The Monarch

The Monarch

Molten gold, mango, and amber dance, dip, and catch filtered light of afternoon's departing storm.  A miniature Van Gogh outlined with black ink splashes grey sky like Vincent's irises saturate the dirt.  The hawk first stole my breath, soared low, shadowed amongst evergreens, snatched something from a branch and hurtled swiftly downward to consume its prey.  I'm startled, torn between majesty of the previous moment and violence of the next.  And now, seconds later its as if I'm being presented with a peace offering; watch as Monarch dissolves into a dot, continuing its journey along Mountain's rim.

stormy skies belie
the promise of a fresh breeze
and sun's swift return.

by Margaret Bednar, October 2, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday: Insect"

and "Poets United - Poets Pantry#496"

I'd Like to Thank...

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I'd Like to Thank...

I waited for about thirty minutes.  Annoyed.
Had things to do,  This routine,
this inconvenience, tiresome.

"Please, follow me"
took me by surprise.
thought, "This is it.  My turn."
Remember thinking
"one foot in front of the other."

The hallway stretched through eternity,
(fifteen seconds transformed!)
imagined a red carpet, suspenseful music,
imagined film crackling
as it wound around the reel,
wondered about next scene,
would I know my line?

What kind of actress should I be?  Tragic?
Dramatic? Composed?

"Everything looks the same.  No change"
the nurse said.  "Reschedule for six months."

The lump I'd suddenly scripted; deleted.
No Academy Award, no nomination...

but I'd still like to thank my lucky stars,
God, and the harvest moon ...

gold plated bronze and crusader's sword
gladly traded for this light
which shines upon my upturned face
and bare breasts this night.

by Margaret Bednar, September 13, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Waiting for a Poem"   This happened just recently - I have, a "something" that my mammogram showed as something to watch.   2nd check and all is fine.  But honestly, those few seconds down the hallway I HONESTLY thought "This is it..."

Awe - I just missed the deadline for this prompt but ... do yourself a favor and click and enjoy the other poets' take on this challenge.

Since I missed the above, I am linking this to "dVerse Open Link Night".

Also linked with "The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse - Harvest Moon".

I have a hot tub on our back deck - backyard the Blue Ridge Parkway.  No neighbors can see in and my daughter asked me why I always wear a bathing suit.  So, I let the moon shine upon me, in thanksgiving, in wonder, in celebration.

My Ordinary

My Ordinary

The geese have long since
v'd their way south,
bare feet have been replaced with boots,
yet I still

sink footprints into chilled sand,
tide fills them up,
makes them disappear;
a wonder of which I never tire.

My heart pounds yet isn't heard
above roaring surf,
an exhilaration that is commonplace,
at least for me.

I pity the ones who never know
the wonder of a flock of seagulls
lifting in unison, filling horizon with swoops
and angled wings, riding ocean's breeze

beneath clouds that tell me
it's time to settle inside, before a warm fire,
before the snow descends,
book in hand, cat on lap,

all the while thanking God
this is my ordinary.

by Margaret Bednar, November 28, 2018

This is for "dVerse Poetics - Magic of Ordinary Things"  I was too late in linking with this to post my poem but others have nice poems at the link for this challenge.

I did link with "dVerse Open Link Night #234"

Gratitude

Gratitude

It’s the lull between the flame and the last ember,

the quiet of the buttercream sky before the blazing sun sinks low.

the spark in your eye before the laughter.

As a child we’d slip on our coats not bothering to button,

slip into Dad’s boots, trudge quickly toward woodshed

through shovel-wide snow path, 

collect tinder we’d gathered since spring,

rosy cheeked, return, feed wood-burning stove,

jockey for position beside cats and dogs.

Mesmerized we’d watch the flames take off, 

roar and snap as Dad loaded the logs, 

added paper for our oohs and awes.

We felt safe, happiness being together,

warm, popcorn and cider a treat, 

tossing a kernel or two to dislodge the dogs.

