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Posts Tagged ‘#poemsofpresence’

Spiritual Thursday posts are being gathered today by Patricia Franz at Reverie.

Patricia Franz is hosting Spiritual Thursday this month. She selected the theme of Trust.

Above all, trust in the slow work of God…Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give Our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.

—Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J. 

I’ve been binge listening to Sara Bareilles’s new album “Good Grief.” Every song touches me in a deep way. I’ve also listened to a few of her interviews around the release and while she doesn’t say her trust is in God directly, she does believe in the universe, the eternity of all life. Her song “Forever” is about the sacred spirit that holds us all. Be careful, this one will make you cry.

I struggle with trusting that there is a “plan.” I really don’t believe there is some grand plan, but I do trust that our maker, creator God is beside us on this life journey. I pray. I meditate. I sing. All the while looking for signs pointing to hope. Hope is in the songs, the stories, the poetry, and always, in Love.

Andrea Gibson made a strong imprint on so many lives and continues to do so. Sara Bareilles wrote a song that includes Andrea’s words called “Love Story.”

James Crews wrote a poem for Andrea that was published by Rattle on Sept. 28, 2026 in response to her line, “We will spend our entire lives praying for what we have.”

I wrote a poem alongside a bonus poem James Crews offered on Substack. Poetry, songs, music connects us to each other in ways we cannot understand.

Praying for What I Have

Sleeping, snoozing, I awoke through
darkness in the trees,
wondering how I could make
a day worthy of my waking,
worrying about nothing.
I was trying to forgive myself

when out of the dawn, from
beyond my window, a barred owl sent me
its who-cooks-for-you call
on fall fresh air, and a word
fell from my snoring breath—
Thanks— as the owl
distilled silence into gratitude.

Margaret Simon, draft

I love these whimsical owls created by Stephanie Paterson.

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

Moon Morning

As I walk the old neighborhood,
I note the changes—
the roses that Betty tended are not in bloom,
the tall house sold; young children live there now, toys strewn across the lawn.
Clyde would love knowing them.

Lynn stops me as I pass.
”Do you know me?” He asks.
I can’t recall, but we talk anyway.

The moon hangs on to the morning,
losing its full,
returning to new.

Margaret Simon, draft

Please join me in writing to a photo each week on Substack.

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Poetry Friday is being gathered today by Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link.

Today is the first day of Open Write at Ethical ELA. Today’s prompt was offered by Mo Daley.

Mo asks us to consider our place in the world, where we are, and who may have come before. I went to one of my favorite topics, the grandmother oak in my backyard.

I am also thinking about the upcoming Write Out from the National Writing Project in partnership with the National Parks. The theme this year is “Where We Stand”. Please consider writing outside this fall between Oct. 11-25, 2026. There are many student resources available.

Grandmother Oak

To enrich this earth,
I have planted my feet
in the solid arms
of grandmother oak planted
three hundred years ago.
Chitimacha women prayed over the sapling.

I do not wish to escape
her history
scarred into her flesh.

Let me feel it, stroke
her old skin worn
and strong—single survivor.

I praise her hold
of the sunrise
where I rise
to be blessed.

Grandmother oak with Bayou Teche beyond.

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

It feels like an all day rain.

The way the shower tip-taps on the bayou
like a water bug splashing.

How the drain thrums like a bass drum.

There’s a comfort to waking in the rain.
No need to go out. Slow sips of more coffee.

I will go out and breathe the humid air. Later.

Resurrection fern will open and fill the oaks with greenery, like a mantel garland at Christmas.

Birds will emerge and resume their singing.

For now, I am present to the rain, accepting its gift of cooler air, its promise of autumn.

Free image

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Poetry Friday roundup is with Jan at Bookseed Studio.

I can always count on Georgia Heard for getting me through a writing slump. She sends out a monthly prompt calendar. Each prompt is easily accessible from where I sit at my kitchen table. The prompt for July 8th was “Describe a place by what’s missing from it.”

My gaze went directly to the window to the dead satsuma tree outside. We lost it in the big freeze of 2025. I’ve asked my yard man (my husband) to let it be. I was hoping to attract downy woodpeckers. In the spring passion vine sprang up around the trunk of the tree. As I had hoped, the space has become alive with bees and butterflies and birds.

Dead Tree is Alive

With passion vine
open purple flowers
for fritillary lighting.
A suet feeder invaded
by raccoon fingers
lies open and empty.
Old satsuma leafless
sweet fruit a memory.
Lichen clings, fluffs in misty rain.

You are holding hope
of feathers
on bare branches,
Alive.

