Illumination

Illumination

I feel comforted

despite no stars, no moon to be seen;

twinkle seemingly tucked behind midnight clouds

post-Christmas Eve.

Dogs sigh softly, paws occasionally twitch,

three backsides glow, fireplace stoked,

flanked by slim evergreens whose branches beacon 

with the grandeur of coastal lighthouses

guiding Christ child safely to port.

Evergreen's fresh scent is gone,

yet prayers of hope, faith, joy & peace linger,

circle about Advent wreath

whose candles are but nubs.

Wrapped in darkness upon my couch

sprinkles of light silhouette thirty years of ornaments:

Santas and saddles, ice skates and Jesus,

princesses and Power Rangers...

wonder why we put it all away January 1st.

Perhaps a strand will adorn mantle, 

a prayer candle gifted pride of place, 

this time of reflection retained;

not so much for resolutions and promises,

but a continuation of thankfulness 

rekindling Christmas light.

by Margaret Bednar, December 30, 2020

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #140"

Life's Wallflower (junk journal poems)

 

Life's Wallflower (junk journal poems)

Time dances

seeking purpose,

holds out her hand,

indulges in matchmaking -

and I,

suspicious of flowers

and encouragement,

sometimes close my doors,

complain

I don't know how to dance.

by Margaret Bednar, December 21, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #51 Year's End".  My poem is the second in my Junk Journal series of poems.  It is from a random page of an old book and (front and back - the front is only shown here) I created an eraser poem.  I changed the "rules" a bit as the only eraser poems I have seen use the words in order as they appear on the page - I allowed myself the indulgence of rearranging them - I ran a line through the text as you can see, and I will be typing it up and slipping this poem beneath the flowers on the left-hand side.  

My Ordinary

 

My Ordinary

The geese have long since
v'd their way south,
bare feet have been replaced with boots,
yet I still

sink footprints into chilled sand,
tide fills them up,
makes them disappear;
a wonder of which I never tire.

My heart pounds yet isn't heard
above roaring surf,
an exhilaration that is commonplace,
at least for me.

I pity the ones who never know
the wonder of a flock of seagulls
lifting in unison, filling horizon with swoops
and angled wings, riding ocean's breeze

beneath clouds that tell me
it's time to settle inside, before a warm fire,
before the snow descends,
book in hand, cat on lap,

all the while thanking God
this is my ordinary.

by Margaret Bednar, November 28, 2018

A poem I am resurrecting - I wrote it for a dVerse Poets Pub challenge two years ago.  I am now linking it up with "Earthweal - Open Link Weekend #49"  I live year-round in the mountains of NC, but I visit the east coast every few months and admit I love the sun and surf of summer but there is something special about a winter beach...

I believe this challenge is supposed to address current issues with earth's environmental challenges and I will ponder it more closely for next week.

Shark Fin Soup

 Shark Fin Soup

"We have a bright future if we want it,

but we have to do something now." Rob Stewart (1979-2017)

Off the shores of Costa Rica

life becomes a delicacy,

hooked from blue heavens

only to slip back in, rudderless,

wasted - 

trophy price collected 

as we sip shark fin soup.

Four hundred and fifty million years

they've filled the oceans, now culled,

super predator crown has slipped -

a title we obviously coveted

pride ourselves clever,

careless of our dependency,

ignorant of our responsibility.

by Margaret Bednar, December 18, 2020

PLEASE do yourself a favor and watch the movie "Sharkwater Extinction" (I watched it on Amazon Prime Video) and also READ the attached post written by Sherry Marr "Earthweal - Weekly Challenge Shark Poetry"  

Costa Rica is not the only country guilty, it's just the first place the documentary takes us - the movie highlights Panama, Cabo Verde (Africa), Los Angelos, Key Largo, FL, Spain...  (but there are many more) Los Angelos had nets that trapped all sorts of fish - dolphins, turtles, whales, sharks - I believe this has been finally banned in CA.

Conservation is the preservation of humans.  We must not forget we depend upon the oceans for our life...

