The Matron

The Matron

A flush not demure

but forthcoming

anticipates perhaps not youth

but no less adventure.

Spring and Summer
shyly, perhaps coyly,
wear sheer, billowing skirts,
laugh gloriously and foolishly,
the sound delightful,

but Autumn
cloaks herself in wool,
red cheeks, and experience.

Harvests gathered,
rewards reaped,
she sighs, shakes out apron,
loosens hair

for a moment a child,
carefree.  Just one spin
before auburn tresses once again
become silvered and gray,

eyes reflecting sky,
heart's abundance,
and oncoming clouds,

all without a hint of subterfuge.

by Margaret Bednar, November 9, 2018

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toad's - Kerry Say's - How Does the Story End?"  It is important for this prompt to have a STRONG ending line.

I am also sharing this with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry # 92". 

Resonance

click on image to enlarge

Resonance

You marched cheerily away, after loyalty pledged

to country, hearth, and wife.  I a blushing bride

clinging to promises made within a woodland glade

where bluebells jingled an English spring as upon knee 

you cradled my hand and won my heart.

We laughed and dreamed of a cottage house,

ivy clinging eternally to cobble and thatch...

clasp now I to memory.

The first white roses, pressed,

swirls flattened into outlines, crisp.

Find myself wanting reversal of time,

hand them back soft and full, see your slanted smile 

after a kiss, hear you whisper, "Chere".

So faded our forest, so faint St. Peter's bells,

so distant your song as another season hitch-hikes  

upon orange-tipped wings signaling spring's arrival

and with indrawn breath I'm facing

angelic wings singing not songs of grief

but joy, encouraging me to soldier on,

let past become like mountain mist,

dismissed each morn with sun embraced,

songbirds harmonizing with Blue's melody,

his solo and steadfast stare

gifting me with freedom, with life.  

by Margaret Bednar, October 7, 2021

I am not sure if this qualifies (Sherry - please let me know) for the prompt at "Earthweal Weekly Challenge - Collateral Beauty".  It's a story poem, in response to my collage (not digital but the old fashioned cut and paste).  Some of the images are from vintage magazines and music - the center image is of a white rose painted by Georgia O'Keeffe.  The above image will be the centerfold for an art journal with drawing and watercolor paper.  I will be sewing the signatures in and have yet to make the cover which I think I will fashion from gorgeous wallpaper (I have many wallpaper books).  This poem will be included in the journal.

note:  the art above will change a bit as I am waiting for an order of graphite blocks to arrive which I will then trace and smudge around a few images so they stand out a little bit. 

October

(click on images to enlarge)

October

"I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."  Anne of Green Gables

Honey is the ingredient shared in dueling pumpkin pies;

Grandma's secret stirred into spices, Mom's kneaded into crust.

Dad's eyes grow large as they ask him his favorite;

points to his mouth, too full to answer.

***

Pansies and asters blink goodnight, mums begin to yawn,

yet pink flamingo and garden pixie stand at attention,

salute tiniest fairies floating by

astride parachutes of milkweed and goldenrod.

***

Crows and ravens await for songbirds' final flight

to call forest and field their own.  Caw warnings

as witches walk hand in hand, trinkets and wands sparkle,

tempt black murders dotting fiery finery of maple and oak.

***

Pumpkin seeds and cider warm our bellies,

Grandma's knitted wool sweaters our bodies; "protection" 

as we pass St. Mary's graveyard; nervously giggle away

scary ghost stories whispered 'round backyard bonfire last night.

***

A "stay-at-home" date night (no babysitter), movie, glass of wine,

squeaky porch swing, glowing Jack-O-lantern.  Mom giggles

(she doesn't seem afraid).  Says "Come up and see me sometime".

Dad winks, follows her inside, his, "Yes, Dear" oddly British.

by Margaret Bednar, October 6, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #90: October"

The photos above are the front and back cover of my hand-made, collaged (paper - not digital) October 2021 journal. I will be stitching in my paper signature tomorrow and will add a few of my old poems as well as my poems for this month.  I will do a video of it at the end of the month so you can see how it looks.  

The movie reference is "She Done Him Wrong" starring Mae West & Cary Grant, 1933.

Beautiful Dreamer

Beautiful Dreamer

Dreams are musical notes

pirouetting upon a heart, fluttering one's mind

as if a queen coronated or a song vibrato'd,

melody swaying like poppies in a field,

bursting with passion, adventure;

or like lilies, marvelously curved and open,

reaching heavenward in acceptance.