When I parade myself along the shore, 

watch the luminous sky combust and spread it’s glow 

along the horizon devouring sky’s blues and whites,

I feel a warmth akin to my fireside idles; my heart swells, 

feels twice as large, seemingly the cause for the tears 

that balance precariously but rarely spill.  

Happy tears, not sad, they fill me up

and, like the fireside embers,

kindle a well-being 

that rivals only the flicker of laughter

I spy in your eyes as you respond

to something I say, something I do,

an all consuming love that leaves me rosy cheeked,

grateful for the fire that still burns.

by Margaret Bednar, November 27, 2018

This is for "dVerse Poetics - Fire Up that Creativity"

Solace

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Solace

A chilled martini glass

is a vessel for indulgence,

sometimes solace:

vanilla vodka,

Godiva chocolate (liqueur and grated),

dash of cream and ice, shaken.

Heralds back to scraped knees,

summers on the porch,

Nestle Quick triple scooped, stirred,

chocolate milk mustaches

better than bands-aids any day.

by Margaret Bednar, September 10, 2018

This is for "dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille #64 - Quick Write Something" in 44 words.

"Susan"

Cathy & Patsy paper doll clothes framed on my wall

Susan

There's a photo
rests upon Mother's bureau;
girl with blond hair, straight bangs,
fair of skin.

Used to think she was me.

But how could that be
as she was older
and I didn't recognize
the plaid, button-down shirt?

Sat for hours one afternoon,
sorted through hidden boxes stacked;
found hand-drawn, paper-doll clothes
labeled Cathy & Patsy: ski boots,
poodle skirts, evening gowns,
polka dot pajama's ...
thanks to someone imaginative.

Wondered at Mother's tears
on afternoons I played
 Judy Garland's Trolley Song,
Meet Me in St. Louis,
Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
over and over again...
Asked why the record skipped,
who played it before me?

_________

My favorite number is nine
after a little girl who dreamed of

being a year older,
an artist,
swinging in the park,
feeding the ducks,

but eight is all she had
and blue eyes & a smile
within a silver frame
that reminds me of me.

by Margaret Bednar, April 24, 2018


This poem has been reworked a number of times, and thanks to this challenge, I believe this is my best effort so far (added quite a bit and deleted a stanza or two)

I really don't look like anyone in my family - my sisters being darker and having different facial features - but Susan's features looked like me.

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: Body Image"

and NaPoWriMo 2018 (30 poems in 30 days)  

"Reflection "A Haibun with a title :)

Another "how" I write poetry is from my photographic
images - this one is a blended image of idyllic days
on Ocracoke Island - and will hopefully be a
poem in a few days.

Reflection (a Haibun with a title :)

When I was a child, I loved a willow tree.  She embraced me with cascading, filtered-green light, offered me a haven where butterflies were fairies and sprites.  I peeked out into the world and retreated safely within her golden embrace when the season turned.  I think poetry starts here, although I wouldn't write a word or fashion a rhyme for nearly forty years.

Perhaps verse took root when I lost myself in Garland's voice; me a young girl believing beyond the rainbow was possible; eyes closed, hammock rocking gently, cat curled into my side, singing along prayerfully, quietly, low notes almost a vibrato.

Maybe poesy blossomed one summer's day when I walked our lot line to the river the Suak and Fox called the Sinnissippe, where I dipped my toes in the slow moving waters, closed my eyes feeling history clear through my fingertips.  Touched my hands to the old oaks, wondering if Black Hawk ever leaned against these very trees that dip and sway beside river's edge.

Or possibly it was a humid day beneath Grandmother's cherry tree, the perfumed shade and  stickiness of the sinfully sour temptations I popped into my mouth - likening it to transgressions, forgiveness.  My first metaphor?

For me, poetry is rarely a bursting desire or a secret unearthed, more often a pausing, a quietude that invites reflection.  Occasionally it replicates labor pains so intense I swear it's the last one, but after a few days my eye sees an image my heart wants to hold or relive, and well, I've rarely been recognized for my discipline and restraint.