Down in my Bones (junk journal poems)

Down in my Bones (junk journal poems)

Down in my bones are stories

of journeys home, wandering, of fairylands,

and treetops with lookout hills -

sightings of Indians, wild rabbits below, 

darting birds,

and God clear against the sky

on the ridge.

Down in my bones are enveloped feelings

like whirling stars, blinking, 

folded moments set sail, 

only to be fish-hooked

from swirling pools

to find how beautiful 

the world is -

a chatterbox of reflections,

a mirror glowing in a little dell

where my bones will rest,

movement, confusion, no more.

by Margaret Bednar, December 16, 2020

This is the first in a series of poems that will be inspired by my junk journal drawer of bits and pieces of ribbons, stickers, pages from old books, etc.  This poem is an "eraser poem' of carefully selected words within an old page that had been made into an envelope.  The key to these type of poem's success (in my opinion) is to link them to one's own experiences and memories. They often tend to be whimsical and a little vague I think.  

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #50 - Down in my Bones"

Mountain Top

 

Mountain Top

Bourbon butterscotch brightens to a shiny penny

before the hold of a sky matching your blue eyes

mixes with cucumber waters,

rushes past woodland lichen and pussy willow,

life-giving sustenance caressing

ancient paths and chaste mauve lips

both thirsting for past and present to be

vineyard and vine;  for all,

for one.  A mountain is mighty

but beneath a tree branch, 

a flannel grey sanctuary for two,

the glacial stream curls by

as fauna and curling willow

turn your eyes to candied lavender

and mine to Celtic green

as we picnic and drink 

from mountain waters, settle ourselves, 

become lovers.

***

This ancient pathway our spring nectar,

where summer coneflowers and yarrow bloom

and fall's fiery hue yields to winter's alabaster drape

and the tawny owl blinks 

into a raven-wing night blessing each season,

blesses us as we return

beneath peppercorn sky ablaze with the northern star;

refined amber above windswept cliffs whistling 

a serenade to love.

by Margaret Bednar, December 7, 2020

I wrote this poem to an expired challenge over at "dVerse Poets Pub - Synesthesia" - write a song full of colors.   I wouldn't say this is a song, but it is a poem.  I am linking this up with "Poets and Storytellers Writers Pantry #49". 

Moonshot

 

Moonshot

Remember stretching for the tip of the bow

before the pull backward and up again,

legs pumping, toes pointing,

hair aloft, lungs full, the rush of to and fro?

All was possible, a child reaching 

for the slight, light low-lying disc in summer's sky,

swinging, greeting a reflecting moon, midday -

miraculous!

But what about tonight, beneath this silver crescent,

December's coolness upon mature cheeks,

wrapped in darkness but for the glow above

trying to remember the wonder, the trust

I freely offered as youth?

Can't tuck it in pockets or ask it to wait

while I pencil in a date; iPhone's image 

a blurry smudge.  I've forgotten the importance

of immersing myself in the senses, soaking it in,

drinking from the well of this moment -

moonshot.  

Perhaps I'll loop a swing over tree limb,

settle myself come eve, and sway

as light fades and stars glimmer;

let moon become my friend again.

By Margaret Bednar, December 4, 2020

This is linked with "Poets & Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #48 - Words of an Unprecedented Year".    It's been a while since I have been able to sit down and write poetry - no poems in November! (I feel so out of practice - I was intimidated!) and I'm excited to visit all my fellow poet friends...  I"ve missed you.   The word I chose ... Moonshot.  What a gorgeous word.  

The Tulip Tree

 

The Tulip Tree

Embroidered with flowers

and hammock slung

I dream

through a summer's day 

and flit between

sun-lighted stillness

and the love-notes of birds.

by Margaret Bednar, October 29, 20202

Linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #43 - Found Poems & Erasures"

This poem is an erasure poem from an old book "Quiet Hours with Nature" Mrs. Brightwen (1904).   The chapter  on "The Tulip Tree" runs 7 pages with two beautiful illustrations.  

Holy

 

Holy

Beeswax, His body -

wick, His soul - flame, His divinity;

my voice, soft and low,

eyes upon blessed candle,

lips caressing holy words,

my fingers familiar with beaded bone.

"Old family heirloom, a relic from the Holy Land."