Monet and Van Gogh flourished

light and color upon a canvas,

exploding and inspiring

as we peer into rooms and fields, allow maidens

and sheep to visit our slumbered fancies,

past, present, and future

woven into bouquets of freshly picked blooms,

becoming rosebud smiles as we awaken

full of promise, hope, and joy as we hum 

beautiful melodies.

by Margaret Bednar, October 3, 2021

Linked with "Poets and Storytellers United, Writer's Pantry #90".  The images above are both collaged by me and will be the front and back cover of a writing/art journal I am making.  I will post this poem on the inside front cover.  I will be making a number of journals this style (with coffee, blueberry, avocado & other hand dyed paper)  and other styles and they will eventually be for sale.  

Mother

Mother

It's often the angle of light

that dictates what I will see, what I will feel.

Early morning light through the trees

is soothing, thoughts familiar,

like faded Polaroid images sifted through,

tenderly recalled as we all seemed to get along.

Of course, she was there, guiding,

gently reminding us, "Sisters are a blessing",

something she never had.

***

Noon displays canopy's lace-like patterns

chaotically cavorting upon the lawn,

fallen chestnuts and twigs scattered;

her hand absent, mower silent.

Recall her last words, "Be kind to one another.

Get along."  Feel sad, see our disunity displayed

in speckled shadows battling for shape and form.

A walk around the yard still yields her presence; 

dancing rabbits, patriotic windmill, 

bronze sparrows balancing forever on bird-bath rim;

but her flowers wilt, and weeds have been mischievous 

even though it's only been a week.

***

The swing will be taken down,

lawn ornaments collected, re-homed,

but evening's light is stubborn,

almost biblical in its imprint

as trees' shadows are straight and narrow,

stretch earnestly toward myself;

bring to mind the importance of mercy,

of pathways offered.  I just need to settle in prayer,

listen for His voice, her voice.

Honor Mother's memory.

by Margaret Bednar, September 26, 2021

I lost my Mother suddenly at the end of last month.  She fell, broke her hip, had surgery.  The doctors said her bones looked great for her age of 91.  She might walk with a cane, they said.  Her concern was that a cane would interfere with her yard work.  However, a complication arose that caused her to pass away from us within a week's time.  We all know that no matter one's age, we are never prepared to lose our Mother.  I have two sisters.  I am the middle child.  Without going into detail, the older sister has created a bit of a "stir" (to put it mildly) and I am trying to come to terms with this.  

I stayed in my childhood home for a bit over two weeks. It was cathartic for me - I slept on my childhood bedroom... and sat in the kitchen that will always feel like Mother.   Fifty-five years ago they built the home and she gardened and raised all kinds of animals on our little farmette.  And not without a few tears, I said goodbye.  

Shared with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #89: Ghost Walk"

College Bound

College Bound

A memory 

is a moment that lasts forever, 

encapsulates itself in a fragile tear,

a sigh, a distant gaze.

Today it's heavy and light,

a full deep breath and quivering smile,

something I want resurrected,

wished back.  Yet I know

she is more than ready for this journey.

It seems memories (made and unmade)

are piled high atop and in the Subaru.  

I didn't see Pooh in her room;

wonder if he's squished inside a box

traveling away from me, too,

but can't ask 

as memories are stuck in my throat

and I can only hug her,

tell her "I love you", and hope she believes

how much she will be missed. 

by Margaret Bednar, August 22, 2021

It has been forever since I have been able to sit down and write a poem.  I have had an incredibly busy last few months.  I've missed my poetry peeps and can't wait to catch up.  I am off to take my youngest daughter out to dinner and see her off in the morning... her Dad is driving her to NJ for college... Christmas break seems a long way off.  

This is linked with "Poets & Story Tellers United - Writer's Pantry #84 - Let's Read up a Storm".

Yearning

 

Yearning

"From the solemn gloom of the temple

children run out to sit in the dust,

God watches them play and forgets the priest"...

My collection of Marian planters

align perfectly upon dusted shelves -

no nerf gun bullets hidden inside.

Carpet's nap pristine -

no footprints tell tales 

of make-believe.

Toys double stacked in neat rows

tucked away in closet -

no lego man sticks to heel or sole.

Entryway's hooks and basket

add architectural interest - not a respite

for seasonal jackets and misplaced shoes.