Fairy tales and mortality etched on parchment and stone; seasons change.

by Margaret Bednar

linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - Who? What? Why?"  What, Who fashioned us to be a poet - Why?  I've extracted from a few old poems I've written over the years as, after a few attempts, I realized I've already expressed myself to the best of my ability in answer to this question. So a bit of a refashioned poem from several of my earlier writes.

I've been writing since 2010 - My son probably inspired me to finally gather the courage to write - I think an artist is often a bit shy at first to "put it out there".   One of my very first poems was an acrostic poem written November 10, 2010:

Mother's Pearls Remembered 

"Memories"

My youngest child, and forever my "baby" even at 10
and probably for his whole life :)

Memories
are like mountain tops -
pinnacles
of one's heart,
finger-tipping heaven's hem,
cradling the sacred.

by Margaret Bednar, March 15, 2018

This is for "dVerse Meeting the Bar - Phantom Form - Shadorma"  It is a syllabic form consisting of six-line stanzas with a 3-5-3-3-7-5 pattern.  We could explore the fog, paranormal, unexplained phenomena of life and death.

My mind went to what we are truly made of - in the end it isn't the physical as it is what is inside - and being a mother that for me is my children, my family, the love I have for them.  I am easily brought to tears remembering the past, watching them grow, seeing them smile and enjoy being together in the present... their laughter, tears, etc.   I think these feelings are what I will BE when I pass from this life to the next...

In the photo above my youngest child (6th of 6 and the 2nd son) is resting upon a boulder on top of Grandfather Mountain in NC.  

"A Winter's Recipe" - take 2

A Winter's Recipe

A soothing open fire, two devilish dimples,
three lavish splashes of hot buttered rum
and lips to whisper four feathered trails
along one's neck.

If flame smolders to embers,
isn't a slow burn preferable
to frenzied heat for roasting chestnuts
and other such... amusements?

by Margaret Bednar, March 12, 2018 (a reworked poem from 2013)


This is for "dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille #52 - Let's Fire it Up"  I was thinking "Monday Haibun" and wrote an original poem below borrowing a bit from a poem I wrote in 2013.   I realize now it is Quadrille Monday and have reworked the poem above into 44 words - shortening the original.  I have also include the poem below as that is what I spent my creative time on today.

Historic Biltmore Village, North Carolina


Here is the Haibun I accidentally wrote" and I'll also link with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"

Snow sprinkled sidewalks muffle our steps as we hold hands; something we should do more often.  The quaint village has charmed us as if young lovers; something we should embrace more often.  Up ahead a warm glow frolics against old brick buildings, beckoning and beguiling us forward.  We extend our hands toward the smoldering fire, his two devilish dimples teasing me as I accept three lavish splashes of hot buttered rum, my insides now as warm as my hands while his lips whisper four (or more?) feathered trails alongside my neck.  My head leans on his shoulder as we wait for chestnuts to roast, a delicacy we've never tried.  I'm hypnotized by embers, oranges and reds, and soft popping nosies indicating roasting is complete... and a splash of butter and cinnamon for extra flavor.

Two devilish dimples and hot buttered rum chases away twilight's chill.

by Margaret Bednar, March 12, 2018

"Threads of Feeling"

Fabric swatch, token, an identifying "record"
of a mother & baby
Threads of Feeling - The Foundling Museum

Threads of Feeling

I wish I'd a gossamer braid, 

sheer and silky,

yet all I have 

is a faded floral cotton square

that joins a red striped camblet 

(snippet of a mother's gown?),

and colorful ribbons trussed together, 

scarlet flowered chintz,

woolen heart, and threadbare sleeve 

of berries red and white.

Witness a calico bird pinned 

to newborn's chest

beneath a mother's tears 

and fears he'll be laid to rest

before she can return, 

if she can return.

