Saturday, December 29, 2018

Dearest Friend

I see Mac, our Goldendoodle in the formation over
the mountains here... (side of his face upper right,
ear flapping, body stretched out in a run)
Dearest Friend

I swear I've seen you
from the corner of my eye,
slip by on your way to the water bowl
or toward open front door to gaze
down curving, mountain road.

Seen you in clouds, fluffy ears flapping,
in the stars, jumping the gorge,
staring through the window to come inside -

for it’s hard to let you go.

* * *

I watched as you gazed
into the children's eyes, head resting
upon their knees.  You were happy,
day filled with love, bacon,
a very slow, wobbly walk, lakeside.

Last look at all of us,
eyes still alert, but body too weak
for your big heart.

* * *

In those few seconds
when you looked at me, I could only try
and convey how much you meant
to my Mother's heart,  thanked you
for loving my children all these years,

a gentle presence when I scolded,
a nudge when they needed a friend,
a tail that always said "Let's play!"

* * *

A blessing to be surrounded
by all those you love,
who love you, to have our smiles,
our voices, our hands over you
as we stayed and said

"Thank you, Dearest Friend",
as your spirit rose above us
and surely said the same.

by Margaret Bednar, December 29, 2018

RIP Mackinaw - our friend of almost 15 years.   Joined the angels on 12-27-2018

Mac with his beloved children & two little buddies Gimli & Mojo.  RIP 12-27-2018
This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Artistic Interpretations with Margaret - Alcohol Inks"

This is why dogs are so important!

Um... Dogs were not allowed in bed... right.

As she says ... a very exclusive club of 2!

He was the CUTEST puppy!

He put up with a lot!

Thursday, December 20, 2018

Tasmanian "Tiger"

About the Tasmanian tiger (click)

Tasmanian Tiger, (Wolf)

My reputations fierce,
outward appearance
a defense, a sheltering

for if you had taken the time,
looked into my eyes,
ignored battle scars, set jaw,

you might have glimpsed
the me inside,
shy and solitaire -

may have fended off fate
and sepia photographs
that mystify, more than reveal.

by Margaret Bednar, December 20, 2018

This Tasmanian "Tiger" was hunted to extinction as farmers believed their chickens were threatened.  And some of them were, but they were trigger happy and humans obliterated this species.  It was actually a marsupial - not related to a tiger or a wolf.   It is actually closely related to the Tasmanian Devil.

Expedition Unknown (Josh Gates) had an episode exploring the belief this animal may still be alive in Australia - but very elusive... the finding was inconclusive but very intriguing.  HERE

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Fireblossom Friday - Lament for the Thylacine"

Tuesday, December 18, 2018




The old oak's limb offered escape,
a perch not too high to foster insecurity
but protection for solitary idleness
during sweltering summer afternoons.

Yet how long does youth crave inaction?

Intoxication's more like it, of speed, of air,
of freedom.  Muscles gripping, balancing,
leaning low, soaring, embracing excitement
and a strong back, straddled,
pretending I was an Indian, confined braids flying
in unison with tresses dark and willing,

Still, it's not all about urgency, about daring.

Forty-five years later, beneath billowing clouds, 
rhythmically swaying as if a baby in a cradle,
I surrender pathway to scrutiny of another
become soothed and settled, 
still harmonizing with a spirit never truly tame;

submission their offering, care and gentleness, mine.

by Margaret Bednar, December 17, 2018 

Note:  This went through a re-write on the 19th.

The challenge here for my monthly poetry group here in my hometown is to write about something (I think they wanted a texture but I obviously chose something else) without naming it, but trying one's best to describe it.  Obviously, the photo (I did not take it) gives the answer away, but I will not print this photo when presenting it to the group.

I am linking this with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform".

Friday, December 14, 2018



Do you remember when childhood summers seemingly stretched into forever?  Endless sun-drenched days where Mother's voice was heard behind window screens, worlds partitioned, pardoned at lunch-time, banished soon after.  Sometimes our gravel-hardy bare feet fleetingly crossed hayfield and tracks to river's edge, threw sticks into swift current, contemplated chances of survival if dared cross.  Never did, water so dark and dirty we really weren't tempted.  Scampered up bank, balanced on hot railroad irons, one dirty foot in front of the other, imagined train's whistle in the distance, bravely waited for it to round the bend.  Never did, but we knew we'd have stared it down, made it come to a halt, disrupt its earnest progress toward Chicago.  With hats pulled low, unrecognizable, we'd escape, make way into forest preserve whose dirt trails were narrow, grasses brushed fingertips as we scouted along old Indian trail surely forged by Blackhawk and warriors.  Looked for arrowheads.  Never found one, but we picked up sharp stones, pretended.  When summer's sun dipped to four o'clock, we'd head home, wash hands (and feet), eat, listen to Mom and Dad share their day.  Look at sister across table, know my freckles were expanding across my nose and shoulders too.  Sun-kissed we were, life ripe with imagination, with youth, with forever.

by Margaret Bednar, December 14, 2018.

