Posts Tagged ‘joy’

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

This morning I searched for a writing idea on Lynne Dorfman’s Blog and found this post about underrated joys. Who can resist a list? I am responding with my own list of underrated joys. This is a similar exercise to My Pile Of Good Things, but why not?

  1. First bloom on a Peggy Martin rose.
  2. Re-bloom on an orchid I bought at the grocery store.
  3. The scent of my first sip of coffee.
  4. My engagement ring reflecting the stained glass in church.
  5. A student has an Aha moment.
  6. Students writing poetry with me.
  7. My dog’s unconditional love.
  8. Facetime.
  9. Real time: “Mamere, you’re here!” Stella lights up with joy.
  10. Stained glass egret in my window.
  11. A message on Voxer.
  12. An egret or heron on the bayou.
  13. Creating something new.
  14. An actual letter in the mailbox.
  15. Being with family.
  16. Chats after church.
  17. Comments: Sally has a good post today celebrating comments.
  18. A ping from the Ring: “There is motion in your Wood duck House.”
  19. My mother’s voice.
  20. Hitting publish on a Slice.

What is on your list?

My neighbor’s Peggy Martin (Katrina) Rose is growing up into her crepe myrtle tree. Isn’t it fabulous?!

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Image by Linda Mitchell
Round up this week is with Karen Edmisten.

Today is the first Friday of June, so that means Inkling Challenge! My writing group rotates a challenge for each month, and we post on the first Friday of the month as a group, The Inklings! This month Molly Hogan challenged us to write about a domestic task.

Truth be told, I did not read the mentor poem or write about spring cleaning because the truth is I’ve been very ill. I got Covid on a family trip to Seattle and had to stay alone in a hotel room for five days. My husband’s brother, who is a doctor, was nearby and on call for me, but there wasn’t much he could do. I just had to get through it, so I could fly home. I made it home on Saturday night. I’m still recovering, but I no longer have the virus. On Sunday morning, I read The Writer’s Almanac and used the poem “Joy” by George Bilgere as a mentor text. His poem was about recovering from the flu. I borrowed a few lines. The form helped me write again which brought me Joy.


after George Bilgere

Today I sit in the kitchen
with a glass of Gatorade, on ice,
my daily cocktail.
The door is open
to let in cool morning air.
I sit with my body, just the two of us
for a change. Covid has left us
and moved on to someone else,
with its knife well-sharpened
to gut and leave behind
loose limp skin.

I am sitting in amazement
that I am able to be here breathing.
Amazed at a body’s will to survive
even in the deepest dark cave of fear.

For a while I thought I would never get better.
That I would dissolve into dust in a hotel room alone,
not discovered for days. 

But every day there are miracles.
We wake up. We taste and smell the air.
Tiny eggs in a nest hatch into finches that will fly.

Today I sit watching a prothonotary flutter at the window,
make a mental note to refill the feeders.
The desert rose at my front door
welcomes me home with a fireworks show.

The tomb is empty.

Margaret Simon, 2022
Desert Rose

Other Inkling Posts:

Mary Lee Hahn

Molly Hogan

Catherine Flynn

Linda Mitchell

Heidi Mordhorst

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A flower blossoms for its own joy.

Oscar Wilde

My Joy, a photo poem

My joy blossoms in white bridal wreath
greeting my on my driveway.

My joy blossoms in a pottery cup
steaming with a latte.

My joy blossoms with Stella’s sweet voice
saying “E-O!”

Leo and Stella, photo by Maggie Simon LeBlanc

My joy blossoms with windchimes echoing
bird songs, Ta-tweet-ting, Ta-tweet-ting.

My joy blossoms on a blank notebook page
writing alongside my students.

My joy blossoms when you smile.

National Poetry Month Kidlit Progressive Poem is with Donna today at Mainely Write.

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Today, our Spiritual Journey blogging group is writing about Joy, Finding Joy.  I am gathering the posts in the Link button below this post.

I find joy on my morning walks.  Over the years I have joined different gyms.  I’d wake up in the dark, pull on some tights or other fashionable exercise wear, and go to a class or climb on the treadmill or rotate among the machines when Curves was around.  Last year I gave up all memberships and just started walking.  During the school year, I try to get out by 6 AM.  But now that it’s summer, and the days are getting warmer, and I don’t have to be anywhere, I’m out at 7 AM.  Charlie on the leash.  I carry my phone in a pouch that fits over my pants and stays in place with a magnetic grip.  Sometimes I talk to my Voxer pals.  Sometimes I listen to a podcast, and sometimes I run into a neighbor to chat with or who will join me.

These walks have become my Joy.

I find joy in the songs of birds.

I find joy in watching Charlie explore.

I find joy in waving to neighbors.

I find joy in the flowers, the trees, and the bayou beyond.

Another source of joy for me is poetry.  For this poem, I turned to one of my favorite collections, The Woman in this Poem.  Georgia Heard signed my copy with these words, “For the joy of poetry–and life!”



by Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
                     It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

From The Woman in this Poem Selected and Introduced by Georgia Heard

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Poetry Friday round-up is with Julie at The Drift Record

Poetry Friday round-up is with Julie at The Drift Record



Photo by Kim Douillard

Photo by Kim Douillard


The Butterfly

touched my outstretched hand
for only a millisecond,
yet left behind
a tingle

on my sensitive,
scarred skin.
I kept my arm

this fluttering yellow kite
dart through the goldenrod
Daddy grew from seed.

How could he have known
when he sowed and watered
that at this moment
when I needed it most

A butterfly would
leave Joy
on my outstretched hand?

Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

Reflection: Yesterday, I wrote about touch.  I saw this amazing photograph on Kim Douillard’s post this morning.  All day the gift of touch has been on my mind.  Even the slightest touch of a butterfly can wrap us in a moment of Joy.  What else is there?


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Spiritual Journey thursday

Holly Mueller invites us to reflect on our spiritual journey every Thursday. Today’s theme is Joy. Please visit her site to link up and read more posts about Joy.


Sometimes when I’m not looking, and even on those days when frustrations abound.

Joy finds me.

In the morning, the sun shines a beam on the bayou.

Joy finds me.

A child’s eyes light up and smile.

Joy finds me.

A favorite song comes on; I sing along.

Joy finds me.

A cloud looks like Tilly, the wonder dog.

Joy finds me.

A friend sends a text, “You’re a gift.”

Joy finds me.

A cup of coffee when the bones wear thin.

Joy finds me.

A wagging tail and a slobbery lick.

Joy finds me.

The setting sun shines orange, purple, red.

Joy finds me.

The moon rises full; Pleiades sends showers.

Joy finds me.

Where does Joy find you?

Bayou morning photo by Margaret Simon

Bayou morning photo by Margaret Simon

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