The Meeting Place

The Meeting Place

Yes, on little cat feet the fog rolled in,
but hasn’t tiptoed on; instead has settled
for a long catnap.  Whiskery branches
tickle my shoulders and back
along narrow woodland trail,
puppies' barking muffled;
hope they aren’t as far off as they sound.

It’s damp and I wrap my shawl about me
as early mornings have become chilly,
my footing slips a bit as the leaves are damp,
the crunch and playfulness of yesterday’s hike
replaced with tedious wariness.

An owl's hooting is what set them off,
the cloistered atmosphere perhaps
giving them confidence; it troubles me
as I can barely see my hand before my face,
yet the rolling terrain of the mountain
offers a respite of sorts when I reach
the hilltop, fog yawns a bit, offers me
a brief glimpse of the family cemetery.

Golden marigolds encircle numerous sugar skulls
placed beneath an altar of pumpkins, gourds,
and a bottle of whiskey; a favorite indulgence
of a few buried beneath this hallowed ground.
I’ve always enjoyed it here,
especially during the Day of the Dead,
when we celebrate our loved ones’
spiritual journey and remember and tell stories
of our ancestors.

We aren’t Mexican, but we’ve fashioned
a celebration of our own;
the smell of tamales in the kitchen,
sugared sweet rolls pulled from the oven,
and the hibiscus tea with its ruby red color
make me want to hurry back without the puppies
and finish up the leftovers.

Mother fashioned me a Halloween costume;
a La Catrina skeleton, mask a bit scary,
but the dress is emerald and chartreuse
with matching hat; the ensemble’s  flourishes
and ornamentals are so beautiful
I plan on leaving it on display all year;
(and partly because the mannequin
scares my little brother!)

The puppies burst through my thoughts,
tongues lolling sideways, all wet,
look like furry crazed skeletons;
whites of their eyes flashing about
proving they are very much alive.

And that’s fitting, in this place
where I imagine our spirits meet the other side
for a brief moment.  I fondle my puppies ears,
say a quick prayer, before taking off after them
as they run toward the house;
hopefully not tempted with another adventure.

By Margaret Bednar, October 7, 2019

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:


This is linked with "Poets United - Pantry of Poetry and Prose - October is Here"  Maximum of 369 words.  I am three under with 367.  Of course, "little cat feet" is a nod to Carl Sandburg.

In our Blood

The Moors, North Yorkshire  Source

HERE is an absolutely stunning website of six amazing "North York Moor" walks... 

In our Blood

Wind and rain sweep the moors,
past Roman and iron age hearths,
over venerated hilltops
carrying song of tribal gatherings
and rituals, tucked away shadows
buried beneath misty mounds
and prehistory of oak and hazel.

When light is low
and squalls rage upon the cairns,
one hears them, neolithic, bronze,
realm of our ancestors,
and as storm settles,
we also turn toward the sun,
in procession, in celebration of life.

by Margaret Bednar, September 4, 2019

linked (late) with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Monday with Wild Woman - Castle Ruins, Lowering Skies ... Tell us a story".   I see NOW I was really supposed to write a story for this prompt... Sorry!  So below is my 10-minute attempt to follow the rules :)

In My Blood

A chipped piece of flint draws blood, still sharp after centuries beneath windswept moors, tromped upon by Roman boots, nestled beside stones of an ancient iron age hearth.  Light is low upon the cairns, the squall has simmered, and I can hear them, perhaps winging from hilltops: venerated voices, whisperings of rituals untucking from misty mounds, shadows escaping from prehistory of oak and hazel.  As the storm settles, so does my soul.  Squeeze my finger, release a drop of blood upon the earth, my tribal offering to the realm of my ancestors as I turn toward the sun and follow the procession of light toward the moor's horizon.

By Margaret Bednar, September 4, 2019

I adore "Time Team" a British archeology show that ran for 20 seasons and had 59 "special" episodes.  I'm on season 14.   Below is an episode you might find interesting based on a Moor in Cornwall.