Monday, June 1, 2020

In Remembrance of George Floyd

In Remembrance of George Floyd

As a child, I read fairytales,
believed enduring wrongs and injustice
would always be rewarded if patient, if good.

I never imagined fear
of jaywalking; eyes watching me
because the color of my skin.

Never imagined my voice
raised in impatience, in anger
could land me in jail.

Never imagined parking on a side street,
looking at a map or talking on my cell,
could rally police to my car door.

Never imagined the day I shoplifted
as a child, lip gloss too tempting,
could be a death warrant.

My prayers often seem fickle,
sometimes skipped in favor of a good book,
nightly devotional postponed.

Today, reflect some can't afford to be frivolous
where hopes hang upon Words of salvation -
lives more Grimm than I can imagine;

a bit like Red Riding Hood,
stalked unknowingly, wolf disguised
as refuge, but waiting to devour.

* * *

A grown man calls out, "Mama!"
before twenty dollars and a knee
takes his breath away -

"protector of the peace" the villain.
Floyd's voice (now) the protestors 
demanding justice as they've been robbed 

of Happily Ever After.

by Margaret Bednar, June 1, 2020

Not my strongest write - it doesn't do this tragedy justice, but I felt I needed to write something.  

Thursday, May 28, 2020

The Overlook

The Overlook

Spring trees are rowdy, elbow each other below 
as I sink into the terrain before me, 
ravine full of wordy beech, birch, and buckeye.
Tulip tree steals the scene, her full dowry
on display, trillium's satin white sprinkled beneath.

I might be a bit naive, but I listen to their spirited stories,
spruce-fir whispering his tall tale from a distance
and believe every word as it sinks into my skin;
breathe deeply and settle myself.

Just before pink's onset and the subtle change 
of yellow to gold, I watch the hand of God 
brush over the bluest of skies with the rosiest silvered glaze
and reset the scene.  

I'm still no saint and this is no Garden of Eden, 
but all have become silent; even black-capped chickadees 
have stopped their sorties as I lean back upon outcropped stone.  
I know it's late, but I'm lulled by the Master's touch,
stream's serenade, and the hint of a thousand nightlights
beginning to twinkle above my head. 

by Margaret Bednar, May 28, 2020

This is linked with the fabulous "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #21 - Anagrams" I used the following:  below/elbow, dowry/rowdy/wordy, ravine/naive, sink/skin, listen/silent, trees/reset, satin/saint, rosiest/sorties/stories, subtle/bluest, late/tale, stone/onset, masters/streams.

I have been absent from writing poetry for almost 2 months.  We have a house full because of this pandemic.  I am thankful I am able to help my oldest children out and have them and their spouses/significant others stay with us for a while.  They hailed from NYC and San Francisco.  I also was homeschooling my youngest son and my high school daughter is on autopilot - I just allow her to do her thing.    Summer has finally begun for me, school is out and the older ones are going back to their places in a few days.  

So, I'm back and I have missed everyone.  I can't wait to read your poetry.  (and thank you, Jim, for checking up on me)