Grandpa would wink (an antler he'd whittled),

but we allowed Grandma her antiquity

as she held me in her lap and told me

of relics: the holy grail, Eucharistic miracles,

incorrupt body of St. Bernadette...

and I, entranced, felt her breath on my neck,

her soft bosom better than any pillow,

and her voice, like incense, filled the room.

I pray from my heart; Mary brings the Trinity, 

and I relax into peace and hear 

Grandma singing with the angels.

by Margaret Bednar, October 21 

This is linked with "Poets & Storytellers United - About those bones"  

Write poetry or prose which explores where the bones in the poem below might've come from.  (poem written by https://magicalmysticalteacher.wordpress.com  HERE)

fingers framed by light
clutching an old rosary
carved of human bone

Pageantry

 

Pageantry

A satin cape cascades off a shoulder,

branches drape, sequins and diamonds sparkle

beneath sun's tickling touch; diaphanous 

a new word to explore. 

Mermaid gown, ivy embroidered,

travels upon forest floor, resplendently elegant;

more a ball gown than evening bedecked as she is

in swags and tulle, edged with flowers, rosettes,

vine-like lace.

Oscar Da La Renta bows to such as these,

grand dames and sprightly, willowy youth 

showcasing bustles, bouffants, A-line, and tiered.

I'm underdressed, Timberlands and jeggings practical,

but certainly no competition.   I think of tonight,

scratch the burger joint off my list, make a reservation 

where newfound desire to shine will be appreciated.  

by Margaret Bednar, October 20, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - #42 Autumnal"

Slip of Moon

 

123rf

Slip of Moon

A slip of moon

beckons

coaxes me through night's

darkest hour to

explore forest's 

familiar path, branches

gesturing protectively.  So I

hesitantly

inch forward,

just a little at a time,

know with each heartbeat

lake's reflection of the stars

mirrors the big world,

not my tiny slice of it.

Oh, to escape, to soar

past my insecurities,

quiet my doubts,

rely on the promise of 

self-confidence I know is a

treasure buried inside.  I must

unfurl it slowly, nurture it,

venture forth and grasp

with both hands, life!  Unlike the

xeranthemums pressed within my diary's

yellowing pages, my spirit longs to bloom,

zoom to the moon and back.  

by Margaret Bednar, October 3, 2020

This is an Abecdarian Poem - use the 26 letters in the alphabet chronologically - each letter starting a new line. 

The Harvest Moon

The Harvest Moon

Deer repose, content beneath gnarled apple trees

surrounded by overripe, bruised apples,

content as they digest their bounty.

A doe is alert as three fawns, still speckled, lie beside her,

curled and fast asleep in the small, neighborhood orchard.

Fright and flight animals, yet today she's still,

keeps watchful eyes upon me and my dogs,

perhaps the sugar and sun a bit of a drug.

We enter the tree line; red leaves, some orange,

dot and scatter themselves on forest floor;

puppy reminds me of the wonder as he pounces,

misses, resumes the chase. 

Squirrels chatter, birds chirp, crows caw

as we disrupt tranquility, the Blue Ridge path ripe

with the first rays of Autumn's gold.

My boots have replaced sandals

and a knitted scarf drapes my neck, loosely;

more a nod to the coming chill than necessity.

Dappled light dances before us, and I remember

last night as my husband and I walked hand in hand,

moon where the sun is now, tree branches 

silhouetted above us, the bright glow a beacon,

chapel-like, reminding us of promises made long ago;

...and before me now the puppy scampers,

his young life stirring up worn out, tired leaves,

learning from them, stirring them, giving them new life;

much like our children, giving us purpose,

a new outlook, if we accept the challenge. 

At our age, we have a tendency to mull things over,

ponder, be watchful as we consider consequences,

absorb the world through our children's eyes;

much like the doe I saw earlier, and wonder

did we pass her last night on our walk through the trees

beneath the Harvest Moon?

by Margaret Bednar, October 1, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekley Scribblings #39 - October Thrills"

Sustenance

 

Sustenance

Oh, to lasso the slowly rising sun

suspended and ripe upon morn's horizon,

almost bursting before it slips slowly upward

out of reach; keep it hovering there,

surrounded by ribbons of tangerine, ochre & mint.

