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"