Godspeed, little one, 

with this swatch do remember me,

this snippet still warm from my skin
I place upon yours, 

so dear to me...

so lost to me.

by Margaret Bednar, March 8, 2018

This is linked to "dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics - Threads of Feeling"  London's Foundling Hospital opened in 1739.   Mothers brought their babies there due to poverty and other reasons (some hoped to return to reclaim them but most never were able to and some babies died)  Mothers left a token, as proof of identity in case they did manage to return.  If you click on the "Threads of Feeling" link below you will see a few fabrics left behind (display in an exhibit in 2010/11).

Threads of Feeling
The Foundling Museum

"May" a Haibun

Flowering Cherry Tree in Brooklyn's Botanic Garden
I LOVE the Japanese Hill & Pond & Cherry Walk

You hold my hand as we amble beneath fleeting, fragile petals of double blossoming florets flirting and flushing as April's lavender and lace gives way to May.  Lose count of gnarled cherry branches sprouting eager blooms, of welcoming songbirds' chorus, of bees lending their buzz to this season's ensemble.  Admire blood-red buds whose heavy bells will soon turn insistent faces toward the sun, drinking in sea colored skies.  Delight as tulip, forsythia and South African bulbs teasingly tickle soil's surface along meandering path, ready to burst forth and bedazzle.  Try kicking pebbles from our sandals as grass tickles our toes.  Close our eyes, lakeside, hear the ducks splash, find myself humming as we walk within a Monet masterpiece. Stop to embrace the aroma which is like a kiss.  Find it's easy to fall in love beneath crowns of glorious pink.

Fragile first blooms flush beneath sea colored-skies as the drake seeks a mate

by Margaret Bednar, March 5, 2018


This is for "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - No Ke Me (Tree Buds)"  I wrote a poem more about "first blossoms"... and then as usual went back to read directions and realize "tree buds" was the theme.  Hopefully this is acceptable.  I took the liberty of reliving walking in the beautiful gardens of Prospect Park in Brooklyn during early spring.  I will soon be traveling to South Carolina and their buds and blooms arrive much earlier than in NYC.   A few of these lines are snagged from multiple poems I've written over the years and I added new ones as well ... So it is a re-worked, refreshed poem, the style of course is Haibun which lends it a whole new feel I think.

"Comfort"

Comfort

When savage storms warred upon night's void,
snapped power lines, felled trees,
I'd resurrect Oz's tornado
and Mother would smile, light candles.

Despite raging winds and bursting sky
the mellow flickering shadows hypnotized
and frolicked upon our walls
as Mother's voice became a rhythmic flute

and I, cocooned within Grandmother's quilt,
swung up and down, became lost
in a magical land of counterpane,
and the wind became a song...

by Margaret Bednar, February 27, 2018

This is an exercise offered by "dVerse Poets Pub: Poetics - finding Emotions and Concepts in Things" Our marching orders are to "write a poem that captures the concept without ever telling us what the concept is.  It will be up the readers of the poem to name the concept or feeling in the comments.  Take what you are feeling and make it so real through "things" that we'll be able to name it."

I will title this poem from the comments left by one of the readers...

A Child's Garden of Verses, by R. L. Stevenson was my favorite book (beside Cinderella) as a child.  I have both books still - very worn, very loved.  Oh, and Black Beauty as well.

"In Remembrance"

In Remembrance

Damp and dreary today dawns, settles 'round my shoulders with a weary sigh.  Mo(u)rning mists my glasses as I shuffle through leaves fast becoming grey; contemplate life slipping away silently without fanfare.  No trumpet call, no pretentiousness; just color ebbing, leaving behind something once vibrantly splendid.  Even the lake's silvery stillness indulges my mood, reflects an egret's gliding grace; angelic white wings soothing as a sweetly sung southern hymn.  Canoes stacked, red, blue, green upon yellow, almost garish, hunker down for winter's bite yet able to yearn for spring's gentle caress and summer's bold laughter - but not these leaves.  They must dissolve into the earth from which the came.  I pick one up.  Pocket it.  Hesitant to let go.  Find myself looking back, remembering the glory that was.

