-in-law outside at a distance. I connect with my parents through Facetime. My mother commented that if I came to visit, I would be able to see her outside at a distance with a mask, but she doesn’t want that. She wants to hug me. I get it. We are starving for those simple hugs, the touch of the hand, the gesture of love.
Nicola Muirhead applied the chemicals that now define our days, bleach, hand sanitizer, dishwashing liquid, to every day photographs. What happens when we apply disinfectant to our relationships, to our spiritual life? This pandemic will change us; it has changed us. Perhaps we will learn the value of connectedness. Perhaps we will be more resilient. And perhaps we will find a resurrection.
This photo is symbolic to me of our times, clouds masking light. It was taken by my brother, Hunter Gibson, on the night of the full moon. Each week I think I won’t find a photo, and something always appears. We find solace as well as mysticism in the moon.
Write a small poem of 16 words or so in response to this image. Place your poem in the comments and support a few writers with your encouraging comments. Low pressure. Open your imagination and write.
Jaded Moon by Hunter Gibson
Face your inner fright A silhouette by Master Moon Gator of the night
Last week when I hosted Poetry Friday, I asked readers to write a line or two answering the question “What is Poetry?” To create this crowsourced poem, I printed out the lines and cut them up and played with the arrangement like a child with a new puzzle. It was fun. My writing group helped me fit in everyone’s contribution.
What is Poetry? crowdsourced poem by Poetry Friday bloggers
A poem is a whisper of words that opens a secret door and invites you to walk through, a song your heart sings.
Poetry is our quickening to the life-song pulsing in us and through us, a leaf fluttering in the breeze, waves crashing, a glimpse into another soul.
Poetry balances our soul and begs our action, a pratfall or a lift, beauty never before shown, truth never before known.
Poetry is a whisper of life, distilled essence, an echo full of vibrancy and emotion, fed by the waters of creativity.
Poetry is a sudoku of words infused with energy, story, and song; words arranged to nourish the soul, truth at a slant put to music.
Poetry is a hidden treasure voicing what is inside and ready to soar outward, a butterfly caught in my net, then released.
Poetry is concentrated language, our very best words squeezed into tight spaces creating an essential spark, a kiss, a blessing, the lake dancing with the sunrise… And on and on and on!
Contributors include: Jan Annino, Michelle Kogan, Linda Mitchell, Molly Hogan, Mary Lee Hahn, Linda Kulp Trout, Little Willow, Fran Haley, Matt Forrest Esenwine, Carol Varsalona, Karen Edmisten, Alan J. Wright, Irene Latham, Catherine Flynn, Tim Gels, Janice Scully, Laura Purdie Salas, Ramona Behnke, Janet Fagel.
Welcome to my weekly photo writing prompt. Take a peaceful moment to lose yourself in words. Write a poem of 16 words or so and place it in the comments. Write encouraging words to others by commenting on their poems. This week we are writing with the hashtag poeticdiversion that Molly Hogan started on Twitter.
This week’s image comes from my friend and neighbor James Edmunds. James does a lot of creative work including photography. I once took a class from him about iPhone photography and learned some cool tricks. I don’t know if he took this picture with his phone, but I doubt it. James, if you stop by, let us know.
Way down south here we’ve been getting a great deal of rain lately. The resurrection fern loves rain, and it pops up in beautiful green carpets on our trees. In nature, there are small miracles like this every day.
Resurrection Fern by James Edmunds, all rights reserved
Inside the depths of fronds and rhizomes fairies twinkle & dance.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Early in the first days of the pandemic, people were posting about cleaning out closets. At the time, my attention was on my students, my family, and the gorgeous spring we were having. I did Zoom meetings and made videos outside. I was fulfilled. Not at all bored. And couldn’t imagine why I should clean out anything.
But here we are 5 months in, and the weather has turned to mush: wet, hot, and humid. Going outside you risk all sorts of maladies, mosquito bites, dehydration, etc. So now I have turned to the closets.
I am not sure why we humans hold on to so much stuff. I’ve been looking at everything from photos to Christmas ornaments to baby stuff. The cleaning is cleansing. I’m also creating a room just for the grandkids. With show tunes in the background, this process has been rewarding and fun.
Speaking with my writing group last night, we are all making our way through with a variety of diversions. Heidi is making playful poems using magazine cut-outs. Check out her post here.
Molly started a new hashtag on Twitter. #poeticdiversion I posted this photo and poem that captures the beauty of resurrection fern after the rain. I never get enough of this miracle.
All day rain Brightens green Resurrection
What are your diversions? How are you coping? Consider joining in with poetry. #moreplay #magazineticpoetry #makesomething #poeticdiversion
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 