Inhale silence, wait for peace

to flower within...

find I yearn for yesteryear.

by Margaret Bednar, June 16, 2021

Back in the day, I had six children who created quite a mess - longed for the day when rooms would look like a magazine spread ... or so I thought.  

This is a writing prompt offered by Toad Hall Editions if you support and join them on Patreon.  You can follow them on Instagram at toadhalleditions.  They are creating a publishing ecosystem that lives and thrives on collaboration, mutual benefit, and equity.  (My poet friends - you should look into this :)  

I will also link this with "Poets & Storytellers United Tuesday Platform" - next week. 

Then & Now

Then & Now

Barricaded, I breathe deeply

as questions continue,

their bodies slide down 

wooden expanse as if shot,

find slit at bottom of door,

implore to be let in;

writhe, feet beat floor

as reprieve is not granted.

Before me, resplendent,

an array of old friends:

perfume, hair clips,

powdery pinks, delicate lace, bows,

strand or two of bobbles and bits

I caress as old friends, perhaps lovers.

I emerge, their arms and limbs draped

over chaise and lounge,

eyes blink with sleep and surprise

as they whisper, "Mother"?

and I answer with a smile, 

tie apron about my front, 

clean fish, roll dough,

hang laundry...

little ones convinced 

forever more this day

an Angel descended.

by Margaret Bednar, May 12, 2021

Times don't really change that much - I think most mothers will understand this poem.  Linked with "Poets & Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #69 - The Hunt".  Am I the only mother who has locked the master bathroom door and looked longingly at makeup and such?   It's been a while since I've felt "desperate" (LOL), but I remember when I had 5 children 10 years and under ... !!   Number six came along five years later.  

I ordered an ephemera package of Paris/France goodies - vintage postcards, magazines, book pages, lace - I will use it in journals I am making.  This is one postcard that came in the pack.  Isn't it lovely?  You can find such treasures (Vintage Book Art, Journals, and Paper Ephemra at :  BookAndPaperArts.com and Instagram: book.and.paper.arts. 

Glorified

Glorified

Which is more radiant,
a sunbeam or moonbeam?

Why am I so happy standing
beneath maple and mountain ash,
joining leafy arms praising,
birds instead of bells,
earth instead of incense,
luminescence instead of stained glass?

How is it at night,
it's silence that glorifies,
the soft chirping, the low hoot,
the sliver of light outlining your cheek,
the moon that serves as Host?

Is it possible trees sing for joy,
that He holds mountains in His hands?

When did we stop listening,
stop observing, stop learning
from that which He created?

by Margaret Bednar, April 29, 2019

Reposted and linked with "Earthweal Open Link Weekend #65" a poem I wrote about two years ago...  

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Poems in April - Asking a Question"  Don't get me wrong, I think the sanctuary, tabernacle, the Mass is an important part of my worshipping, but I find being in nature can be just as magnificent.

Also linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Platform Tuesday"  

Grandmother

 

123rf

Grandmother

Grandmother hovered

above childrens' play-set,

Ancient Wild Cherry tree

bent and a bit wobbly on her feet;

offered shade in the summer 

and arms to climb and nestle,

ponder secrets she held

within her countenance.

Crab Apple and Old Willow

joined our gossip on many a fine day,

but were much younger;

Willow's golden catkins 

and Apple's flushed pink florets

delighted us through spring and summer,

but it was Grandmother Cherry

who regaled us all with stories

she was willing to share. 

Songbirds entertained

as we picnicked beneath her boughs,

feasted on PB&J, our little musicians

on sweet and sour apples and berries

dangling above our heads.

And yet, as all living things 

face Destiny, it took a powerful storm

to prostrate her upon our lawn, 

leaves a halo about her head;

miraculously missed the play-set

directly in her path.  

I still marvel, 

yet should have known,

she'd bring no harm or disappointment

to those she loved.

by Margaret Bednar, April 18, 2021

We had a huge wild cherry in our backyard when the first three children were little - I was surprised it was a cherry tree as I thought they were all smaller - this one was supposedly over 100 years old and very tall and wide.  The tree experts insisted it was a wild cherry - who knew.  Anyway, one morning looking out my bedroom window the view was certainly different with the tree felled by powerful tornado-like winds.   She was rotten in the middle and it scared me to think it could have fallen anytime - but somehow she stood - I guess she was stubborn :)  And by all means, she should have fallen right on the swing-set and play area, but didn't.  

