Make Believe

Make Believe

I imagine I'm a southern belle,
strolling jasmine scented pathways,
besotted beau beside me
as I smile charmingly after saying something coy.

Practice a hair toss, lashes lowered,
glance over shoulder...
find elderly gentleman watching me
as I blush (yes, 50 year olds can blush),

mutter to myself, attempt dignified exit
across arched bridge, past live oaks;
impromptu theatrical audition witnessed
by one other, a chipmunk, who scampers away
almost as quickly as I,

my sketchbook not as forthcoming
as this poem (years later).

by Margaret Bednar, October 23, 2018



This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday Mini Challenge - Notebook Poetry".  We had an option to handwrite our poems ... but I hate my handwriting so I thought I would show you a glimpse into my sketchbook.  The top two are colored pencil, the chipmunk is watercolor and pen.   I talk to myself a lot (especially when in a creative mode) and historical places always get me dreaming and imagining things...

Weko Beach

Weko Beach

Renegade leaf summersaults across boardwalk,
braving, (more like) defying, Lake Michigan's headwind,
seemingly determined to forge a path of its own.

Grandpa's behind me, leaning heavily upon my husband's arm,
determined but cold.  Body, like the leaf, frail, life slowly ebbing,
yet spirit still seeks that which he holds dear.

Grandchildren, evergreen with fiery daring of youth,
plunge toes into frigid water, laugh and scream
when waves splash with abandon,

laughter tumbling leaf-like, hitching a ride upon its back
as it pirouettes out of sight.

Melodious chords mix with surf, songs strummed by The Balladeer,
while my youngest causes my heart to flutter as he defies "Keep Off",
challenges Mother Nature as she licks pier's edge.

Grandpa's cold.  My voice calls out, boomerangs back
without reaching them.  The sand is fine and soft, but
unlike the skipping leaf, I plod towards shore in my shoes,

gather them in, cheeks full of colour and life.
Slowly walk Grandpa to the car.   He's shivering, tired
from sitting bench-side.

Just last year he was walking dune's wooden stairs;
today, empty.  Legs unable to carry his spirit to a favorite lookout.

Memory will have to suffice - and yet even his abundant,
bounty-filled life is becoming misty, crumbling into fine fragments,
compost enriching a path we will tread one day as well.

by Margaret Bednar, October 20, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Get Listed - October edition"  my list of words:  fiery, plunge, colour, leaf.

Also linked with "Poets United Midweek Motif:  Abundance"

Prince of Darkness (take two)

Prince of Darkness

Autumn breeze rustles forest's underbelly,
sanctuary's silence disrupted

as silvered statue upon bare branches
swoops down, unearths devout,

ignores pious prayers for deliverance,
his thanks, a swift devouring.

by Margaret Bednar, October 14, 2018


This was actually a version of a poem I wrote in December 2013.  I greatly massaged it and like it so much butter.  I think I'm a bit better at this poetry thing than I was five years earlier.

Happy to participate in (but posting very late) in "Poets United = Midweek Motif - The Owl"

Full Circle

Full Circle

Guiding hand, grasped.  Comfort of father for son:
first footsteps, training wheels, cross country meets recorded -
boisterous voice encouraging from infancy to young man.

Vibrant sunsets shared over Lake Michigan. Taps enjoyed by men
who served; at attention stood father and son -
hand over hearts, remembering loved ones. Recorded

VHS tapes, family gatherings, dated clothes: corduroys
and plaid, bellbottoms, short shorts... yet smiles remain the same. Man
before him, bent and frail, leaning against his son.

Son, greyed, memories recorded, movies not of Hollywood
but of life as he holds frail hand that showed him how to be a man.

by Margaret Bednar, October 2018

I am behind in visiting and commenting on everyone's poems ... I plan on spending my Sunday morning catching up.  I've missed the Garden and my friends here.    Tonight I'm taking two of my children to see "A Star is Born".  Theatre popcorn and good acting and music... Just can't wait..

HEY - fixed my "commenting problem".  I switched browser server from Safari to Chrome... seems to be working now.    

For "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Messy Little Forms - Tritina"  A pattern of (ten lines) with three tercets and a final line featuring repeating, non-rhyming line-end words, like this:

1-2-3
3-1-2
2-3-1
The final line contains all 3 words as 1-2-3

Creative license has been evoked as the last "stanza" is supposed be one line  - the triton is supposed to be 10 lines.  Mine is 11.   I also changed "man" to "men" in the second stanza. AND a  VERY liberal abuse of the rules is.... "corduroys" is close "recorded"..   (cord)   It is a slippery slope when one starts to break the rules...

This seems "rigid" to me as most form poetry does when I write it.  But I consider this a first draft - gathering thoughts and I will visit this again very soon as this is what is going on right now and always on my mind. My son wrote very moving music and lyrics for a song about his grandfather...  I will share it once he records it on YouTube.

Thou Shall Not

123rf

Thou Shall Not

I still remember the combo
(and I'm not good with numbers)
the back and forth swivel
to align the arrow

the way I'd pretend it didn't work
just to watch you walk past
holding my breath, heart beating fast,
wobbly knees (a real thing)...

Quickly align dashes and numbers,
locker door slammed -
mad dash to religion class.

My desk facing the crucifix
and ten commandments,
imagine number six
a neon blinking chastisement.

by Margaret Bednar, October 3, 2018

This is in participation with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Camera/Flash 55"  I tried to shorten it to a 55 but it didn't work.

The original image that inspired this poem is a collection of locks by Pierre Dubreuil "Lines Meeting" (1932). 

Scrimshaw, 1849

Eve - Mid 19th Century Scrimshaw
Nantucket Whaling Museum

Adam - Mid 19th Century Scrimshaw
Nantucket Whaling Museum

Scrimshaw, 1849

The lure of gold is intoxicating,
far easier than whaling, they say.
From the harbor I watch sails fill,
sink into the horizon,

clutch Adam to my chest,
Eve in my pocket;
No need of temptation,
of dreams too big to fill.

Come back to me
and simplicity, keep a promise:
carve your mark
into flesh and bone,

come back and rest your elbow
upon fire's mantle,
Adam and Eve either side, reunited,
as you smile at me.

postscript:  Adam & Eve Scrimshaw, 
Mid 19th Century, 
Nantucket Whaling Museum, 
Artist: Anonymous

by Margaret Bednar, October 4, 2018

This is for "Artistic Interpretation - A Whale of a Tale".

"carve your mark" - meaning signature

Many scrimshaw are not signed by the artist - they are beautiful pieces of artwork and labeled "anonymous".  The pair above are bone (ivory) from whale teeth.

HERE is a brief history of the end of Whaling on Nantucket and the lure of California gold.

Despite

123rf

Despite

Does love become an antonym

when deflected?

Animosity, enmity, ill will?

Perhaps indifference was your tall shadow

between me and the sun,

my star dulled by your distance,

but not for long.

Learned to search for light,

bent my will towards it;

eventually found it

without your approving eye.

by Margaret Bednar, October 2, 2018

my contribution to "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Physics with Bjorn:  Gravity & Space-Time curvature"