I raise my arm, hand and fingers 

delicately, reverently reaching,

knowing to touch is impossible and yet,

the yearning is there.  I'm jealous 

of seagulls whose wings are embedded

in this saturated tapestry...

this temporary oasis before stretch of day.

by Margaret Bednar, September 25, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #38 - A Helping String"

It has been over a month since I have written a poem!  I have been busy with schooling my son at home on-line through his school because of this pandemic.  He goes back twice a week to school starting next week and I will have a bit of time to myself again!  I have missed all my poet friends.  

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, stumbles.  

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 hesitates, 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 dinner" and "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.   I changed the line to "stumbles".  I used the previous quote for the prompt but didn't really like it. :)

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"

A Kiss

A sketch I did of Ocracoke's Silver Lake - July 2020

 

Tempest skies chase the moonlight, 

deliver a felted-gray morning sky

where windswept seagrass and mermaid murmurings

awake me from a slumber - drizzling rain, a serenade, 

in this cottage by the sea.

Vanilla-creamed coffee and baguette in hand,

I stroll the docks, sunflower faces tilt toward a hesitant sun 

as seagulls and pelicans balance like marble statues 

silhouetted against a crystalline sky.

A slash of red draws my eye.  A millionaire's cottage

hugs Silver Lake - a battle between past & present,

humble & posh.  I stroll past shop windows,

spy artisan jewelry; find I desire far more

gifts of early morning's tide.

I meander the day away, enjoy iced deserts

and fish fresh from the sea, settle oceanside,

beside salt marshes offering pink sunsets,

where blue jasmine collides with raspberry skies

and pensive moments accompany

soft breezes filtering through sea-salted hair;

leave an irresistible kiss

upon smiling lips,

a witness to all that is quiet.

by Margaret Bednar, August 5, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #31 - What Makes You Smile"

Farewell

My daughter and her "Prince"

Farewell

Farewell Golden Boy,

whose emerald eyes blinked sonnets,

whose throat purred poetic odes,

whose tail rhythmically rose and fell

upon the down, comforted with medicinal licks,

whose paws kneaded my chest,

whose nose kissed mine.

He was our prince, our peacemaker,

our little lion whose regal path

through dogs large and small

was punctuated with an exclamation mark;

tail, proud and tall, left no doubt

my daughter's bed was his.

by Margaret Bednar, July 28, 2020

Above is a photo of our sunset memorial on Ocracoke Island to our Westley.  

down = down comforter (he liked a soft, fluffy comforter :)

We have lost a great soul to the "other side".  Our dear cat, Westley.  He is another animal who helped me raise my children, comforted and loved them. He was one reason my daughter made sure to come home and visit from college!  My heart is heavy, but only because we were gifted with so much love.  Tears of thankfulness, not sorrow. 

Until we meet again, Dearest Westley.

This is linked with Sky Love Poetry's "Skylover Wordlist" ( I used three words: Golden, Farewell, Medicine) which can be found on Instagram  and "Poets & Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #30" (I used three words Poetry, Punctuation, Rhythm)

I've been absent for quite a while - busy with family and just got back from vacation to the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  I hope to be back in the writing grove now and I have missed all my fellow poets!   I look forward to visiting and commenting.  

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)

Faith of a Child

My New Poetic Challenge I host - please join in!  Artistic Interpretations

Faith of a Child

Sanctuary is the smell of lilies, incense
lifting me bodily into ornate ivory,
intricate Stations of the Cross -
a guilty pleasure as a child,
(and sometimes, I admit, to this day)
diversion from homily, from prayer -

Myself in each scene: sitting beside Mary, my hand
touching Jesus' linens, John's compassion evident
in his tears, thankful for carved alabaster (no blood-red).

Perhaps I'm wrong.  Perhaps it was an intimacy,
a vision, a message to ponder,
a conversation between God and me -
a seed nourishing the narrow path,
providing safe harbor when life strikes,
threatens to rock the boat, rip my sails -

Pray my vision's a bit cunning; no need to see Jesus
walk on water.  Trust in the power of the parables
and lilies placed in a vase, reminding me

of childlike wonder residing in my breast.

by Margaret Bednar, April 8, 2020

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:  



This is linked with my NEW CHALLENGE I HOST:  "Artistic Interpretations #3 Moonlight Sailing"  All are welcome.