I am almost recovered from my hysterectomy operation.   I had a small infection at the top of my incision which slowed me down for a few days.  A few more weeks and I will be as good as new.  

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #66"

Inspired by R.L.S.

Inspired by R.L.S.

Into tiny treetops,

rose & thyme I'd peer,

search for fairies dear.

Imagine rain pools were seas,

floating leaves small ships,

& clover leaves,

shade above my head.

Close my eyes

& seaside I'd be

with wooden spade & sandy shore.

Open them,

find myself nestled

in Old Oak Tree,

spy foreign lands

beyond road, river & sea.

My Shadow, my confidant,

and Wind a song,

Swing pushing me up

into air so blue...

& little birdies

yellow-billed & breasted,

tweeted advice (& chastisement)

in language I understood.

All a gift from poetic verse

& images dear,

my land of counterpane

safe & snug,

me a giant upon pillow-hill

afraid of Dark no more

as Moon had a face

like Clock in the hall.

***

A Garden of Verse

falls apart in my hands,

dear pages faded & frail,

long since slipped their binding.

Close my eyes,

grown woman cease to be,

child within crystal clear.

by Margaret Bednar, March 8, 2021

This is linked with the GREAT "Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #60 - What Got You Started".   My love for poetry I KNOW started with Robert Louis Stevenson and my mom would read "A Child's Garden of Verses" to me every night - and I have the very book.  I love any version of this classic.  I truly believe the inner peace it gave me as a child is part of why I write poetry today.  My poetry is seldom dark - that would do me no good.  But we all write for different reasons...  Anyone who LOVES Robert Louis Stevenson will recognize references within the poem above to his beloved poems...

The Melodrama (junk journal poems)

 The Melodrama (junk journal poems)

Bluebird trilled an almost querulous song this morn,

challenging spring to sprout,

but Shepard's Purse rosettes and Peppergrass pods

are still too green to scatter easily upon March's breath,

a sure sign winter maintains her upper hand -

so Bluebird weaves grass and pine

into an old woodpecker hole 40 feet above ground

and awaits, angelic.

As Blue Jay does, he wings boldly onto feeders rim,

beauty seemingly a privilege exalted

as he drops below, scattering devilish squierrels.

Love doesn't discriminate between sinners and saints,

bird feeders filled as all congregate,

and I behind curtained window

delight in antics of songbird, rodent, and, crow,

of the sweet, stubborn, and selfish.  

by Margaret Bednar, March 3, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United Scribblings #59 - Wait For It" I chose the line "Love doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints".

Red Roses (junk journal poems)

 

Red Roses

Long-stemmed and red

passion

he declares with a dozen, yet my eye also

delights

upon spying Forget Me Nots

recalls

his protection and care; thank my lucky stars

our life's 

journey has been full of God's 

blessings

by Margaret Bednar, February 25, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #58: Two Into One will Go"  

This is a poem form called "Waltmarie" (10 lines, even lines are two syllables, odd lines are longer (but no specific syllable count).   Even lines make their own mini-poem if read separately. 

The Invitation (junk journal poems)

The Invitation (junk journal poems)

Moon silently rises

over hill's sloping shoulders,

loneliness silhouetted

this dark night.

Among the shadows -

faint lights, catlike,

playfully romp,

invite Beloved

to satisfy his longing:

burst into constellations of dance,

love songs, love nips,

sinking into the warm rain

'till dawn.

by Margaret Bednar, February 19, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #57 - Let Us 

Write (together)"  The blackout poem I chose was "burst into constellations together" and I also added my own blackout poem inspired by my junk journal.  The website where I get printable graphics from (I signed up for a year) is Graphic Fairy - so very inspiring.  

I am three challenges behind in visiting and commenting but I will catch up this weekend.  I've been busy preparing to be out of commission for a bit - I've been organizing, freezing meals, getting laundry done - as I have an operation scheduled for this Wednesday - a hysterectomy - and a big vertical almost to the belly-button incision it will be!  I guess I'll do anything for breakfast in bed :)  My "new" used laptop computer will come in handy over the next week or so.  

Into the Fold (junk journal poems)

Into the Fold (junk journal poems)

I’d play dress-up, Mother’s knee-length dress

a train behind me, hair, towel draped, 

cotton locks heavy upon princess shoulders.  