A thousand todays I've walked, yet yesterday's greying bloom lingers.

by Margaret Bednar, February 19, 2018


An English haiku is usually 17 syllables (three lines with syllables 5-7-5) but some websites say it should be less in order for it to be tighter and more similar to a Japanese haiku.  I aim for about 17 - the Japanese haiku aren't always strict to their syllable count so I give myself a bit of leeway as well.  It should hint at at season and usually the topic is love.  I prefer to write it all in one line, not three, like the Japanese do.

I believe sorrow is best dealt with taking one day at a time and eventually becomes a bit comforting if we let it - the memories hopefully bring a smile to one's face instead of tears.

This poem is dedicated to Galen Haynes (aka G-Man) who passed away in December 2014.  I miss this intelligent and generously kind man's presence here in the blogging world.  I wrote this poem back in 2014, but I did tweak it a bit today:  added the grey reference which I think works well along with a few other minor changes, changed the format to a haibun, and added my (as always) feeble attempt at a haiku.

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub Haibun Monday - The beauty & the misery of grey"

"Obsession"

Obsession

"The Heart wants what it wants" - Woody Allen

Desire (or dependence?) is a fervor
where "I love you" (or "I want you?")
is a succor from your lips I crave

and in the end, an indulgence
unsatisfied.

by Margaret Bednar, February 15, 2018


succor: help; relief; aid; assistance.

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Imagined by Rommy - "Love Hurts" - heartbreak/jealosy..."  A twist on Valentine's Day...

Also linked up with "dVerse Poets Pub - Meeting the Bar - Brevity"  Write a poem no more than five lines.

You have to love the 1980's -  One of my favorite movies that pokes fun of that time is Music and Lyrics with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore.  I start laughing at the very beginning!

"Preparations"

Preparations

Caramel drizzled apples, wood stacked.
Leaves spiral down, crimson tipped,
heralding "Soon, soon"...

I fickly proclaim Autumn "my favorite",
weary of heat-drenched days.

Beneath kitchen window
fawn's still speckled, buck's alters fuzzy.

Just a pane of glass divides
sweet green grass and pumpkin-spice pie.

by Margaret Bednar, revised September 25, 2017

This is for "dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille #41" a poem in 44 words & this week use the word "spice". I revised an old poem, edited it and added the word spice.   I like it better this way.   The deer were under my kitchen window and I was making apple pie - but I have exercised artistic license :)

Haibun - Patchwork Poetry

Quilted reflections patch their way onto the page as if outlined with silken threads, scrolled - more often typed.  Sometimes the fabric is fragile, like a baby bird in my hand, fallen from its nest.  It doesn't survive other than in desperate words, hand-made paper splashed with tears.  Other-times harmoniously sewn thoughts nestle between the covers of my soft leather journal, pentameter becomes sashing for metaphors, photographs pattern pieces that inspire it all.

Quilts comfort
butterflies & lavender nourish
poetic germinations

by Margaret Bednar


This is for "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - Why?"  It was a HARD challenge and I'm not sure I did it correctly - I tried.  We were to write the WHY of our style.

I think I approach my style as I do making my quilts (the quilts above are NOT mine) very visually - usually with photographs I take and then pair them with my memories (complimenting fabric :)...

“English-language haiku tend to be written in three lines, corresponding to the metrical division of Japanese haiku, but Japanese haiku are actually usually printed in a single vertical column. By way of analogy with this form, poets such as Matsuo Allard and Marlene Mountain began writing English haiku in a single horizontal line—and thanks to their efforts that form has become established in English as the major alternative to the typical three-liner”.
   
If you are interested and want to read more, click HERE.  I found the comments interesting - I like to stick as close to 17 syllables as possible but will go over or under... I like to HINT at a season but NEVER name it.  