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #14 - Let's use Pathetic Fallacy, shall we?"  I used it really just in the first stanza... I think.  Hope this qualifies to link to the challenge.

Also linked with Sky Lover Poetry's word list  #skyloverwordlist (Instagram) for the month of April.  I used about 12 words. 

The Beckoning

123rf

A July moon softly glows through my window-screen, barricaded, unlike the night's breeze that cools my skin from the day's humidity and shapes the draperies into ghost-like apparitions.  Beyond the sill, Willow beckons me with her long, pliant branches and dangling, whispering leaves tinkling like gentle wind chimes.  I tiptoe down hallway, past my parent's room.   Find me beneath Milky Way, Dippers, and North Star, face upturned.  Feel a bit dizzy with the immensity of it all.  I run, steal myself beneath Willow's feathery strands, the tickling about my shoulders and neck a sensation comforting me as I listen to the cicadas and toads (both of which I am afraid) hopefully chirping far off in bush and field and not here beneath umbrella'd security.  Silhouetted, an owl hoots from my old tree fort, its large stout limb juts out into the field and I imagine the owl feels as adventurous as I do midday imagining I'm a cowboy or Indian; whichever takes my fancy.  I wonder, does the owl ever dream of being something other than he is?  I tiptoe towards split rail fence for a better view, climb up and lean over just as a flash of shadow and whir of wings sends my heart a-flutter; sends me scampering back inside.  Screen door slams, my backside hits pillow and mattress as Mother calls my name and Father gets out of bed as the July moon softly glows through my window-screen.

Moonlit shadows glide
Caution is thrown to the wind
Young rabbits tempt fate

by Margaret Bednar, March 30, 2020

This is linked with "dVerse Poets, Haibun Monday - Snapshots of our Lives"

Take an old autobiographical poem and rework it into a haibun.  HERE is the one I used.

The Dance

The Dance

Dusk is put to bed

with raven's wings soaring above,

pulling night's curtain

toward the northern star.

My Victoria roses

no longer hold court,

no songbirds serenade,

but I hear quiet yelp of fox

playing beneath vineyard and vine,

flashes of red, moonlit.

It's a beauty that rivals

the sunflowers and blue iris

sprinkled within field midday

when my breath will catch,

but now I'm caught up

in the wildness, 

heart fluttering, skipping,

wishing I could join the dance.

by Margaret Bednar, January 16, 2012

This is linked to "The Sunday Muse #90"

also linked with Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #13

My 12 year old son wrote to this image as well:  HERE

The Pond

The Pond

Water violets and lotus bejewel the pond,
lily pads sprinkle the surface, little oasis's
reflecting the sun for painted turtles, dragonflies, and snails.

Silence is a bubble of air floating to its surface,
a butterfly winging its way, a tree limb's leaves
dabbling its reflection;

yet, what is it that lures and whispers "Peer closely",
my eyes squint, search for a crystalline scrim
beneath willow's shade as goosebumps caress my limbs?

Surely fairies who flutter in at dusk,
dance delicately from pad to pad,
feet leaving misty patterns come morn

as wings of gossamer silk
and skin luminous as the moon slip away,
envelope in mist and mystery

leaving me entranced, eagerly wishing
for a glimpse at water's edge.

by Margaret Bednar, March 16, 2020

This is linked with "Artistic Interpretations #2"  MY NEW CHALLENGE OPEN TO EVERYONE.  Please click over and consider playing along.  It is a bi-monthly challenge and stays open for two weeks.  It can also be accessed at the top left of my blog.

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #11"

This poem has been updated (and I hope improved) by accepting the challenge at "Poets and Storytellers United #11- Hypophora and all that" where we ask a question and answer it. 

Forbidden

Image used for "The Sunday Muse #99"

Forbidden

A smooth-talking serpent
tempted Eve;
Eve, Adam

and in an instant
Good and Evil danced,
not six feet apart, but close

like apples and sin
seafood markets and snakes,
toilet paper and sanitizer.

