Bridges to Nowhere - Sepia Saturday 802

 

Venice 1929

The gondola's ferro

marks him,

he with his Panama hat,

leans forward, attentive,

cigarette almost forgotten

raised eyebrow returns her smile.

They aren't alone -

winged lions, roaring gargoyles,

Madonnas and saints,

apostles, archangels -

the grotesque, exotic, classical

look down upon 

Rio di San Paternian's stone footbridge,

flirtatious lady with soft, cloche hat,

gentleman with bold hat band,

art deco tie:  1929...

through the gelatin silver print,

upon me,

wondering about them.

by Margaret Bednar, November 24, 2025

This is linked with "Sepia Sunday #802 Bridges to Nowhere".  These photos are from an amazing 1929ish travel album I purchased.  Also linked with Poets and Storytellers United #204 - (I did NOT write to their suggested prompt)

Above Photo: upon the rooftop of Milan Cathedral (Duomo di Milano)

Family Portrait

Click on image to enlarge 

Bessie started life as a simple milk cow, but somehow became more like a dog or the pony I never had.   It began the day Jimmy took my dare to ride her to the barn; thought she'd flick her tail, turn away.  Instead, when he climbed upon her back, she gave a slow blink and followed me like a loyal hound down the lane. After that, she shadowed us everywhere: to the porch, garden, creek.  Nudged our pockets for treats, trotted when we ran, mooed when we disappeared into the house.  Followed us to school once, ambled through a clothesline of white linen, draped herself in a ghostly costume from ear to tail.  Scared the entire schoolyard.  So, when Papa set up the new camera for a family portrait, Bessie nudged her way into the middle, claimed her rightful place within the family.

by Margaret Bednar, November 13, 2025

This is linked with Sepia Saturday (801)- Family Portrait.  This is my contineud quest to improve my short story writing.  144 words exactly.  

Bare November Days

click on image to enlarge

Not yesterday I learned to know the love of bare November days.  Before the coming of the snow, as young children, we had a ritual of building a fort, cropped field making it easy to get to the lotline of trees; a private world where we relived summer's glory, lamented homework, whispered crushs' names upon bales of straw hauled from the barn. Nature's golden chandeliers and carved pumpkins our decor.  The summer before Mary went to University, we carved our initials into the smooth bark of the beech tree.  Didn't know it would be the last time there together.  We ran home with happy hearts and big dreams.  Winter, as always, came, destroyed our sanctuary.  Yet our joy of sledding, skating, building snowmen thrilled us.  After the war took Billy, and Mary passed from cancer, I went back.   Traced our names.  Cried.  Smiled.  Remembered. 

by Margaret Bednar, November 12, 2025

This is prompted by "dVerse Poets Pub - Prosery - My November Guest". We were given the poetic lines:

Not yesterday I learned to know 

The love of bare November days 

Before the coming of the snow

We were to use this in our SHORT STORY of 144 Words.  adding punctuation was ok - but we could not take it out of order. 

The photo is one I have collected over the years - I LOVE writing to photos and art images.  

Also linked with Sepia Saturday - check out this amazing blog AND join the fun.  

 

Tempted

 

Tempted

Sin never dies,

never's contained nor coffined,

gypsies about, courts desire; 

mortal or venial, a coo.

Black slit eyes, dark shadows

watch for the slightest waver,

beaded pearls, flickering light, 

a wicked smile, disguised,

stirs the heart 

of wide-eyed innocence;

tempted.

by Margaret Bednar, October 30, 2025

This was too late to add to, but I used their prompt:  dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: "its not that scary"

The Red Umbrella

 

The Red Umbrella

Beneath a hazy heat

I hear a seagull's cry rise and fall,

perhaps searching for a mate,

his swooping shadow a puppet

prancing upon windswept dune

where our footprints

once burned a path to the shore,

our cries of laughter

a courtship of sorts.

Our oasis a red umbrella.

Wind cooled our skin,

sun kissed our toes,

"Oh!  What will I do

there

without my hands

upon your summer face?"

I follow the tide, 

allow it to swallow

all evidence I've returned,

leave behind the sancutary -

a failed resurrection.

Let it disappear,

become a speckle

amongst the rainbow

of covers, of lovers.

Wish the seagull

could pluck my heart,

make it dance,

come alive again.

by Margaret Bednar, October 15, 2025

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Prosery - Oh, Umbrellas" where we needed to use the phrase "What will I do there without my hands upon your summer face?"

Essence

 Essence 

My brows arch,

become migrating geese,

sharply raised,

unlike swooping arc of hawk

midsummer.

Reminisce not

the perfume of gardenias,

but mist myself

with decaying leaves

and woodsmoke.

Pumpkin fields adorn my skirt, 

tumble upon porches

as I pirouette, dance

with apple trees 

and crisp, whispering wind.

Am accused of being fickle,

A bit reserved. Yet...

beneath a cozy comforter

I kiss you, leave the taste

of cinnamon upon your lips.

by Margaret Bednar, October 12, 2025

linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings 198 - October's POV". 

Trends

Trends

Come fall, I grudgingly wore

Mother's knitted, polyester-blend scarves

wrapped around my neck, trifold,

knotted in back, hooded jacket squeezed

as if by a python.  

Matching mittens if I were lucky,

leftover lengths of yarn cleverly striated;

little did I know the skill involved.

Shawls, cowls, socks, hats

she fashioned, knitting at night,

fireside.  It was her therapy,

her creative outlet,

and I complained, wanting fashions

between the covers

of Montgomery Ward & Sears,

not realizing sister and I were wearing

the greatest trend of all;

her love.

by Margaret Bednar, September 27, 2025

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United" Friday Writings #196 "Hello Fall". 

My mohter knit until her dying day. I have her last incomplete project - a purple scarf and I cherish it.  I have a pair of her mittens - almost too small for my hands - yet I slip them on and hold my face.  I have socks she made me and I wore holes in them - I can't throw them out.  She did transition to better quality yarn - but when we were kids she didn't have the money.

Happy Fall everyone.   It's been a while since I've written poetry and it feels good.  Thank you for this space to share and be inspired!