Margaret Simon, draft

Dead Satsuma Tree on Bayou Teche, LA.

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Poetry Friday Roundup is with Tricia today at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

A Walk to Port Townsend

I hear
chirps of Pine Siskin hiding in the bushes,
watch seeds of cottonwood
fly like moths on fluffy wings—

Hold
the view of Pacific waters chanting
over wishing stones, calling me
to inhale.

Open
a door
to a free poem-of-the-day—
Here is Pádraig’s “Our Lady of the Garden”.

Thank you, universe, for all this time with you.

Poem found in a poetry box in Port Townsend, Washington.
Illustration by Leo, age 7

This Mamére has been busy this summer. In early June, we took a trip with two of our three daughters and their families to the Pacific Northwest. The weather was absolutely gorgeous and cool. I found poetry everywhere, on trails, in town squares, and in poetry boxes.

This week I was in charge of Leo, my oldest grandson who is seven. Seven changes everything! He can read and write and walk 2 miles in the heat. We took a long walk to our local city park. He humored me by helping me write a poem about our walk. He illustrated. You can see a video of him reading the poem on my Substack.

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Sandestin Beach, Florida

I am currently in Florida on a work trip with my daughter and her son, Thomas. Thomas and I had a fun day yesterday playing in the waves and making friends in the hotel pool. He makes friends so easily which is helpful to his babysitter grandma.

Yesterday afternoon a storm rolled in. I loved sitting on the safe balcony and watching the clouds.

Watching the Storm at the Beach

Becomes a pastime
when you’re with a grandson
who craves your constant attention.

Be open to the possibility of storms.
Stand in the rain
and let it cool your body
into shivers and shakes.

Then return to a warm bath
and Spider-Man pajamas
to watch Argentina play
in the World Cup
cheering them on, only because
you like the color blue.

Margaret Simon, draft

Please consider writing a poem today in the comments. I will be driving back to Louisiana and look forward to reading them.

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Poetry Friday is being gathered today by Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise.
Our view of the Elwha River and Olympic Mountains, Port Angeles, Washington

When we first arrived in the Pacific Northwest and awoke to an amazing view of the Olympic Mountains from the AirBnB, I thought I would write poetry every day on our trip. That didn’t happen as we got busier with the family, day hikes, town shopping, river rock throwing (children love a good game of throwing rocks). However on that early June morning, I opened Audrey Gidman’s prompts and wrote a poem using a flower as the title, inspired by James Wright’s Milkweed. For the most part, I wanted to capture the essence of place in the amazing peaceful scene of the Olympic Mountains.

Lupine

While I looked beyond the window
lost in blue-green of Crescent Lake,
I sat in longing.
Tall Douglas fir scented the air
of Christmases long ago.

I look up now.
The view is changed.
What was color
is a wild warmth
seeking my sincerity—
a vision of bright red strawberries
sweeter than the sun.

Margaret Simon, draft

Free image, lupine

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Last week I was on vacation with my family in the Pacific Northwest. One of our hikes, The Spruce Railroad Trail in Olympic National Park, included a Poetry Walk. I took pictures of the panels and wrote a found poem from them. I invite you to do the same. Found poems are fun. Write the lines that grab you in some way (an image you relate to, words you love to say) and write them in an order that is pleasing to you.

Here is a draft I wrote in my notebook:

Crescent Lake Found Poem

Stenciled on the petal of a bluebell
the earth remembered me
my thoughts
light as moths
smell like grass and salt
smooth home- the river.
Margaret Simon, draft

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Resurrection Fern on Grandmother Oak

After months of drought, we’ve recently had an onslaught of rain. One of the most miraculous plants in the South is resurrection fern. It has a symbiotic relationship with live oaks. When the air is dry and no rain falls, it’s hardly noticeable, brown and dead looking. However, when we have days and days of humidity and rain, rain, rain, the fern pops up with its bright green fronds covering the branches and living in beauty. It seems to say, “Ah, yes!”

I took this photo of our grandmother oak near the bayou. She is 250+ years old. Her arms drape wide and hold a rope swing that many a child (and adult) have ridden on. She is featured on a live oak tree bike tour that our friend Jim leads every spring.

She’s also made mention of in many of my poems. I never tire of taking her photo or writing about her.

Turning to a random page in “Dictionary for a Better World” by Irene Latham and Charles Waters, I chose a cinquain form. (2, 4, 6, 8, 2)

Sometimes
bravery looks
like fern on an old oak
coming to life only after
hard rain.
Margaret Simon, draft

Please write a small poem today and leave it in the comments. Respond to others with kind encouragement.

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