Sunday, August 23, 2020

The Swallow & the Sun

The Swallow & the Sun

Petals glow with evening's light, slant and dip, weighted.  Come dusk,

they'll turn their heads east, await sun's return.  Frost is near, 

some have grown old and move no more.

A little boy runs past, following swoop and swagger of the swallow,

imitating their darting and dashing in the air.

The boy, unlike the swallow, screams for dinner.  A man strides forward, 

lifts him high, dives and dips him toward flannel, checkered "nest".  

A basket and plates await; laughter and sticky fingers next.

Side by side, they leave meadow behind, traverse shadowed trail

where leaves and limbs enshrine; one voice high; inquisitive.

The other low; reassuring.

Time seemingly stands still, the breeze, gentle, 

the sun dappled and dancing beneath his feet - 

and when a young man, closes his eyes, he remembers

sunflowers, swallows silhouetted against the sun,

soft flannel, a tree-lined sanctuary, and the feel of his father's hand.

by Margaret Bednar, August 23, 2020

This is linked with the challenge "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #33 - Swallow screams for dinnerand "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #34"

The phrase "swallow screams for dinner" is a line from C. Sandlin's poem "Telling Stories"  Her amazing poem can be found HERE

Sunday, August 9, 2020

Howard Street

 Howard Street

I’ve a brimmed hat affixed low upon my brow,

step quickly between dappled live oak and cedar shade;

try to avoid midday’s scorching sun.

Sandals fill with crushed shells, dirt, and gravel

as I pass famous Howard Street signs nailed to gnarled tree, 

pass burial stones slanted one way and another, 

walk beside peeling white-washed wooden fences 

adorned with whelks and weather-beaten decoys, 

dangling decorations, silent and still.

Angry waves have washed beneath my feet, this very spot 

trying to be claimed, perhaps reclaimed, by the sea. 

Perseverance; a character trait paraded time and again;

one in which I admire as I sketch old humble cottages

along this path, pencil imagined families, pets, 

Sunday dinners shared outside, 

perhaps a waterfowl whittled beneath these very trees,

family cemetery next door; flowers watered, vines cut back,

stories and escapades retold, prayed over, 

remembered.  Such as Blackbeard’s quartermaster, 

a fun subject for “haunted walks”; whether folklore or fact,

the first William Howard. 

My belly growls; sixteen miles of fabulous beach

isn’t the only reason people flock to Ocracoke.  

Around the corner awaits fresh seafood, refreshing drinks, 

friendly banter.  

Some things never change.

Margaret Bednar, August 9, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #32"