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.
Today is my husband’s birthday. I wrote him a poem. The poem came from a prompt from Georgia Heard during her Write Bites workshop with Ralph Fletcher. She shared Imperfection by Elizabeth Carlson. Elizabeth’s poem begins with the line “I am falling in love with my imperfections.” It’s a wonderful poem about accepting your faults. I turned my attention to the imperfections of our house. If you own your own home, you’ll understand. This week we had a water heater go out. Oh my, how we take hot water for granted until it’s gone.
I’m learning to love the smell of dust gathering in soft corners how mold creeps in the crevices of window sills.
I’m finding joy in the left behind sliver of soap, stash of tea-stained cups, single smelly sock.
Our house has become a home of imperfections. That door never stays shut. That switch doesn’t turn any light on.
We are ignoring the leak streaking the living room wall. I’d rather sit next to you on the sofa, make space for the dog between us, talk about the day behind, the future ahead.
Let the house be. Let the rain come.
Margaret Simon, 2025
The Big White Castle in the snow of January, 2025. (We call our house a castle because it has a turret, a unique mid-century modern architecture feature of the early 70’s.)
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Yesterday, August 7th, my husband and I celebrated our 41st wedding anniversary with a nice dinner made complete with tiramisu. For our 25th anniversary trip to Italy, I started a tiramisu quest. Each dinner we had in Italy, I told the waiter that I was on a quest for the best tiramisu. They would give me special treatment and hover in anticipation for my first bite. I found that every tiramisu is its own unique experience.
In Florida with my daughter last week, the tiramisu had a chocolate, nutty icing. Mmm! Who doesn’t love chocolate. Last night the icing was white and light and just right. I enjoyed every bite. So the quest continues.
I’m reading poetry books for the Sealy Challenge and this stanza by Amanda Gorman from Call Us What We Carry moved me.
How Can We not Be Altered?
By a toddler at the table next to us bouncing in pure delight playing peep-eye with us. I share our delight with her parents who ask, “What is the key to a long marriage?”
“Communication,” I say, but know that’s not all. Long marriage comes when you travel through tough stuff and taste sweet tiramisu on a mountain in Italy. It comes with a soft hand when a parent dies, a long hug when your heart hurts. It comes from the grin of your granddaughter who looks just like the daughter you created together. Long marriage is not magical. It’s marveling at the slant of light at the end of the day, stopping to take a photo of the rainbow or the field of sunflowers. Long love is mistakes and madness, messages and miracles every day.
Our daughter Martha came home this weekend with her 7 week old, June Margaret “Junebug”. We were talking about names and the fact that Margaret is a family name on both sides. My grandmother and my husband’s grandmother were both named Margaret. Apparently Martha didn’t know about Mate’s name, Jeff’s grandmother, because she only knew her as “Mate” and Betsy Ross.
Jeff’s grandmother grew up in Canada. His grandparents’ love story starts with a bad fish. Cecil Lennan was in the hospital in Toronto, Canada and opened his eyes to the love of his life, Margaret Ross. They married in New York City, and Cecil “Pate” nicknamed her Betsy. “Since you are an American now, you should be Betsy Ross.” She was never again called Margaret. New life. New country. New name.
Shortly after their marriage, “Betsy” Ross Lennan traveled back home to her family in Canada. While she was gone, Cecil wrote her letters. This was 1925. We still have three of them. In 2018, I was writing in a workshop and used one of these letters to write a found poem. I blogged about it here.
Since today is Valentine’s Day, I am reposting this love poem.
Come Back, my Love (after Cecil Lennan, 1925.)
If you come in on the 7:47, bring the bathing suit with you. And bring back yourself even if you forget all of the above.
Bring back that dark brown hair I love, the big wavy curl that hangs continuously over your left eye.
Bring back the eyes looking into mine telling me you are mine. Bring back the nose, your quivering lips–silent.
Bring back the arms that have hugged me so tightly–a little tighter still, because– because they wanted to.
Bring back your heart, that electric spark thrilling my toes, my body to my head and down again–and again.
Bring back the mystery, the wonder, the sweetness that is yours. I will take it all, put my arms around it all, and hug, and kiss, and love it for ages and ages. Will you?
Margaret Simon, found poem (c) 2018
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
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 