Also... this "HERE" was a nice season words (kigo) list for Japanese poetry - from the 1997-78 Haiku Journal... my question if anyone knows - are words like germinate and any plant (like clover) kilo words as well?  

"State of Mind"

A State of Mind

I'm a midwestern girl 

raised on flat prairie land

of endless cornfields 

and deadly spring river-risings 

now call the Blue Ridge home 

whose size once rivaled the Alps.

Kick stones over the edge; 

watch them free-fall tumultuously

like the 9-11 victims "escaping" the flames...

by Margaret Bednar, September 11, 2017

Bizarre state of mind today - have watched a number of mind numbing and stomach turning videos of 9/11... can't stop thinking the 200 plus people who jumped to their deaths...  So many awful ways to die... and we've certainly been seeing many of them lately - earthquakes, fires, hurricanes, tornadoes... all within a couple of weeks.   

linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille #40 - 44 words exactly using the word "free"

The Wooded Trail - Haibun

The farm pond is silent this morning; the boardwalk's draped with overhanging limb, overgrown bushes, and the vocal aspirations of many a songbird grace forest's edge.  I brush aside cobwebs, try not to imagine the spider's size that wove it, hope it's not crawling up my back.  It's cooler beneath the canopy although I've traded heat for bugs.

Everything's still green but the occasional leaf ferries its way downward, twirls slowly, grudgingly announces a new season's about to begin.  Two tree trunks angle across the path; both look quite old with deep ridges and dark gray bark - even riding my horse I couldn't pass as their needled branches make an effective barrier.

I turn back towards the pasture and ponies familiarizing themselves with each other.  Soon we will be exploring this new terrain of rolling hills together.  Supposedly there is no virgin land left in North Carolina; all timber having been clear cut two or three times.  I'm impressed with the size before me, yet how magnificent to have experienced the height and breadth of their ancestors.  I look forward to the high drama when skeletal limbs expose themselves and sunlight settles upon forest's floor.


the farm pond reflects a red leaf's vulnerability

by Margaret Bednar, September 5, 2017

The above video is a bit long - but I hope you enjoy it.  Our horse is Oberon, the buckskin Quarter Horse.   We are boarding at a new barn - Oberon is making new friends and enjoying the pasture - my daughter had a hard time bringing him in the other day.  The farm was left vacant for a year before the new owners purchased it - and a lot of work needs to be done - fences, arena, stalls, trails - but they have done tremendous work in just two weeks - can't wait until the trails are cut back and ready to be ridden!

This is linked with "dVerse Haibun Monday - Komorebi"

and "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"

Vintage

Pinterest HERE

Vintage

My Grandmother always wore sensible shoes.
Wide, low heels, usually black, neatly laced
and tied with an even bow.  Not rounded toes,
nor too pointed; she didn't like her feet
pinched.  She walked with a purposeful,
steady, no-nonsense stride.

In her attic I once found an old, worn pair
of slender, soft, rich grey, high-cut
side-buttoned "Parade" shoes
which the box advertised were for
the "Fashionable Young Lady",
sporting "stylish toes, high arches,
and emphasized "Louis" heels with "Spanish"
scrolled in fancy print just above.

Remember taking off my thick cotton socks,
as with them on, my feet were too wide.
Clunked around the wooden floor;
couldn't for the life of me begin to imagine
who these sexy shoes had once belonged.

by Margaret Bednar, August 30, 2017

This is linked with "dVerse Poetics - A Closet Full of Shoes"  Also linked with "The Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Tuesday Platform"

September's Overture

September's Overture

Late August finds me
reclining porch-side,
for there's no other way
to sit in an Adirondack chair -
savoring chardonnay,
appreciating a symphony
of crickets (bliss high -n- low)
and katydids (rather raspier)
frogs, the occasional dog
paying homage
to the renaissance around the corner.

by Margaret Bednar, August 28, 2017

linked with "dVerse Quadrille #39"  - 44 words and the use of the word "bliss"