If only sin weren't so beautiful,
so tempting, if our hearts
didn't turn from red to black so fast.

by Margaret Bednar, March 15, 2020


My attempt to write to the image and current events in five minutes' time.   I'm not saying those who get this virus are sinful - it is our reaction to this whole pandemic I'm referring and it is a bit ironic that a snake may be the cause or the host...  Stay safe everyone. 

linked with "The Sunday Muse #99" 

Wonderment

Wonderment

Sunrise seemingly slept in this day
as remnants of moonlight remain
from wintersweet sky,
clouds seemingly hand-spun, perhaps felted.

Chaste mauves, mellow mangos, sedate grays
waterscape morning's horizon,
cocoon me between sand dunes
as if I'm a mermaid with sea-salted hair.

Battered coral and broken shells speckle and glint
beneath watchful eyes of seagulls pronouncing
"Day's begun!"; industrious scavengers
whose work has yet to be done,

begging, stealing.  And I indulge them,
content to offer my bagel and a prayer,
watch both soar over heads of a mother and child;
remember when I first showed my babes

their first glimpse of the sea.

by Margaret Bednar, March 11, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #10 - Early Bird or Night Owl?"

I just got back from a relaxed stay in Florida's (the USA's) oldest city of St. Augustine and the beach.  Great food, great history, and glorious (gray) morning sunrises.  The sun, even hidden behind the clouds, is a wonder to me.

Chopin

Image used for "The Sunday Muse #97"

Chopin

Her right hand touches her neck,
left hand expertly plays the chords,
melody suspended for a moment,

but not memory of kisses
skimming, teeth nipping, thrilling, 
freely flowing over her body; 

hands over piano keys, notes repeated,
sometimes traditional, sometimes revolutionary,
waltzing heroic... like a good lover.

She often plays the night,
an escape, when structure unwinds
and romance tilts the room,

enshrines emotions as moon and stars outside
cast shadows upon the lake, twinkling,
willing him back safely into her arms.

Only then she'll allow clasp to be unfastened,
ring taken from delicate chain and placed upon her finger.
When his promised return will be answered with "Yes".

by Margaret Bednar, March 3, 2020

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #97".

Also linked with Instagram: "A Skylover Wordlist".  I used enshrines (shrine), teeth, escape

I invite all of you to consider my new bi-monthly challenge "Artistic Interpretations".  All are welcome!  

Coney Island

As of March 1, 2020 (NOW) I am hosting a NEW Bi-Monthly "Artistic Interpretations" at a new blog site set up for this new challenge.   All are welcome, poets, painters, etc.  Click on the link below and read the details.  I hope you can join the creativity.

Coney Island

Before the clamor and confusion of mid-day,
before shadows slant lean and low
and seagulls dive-bomb a littered beach,

I gaze down the grey-boarded walk
bejeweled with brightly colored umbrellas
and awnings hawking lobster rolls, soft serve, and beer.

It’s a calm before the storm, a respite;
ghostlike. As if I look hard enough,
I’ll transport back in time

when five cents gypsied one down the tracks
to a beachside breeze, promise of a Nathan’s frank,
and a Steeplechase thrill.

Electro Spin and Sea Side Swing seem overshadowed

by Wonder Wheel’s grace (that’s probably still the same)

and Classic Rock rolls its rhythm 

as Carousel and Thunderbolt act as grand sentinels

(that’s how I imagine it). I’m eventually drawn to the beach

dotted with small shaded oasis’s, crowded with coolers and chairs.

“Cold Corona’s, Cotton Candy!, Snow Cones”. 

“Get it!, Get it!” and I buy 2 umbrellas for $20,
my own refuge beneath a partially cloudy sky,

close my eyes as a life guard’s whistle blows,

children laugh, bicker, cry
and Latino hip hop filters from over my left shoulder. 

By Margaret Bednar, July 1, 2019

Linking this with a New Challenge:  "Artistic Interpretations - Coney Island, NY" March 1, 2020

This is linked with “The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse - Keeping Cool”
And “Imaginary Garden With Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform”

I invite you to listen to me read my poem: