Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
The December Open Write at Ethical ELA was hosted by Mo Daley. She introduced me to a new poem form that was really fun to write, a kenning. A kenning uses two word phrases to describe someone or something. Mo asked us to think of gratitude at this time of year. Her post (with lots of fun response poems) is here.
The kenning is supposed to be a riddle, so the title should not give away the topic. But I am giving it away with the title of my post as well as a photo of the cutest baby ever. Sam’s sister has nicknamed him “Lammy” which is short for “Sammy-Lamby-Ding-Dong.”
Number 5 Caboose
He’s a toothless grinner sniff-snorter milk-spitter diaper-wetter perfume magnet pumpkin-carrot Lambi-lambi Ding-Dong cuddle-coaxing daytime napping love absorbing new cousin
It’s the first Friday of the month and time for the Inklings Challenge. This month’s prompt is from Linda Mitchell who challenged us to respond to Ethical ELA’s September 2025 Open Write by Kelsey Bigelow: “What is the happiest thing you’ve ever tasted?”
This was a lucky break for me because I already had a draft written, so with my Inklings thoughtful comments, I revised and have a poem to offer today.
My husband was born and raised in Cajun country where they ask, “Who’s your mama? Are you catholic? And can you make a roux?”
I don’t have to learn to make a roux because when it comes time to make a gumbo, Jeff is the best! Just last weekend when the air finally turned cool enough, he made the first gumbo of the season. Around here, when the cold front comes in, the weather man announces, “It’s gumbo weather!”
For our family, Black Friday is the day for making turkey and sausage gumbo. This year we may skip the Thanksgiving and go straight to the gumbo. Making gumbo takes two days. On the first day, you make the stock and the next day combine the stock with the roux. It’s a slow process. It takes patience and dedication.
Black Friday Gumbo
The happiest thing I’ve ever tasted is your gumbo, A slow stew on Thanksgiving night in a stock pot of left-over turkey bones, the trinity of bell pepper, onions, and celery.
Scented steam perfumes the kitchen. Friday morning chill is heated by oil and flour you stir for what seems like an hour waiting for the brown of peanut butter.
Hunched and humming, listening to the game, you stand taller and hand me a spoon to taste. Our love is certain in this simple touch
of lips to wooden spoon. That first sip tingles on the back of my throat like our first kiss, longing and true.
My mother died a few weeks ago. It was expected. She suffered for years with Alzheimer’s. My grief for her loss has happened over time. I feel relief now that she is no longer suffering. Nevertheless, we had to clean out her room at the memory care home where she’s been for two years. Many of her clothes were soiled and worn. Most of them were trashed. Some we gave away. I was grateful for my husband who was with me. He hauled the trash bags to the dumpster.
When I came upon a hanger of silk scarves, I couldn’t bear to give them away. I don’t even know why they were still there. So while Jeff was taking out the trash, I tucked them away in a box to bring home. I wore one to a funeral last weekend and felt comforted.
My mother’s silk scarves
Silk Scarves
I saved her silk scarves, each one a bright replica of art. I couldn’t bear to place such brightness into a black trash bag.
We worked quickly making choices to give away or throw away. Why? I asked myself did these scarves call to me?
I remember when appearances were important to my mother. She never left the house without coordinating clothes, make-up, jewelry. The end erased who she had been.
Lord knows I don’t need any more scarves. Tiffany stained glass (butterflies) will soften my neck above the black dress.
Margaret Simon, draft
This poem was written in response to an Ethical ELA Open Write prompt found here.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
This past weekend was the Open Write at Ethical ELA. I am trying to write a poem every day, but it sure helps to have a good prompt. On Sunday, Tammi Belko led us to write in response to the question “What is normal?” You can see her full prompt here.
I was spending the morning with two of my grandchildren. As I sat with my tablet and notebook pondering her prompt, my grands Leo and Stella were drawing. Leo, age 6, has always loved drawing. Now he is old enough to add words to his drawings. Stella, his sister age 4, is following in his footsteps. Her drawings tell stories.
Super Dino-Force by Leo“The monster was walking in the forest. In the ocean, the whale was splashing.” By Stella
Kid-Time Normal
All they need is a marker and paper— Imagination soars… Dinosaurs with super powers, Bad guys with two robot arms, Magical crystal charms… Transformed Transfixed Time stops on paper.
For 5 years I’ve been participating in Ethical ELA’s #verselove and #openwrite. This month Sarah Donovan (whose brainchild is Ethical ELA) led us in 3 days of Open Write prompts. One of these prompts was to write a demi-sonnet. This form includes 7 lines with semi-rhymes. One of Sarah’s suggestions was to write about a moment you almost missed.
At the moment I was holding my pen above my notebook I could hear the loud morning call of a wren outside. Writing in May has been hard for me. It’s a busy month as school winds down. This May has been particularly hard as I cleaned my classroom for the last time. My demi-sonnet turned into advice for myself.
I Almost Missed the Call
Morning wren calls my inner critic’s bluff repeating wake up, wake up, wake up. I almost missed its call holding me accountable for my role. Open the blank page, it is enough. Ink seven lines of poetic stuff. Bloom from an imperfect soul.
Last month I was writing a poem each day prompted by Ethical ELA. One of the prompts offered by Alexis Ennis invited us to write an ode to peace. This prompt landed on a Sunday when I had time to sit and sip on my back deck overlooking the bayou. In winter when I had to haul pots inside, I cursed my love of tropical flowers, but on this day, I was celebrating their quiet and bright emergence.
As I revised this poem, I asked AI to give it a title. I like the response, go figure, of “Waking in Red.”
Waking in Red
the corner of my heart slowing for breaths deep and long
on the cypress the cardinal busy on branches by and by
here is the ruby-throated hummer humming a second longer
there the glowing sun rising to light this day
space opens for red bat plant, desert rose, and buckeye
skin warms as I wake with the power of red. Margaret Simon, draft
I am writing a poem a day in May using #poemsofpresence and #smallpoems. Many of them are inspired by flowers. I invite you to join me on Instagram.
If you live nearby, come by Books Along the Teche (our local indie bookstore) for our book signing. Books Along the Teche will take orders for signed books.
Heidi Mordhorst is hosting Poetry Friday at My Juicy Little Universe and she also has the next line for the Kidlit Progressive Poem.
This week we are back from Easter break and in the depths of standardized testing, so it has become an opportunity for me to start the daunting task of cleaning out my classroom for retirement. I’ve been looking through old files and deciding what to keep and what to trash. Most of it is trash, but I look at it anyway. There are some things that are hard to throw away. It’s hitting me hard, I must say. So for two of the poem prompts at Ethical ELA, I wrote about this process. Writing is the way I can let go of some of the pent up feelings. (I don’t want to show them to my students.)
Larin Wade gave the prompt on Wednesday. Ironically she is a first year teacher. She asked us to write about seasons using the etheree form (consists of ten lines of increasing syllable count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. 10)
Time reflects a long life of commitment not only to teach but to nurture children hold them with loving kindness allow a safe space for growing. Retire is a bold, yet daunting word. One door closes. Will another open?
On Friday, Ashley challenged us with double dactyls. To see the rules (guidelines) for this poem, go to her post here.
Higgledy-piggledy Filefuls of gibberish Fill up her trash bin with Piles of old news
Secretly covering Years of her mothering Spilling soft mutterings long overdue.
And now back to the task at hand. Happy Friday! Four Fridays to go!
I made this collage years ago in a paper workshop.
Today’s #verselove prompt is from Padma Venkatraman who wrote Bridge to Home and most recently Safe Harbor. Her books never fail to take me to a new place where I can find a relatable character and beautiful language. What a honor to have her writing a prompt for us based on her latest book. She invited us to write about a safe place.
I am visiting Ridgeland, MS, a few miles from the place I grew up. While my visits here bring forth many emotions, this morning I wanted to find solace in a walk in nature. Even though my hotel is near an outdoor shopping mall, there is a creek nearby with a walking path. The creek is the very same creek that ran behind my childhood home, Purple Creek. I used the poetry form of tanka (haiku with a chorus) which has a syllable count of 5, 7, 5, 7, 7.
The Kidlit Progressive Poem is with Janet today at Donna’s blog, Mainely Write.
Irene Latham is gathering Poetry Friday today at Live Your Poem
I didn’t want to write about my father today, but I woke up and looked at the clock at 4:44 AM, so there he was. He would tell us that he always woke up at 4:44. He had a thing for double numbers. His birthday was 11/11/33. On this day 4/11/22, he had a stroke and died 11 days later on 4/22/22.
When I opened #Verselove, I saw a prompt that Kim Johnson shared in our poetry session on Wednesday at the Fay B Kaigler Children’s Book Festival. Unfortunately, Kim had a family emergency, so she had to leave on Thursday. She is supposed to be sitting with me as I write this morning. The loneliness has gotten the best of me, so I had to write about my father. As Kim and I said to our session participants, poetry can be healing. It’s a place of vulnerability. Kim’s prompt can be found on Ethical ELA.
Remember
I remember the phone call in the middle of class. I answered it. I remember thinking something bad had happened.
I remember I packed a bag for 3 nights max (I stayed 2 weeks).
I remember the gruff hospitalist rattling the bed with her pronouncement of no hope. You stared after her with anger and fear.
I remember the long days as you fought, grabbing tubes, glaring helplessly, speech stolen by the stroke.
I remember tears and singing, prayers whispering, silently longing to bring you back to us.
I remember someone said the deepest grief comes from the deepest love. I wasn’t ready to remember.
I am drafting a poem each day in April. There is no perfection here. Only my brave self posting even though I know these poems need work. There is a freedom in drafting that cannot be found in revision. Some writers love the revision process. I question myself too much. When I draft, I just write. Critiquing is harder for me. Today’s poem was written in my notes app as I took a walk, got ready for school, arrived in my classroom. Before the day gets away, I wanted to draft it again for a blog post. Work in progress.
Darius Phelps offered a prompt today based on a poem called Good Son by Kyle Liang. Both Kyle and Darius used food references metaphorically to reveal a deep truth. I love when metaphor works in this way. How metaphor can lead us to a deeper meaning.
Macaroni & Cheese
Our first fight was over macaroni & cheese which ingredients should be added at what temperature to achieve the creamiest bowl.
Kraft is the only brand we’d buy, but you argued that I poured the little flakes of fake cheese too fast, didn’t stir enough to fully achieve the milk to cheese ratio.
You don’t have to be good, according to Mary Oliver, you just have to love what you love. So we loved each other well.
After long marriage, I wait for you to offer the spoon to taste your gumbo. You tell me my spaghetti is always good– Our edges smoothed like macaroni & cheese.
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She teaches gifted elementary students, writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 