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".