Winter-time, sister and I played for hours,

basement’s cement floor and unfinished walls

our oasis of make-believe; flower pots and quilts

our castle walls, magical gardens and forests 

with friendly woodland creatures and moon fairies; 

adventure as far as imagination could see.

Rarely made a mess, as we didn’t have much:

one toy chest full of mother’s fancy frocks

and two small shelves, one full of toys, the other books. 

A wooden rocking-horse with chewed leather ear 

and sparse yarn tail, our faithful companion. 

I’d sit for hours, illustrations and words 

memorized, chair overflowing with books

and cat.  Poems of bluebirds and Bluebeard,

stories by Stevenson, Lewis, and a Land of Oz… 

made me a dreamer, a seeker of solitaire, 

an adult woman who easily slips into the fold

of a thought and gets lost for the better part of a day…

and I’m all the richer for it.

by Margaret Bednar, February 7, 2021

A quick google search and I found my faithful childhood steed: 

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #146" The image The Sunday Muse asked us to write to is "Natural Woman" Digital Collage Art "Covid Creations" by Susie Clevenger.  I was also inspired by my postcard clipped in my junk journal.

Pocketed (junk journal poems)

 

Pocketed (junk journal poems)

Thankfully, it's easy for me to pocket melancholy,

tuck it away,  hidden behind trinkets

of memories and favorite things happily enjoyed

like butterfly wings riding the mountain breeze

and flannel shirts wrapped and comforted - 

a faded well-worn red a particular favorite,

the color of an old barn, my favorite lipstick,

Polaroid image of roses on Grandmother's front porch.

I have a treasured memory of Father, 

hands holding a pencil, fingers sure,

sketching, shading, captivating. Yet,

he never found approval in mine.

He taught young boys softball, 

but a weekend spent with me, coaching,

my determination focused, so eager...

was never repeated.

Mother read the stories at night.  I absorbed

every word.  Father called her away,

his voice never added to the wonder and delight.

It was the way things were. I didn't question it much.

Yesteryear's childhood full of freedom and joy,

yet how much richer if Father had truly mentored

like my husband does with ours?  

The adoration a blessed thing 

I'll never tuck away; freely offer red kisses 

upon his cheek for proof.  

By Margaret Bednar, February 6, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #55 - What you Resist, You Become".   This is also inspired by a page in my "Junk Journal Poems".  

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #56"

I have been organizing and cleaning lately (that's why I've been gone for these past few weeks as I had said I wanted to be back in the swing of things writing with my fellow poets and their wonderful prompts ... I am having a hysterectomy in less than three weeks and want everything in order. 

The Raid

 

The Raid

Purple clover and meadow foxtail grass

rimmed edge of field and "forest"

where sister's and my fort was an old oak limb

slumberously hanging over property line

offering a world secret and secure 

during summer's heat.

However, I recall cool mornings

where I'd lay upon grass, enchanted,

tempted by luscious berries slowly deepening

to ruby red, heavy upon stalks, almost pouting

in their perfect little circle garden 

Father had dug for Mother.  It took a bit of discipline

to resist such flavor, but father promised 

the wait would be worth it.

The berries were surrounded with scrolled white wire,

twelve inches high where I knew little fairies sat,

shared laughs while fashioning clothes

from scalloped green leaves -

I just never caught sight of them.

June in Illinois is humid and hot, buggy,

where the drone of insects overpowers birdsong.

It was a day like this, sister and I snug in "forest" shade,

heard Father, mad as a hornet, yelling.

Perring from our post on high, doom and despair

met our gaze.  Our milking goat had escaped her pen,

berries and green leaves staining and hanging

from her white countenance, eyes drunk

with the sweet taste of berry and vine, fairy fence

wrapped about her neck, trailing behind her 

as she dashed just ahead of Father's flailing arms.

It became an addiction, year after year,

Momma and babies successfully raided

the round oasis of sweetness, until my Father

waving a white flag of surrender,

planted grass seed instead.  Ever after,

every Sunday in June and into July,

roadside farmer's stand supplied us

with baskets of strawberries

(of which I secreted a few to the criminals

in the barnyard).

My first garden was graced with a few statues:

St. Francis, a little pig, a chicken... and goat,

and produced many delicious meals: beans,

lettuce, tomatoes.  But no strawberries.

by Margaret Bednar, January 12, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United -  Writers' Pantry #52 - Year's Beginning" and I resurrected the old post "#22 - It Takes a Bit of Discipline"  I changed the word "takes" to "took")  309 words