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - Life is Ripe"  We were asked to write a poem centered around a childhood memory which brings us joy as an adult.   We could write in any style but were also asked to possibly write in prose.  I did.  We were asked to keep it under 131 words.   Well, I did edit, but 214 words are the end result.   I did implement the "Life is Ripe" motto into my poem.  Hopefully, that will make amends.

Thursday, December 13, 2018

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"




Love often whitewashes sin,
"redeems and uplifts" the trespasser
as he focuses on the one he's "saving".

The one who believes
every word heard,
every look of disappointment,
every "I love you, if..."

by Margaret Bednar, December 13, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads "Music with Marian - Revelation"

Sunday, December 9, 2018

'Tis the Season

'Tis the Season

As a Northerner, I call it a southern chill,
days dip below thirty-two degrees,
an inch or so of snow (if lucky) gone in three days.
Songbirds flit and flutter 'round ol' birdhouse,
a bit more furry in their flurry,
posturing reminiscent of the O. K. Corral

 - - gaze unwavering --

slightly narrowed as I scan from balcony
for Russian dancer, towhead,
performing before Nutcracker and Clara,
flourishes of gem-colored fabrics
reminding me of songbirds and him
a Black Capped Chickadee, so charming, so dapper.

by Margaret Bednar, December 9, 2018

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Fussy Little Forms: Puente" (Three stanzas.  1st and 3rd have equal number of lines.  Middle is a "bridge" of one line  (serves as a last line for first stanza, first line for third stanza.)

Saturday, December 1, 2018

The Dreaded Christmas Photo Shoot

The Dreaded Christmas Photo Shoot

"One more," and they groan.

Eyeballs roll, backs slouch,
Hammy Ones take center stage
as dogs squirm, cats bolt ...

"forget them," I yell
as it isn't worth any more scratches.
Sneak 'round back of tripod,

peer through lens, adjust light,
shout "Places!", hit delay button,
run back into frame... know I blinked.

"Another!" and they groan.

Perhaps this year
I'll fill Christmas cards with bloopers.
Show the real face of us.

by Margaret Bednar, November 29, 2018

We are at a stage now where most are of drinking age.  I will ply them with promises of mixed drinks and good beer.  That should appease them.

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Camera Flash!"  The inspirational photo is below... and she has an uncanny intensity (and determination) about her that reminds me of myself trying to get the perfect family photo each year!

Jessie Tarbox Beal

Thursday, November 29, 2018



Tidal treasures for which I search elude me, no colorful glass, no smoothed stones, everything's cloaked in gray.  Today the tidewrack offers small piles of driftwood and debris; white and gray seagull feathers, bits of rope, possibly a cat's skull, eye sockets portals in which my fascination lingers; think of my Father-in-Law's open casket, of words I'd like to say.  His casket was gray, his silver hair gently combed, his face unlined, rested as if sleeping, treasured rosary and worn prayer cards clasped in folded hands, his gray suit-front crisp as I laid my hand upon his chest.  The chill of the wind brings me back, spy a red button in the sand, remember the array of beautiful red roses atop his coffin, know they too will join this season's fade to gray.

I wish for one more
"I love you" but seasons change
and red fades to gray.

by Margaret Bednar, November 29, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Toni's Challenge - Mono no Aware" write about change, loss, not full blown depression but a subtle, wistful sadness.  150 words or less and in the Haibun format (which includes a Haiku at the end)

Evanesce - to disappear gradually, vanish, fade away.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018



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

Monday, November 26, 2018



Every orchestral suite
has a note that lingers,
infiltrates the soul,
spirals upwards

as if on angel's wings
until it touches the clouds,
delivering a loved one
before Creator's gaze,

as we, earthbound, pause
for conductors last cue,
for bass strings last vibration,
before bursting into applause
(and sometimes a few tears).

by Margaret Bednar, November 26, 2018

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform".  

Sunday, November 25, 2018


Self Worth

Milkweed pods have long since burst,
a few stand tall amidst swaying beach grass
and wind-rippled dunes,
beneath a roiling sky that dares I face
her cold-air flurry.

Hopefully she admired my arm raised high
clutching scarf side-winding in her gale,
my jacket open, whipping about,
smiled as I leaned into a force
far stronger than me.

Inside my car, the beach seems calm,
wind a murmur, the sky a painting,
but my eyes seek rearview mirror,
remember the battle, the only witness
to cheeks still chilled and crimson,

still alive with defiance.

by Margaret Bednar, November 25, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - And the days are not full enough"   Seize the day in other words.

Attended my Father-in-Laws funeral this past week and I walked the Lake Michigan beach he dearly loved to walk at sunset.  I walked it late afternoon and "accepted" the mood of the lake.   Makes one reflect on life - what is important, what we can do, what we can't let pass by... How we might handle challenges moving forward....  I hope this poem expresses some of that feeling.

Saturday, November 17, 2018

Saying Goodbye


Saying Goodbye

I've learned how  to cry
after fifty-three years,
to find hope in the catch of my throat.

Used to rein them in,
deny them due course;

embrace as purification.

Love swells, expands,
with time bubbles into laughter
and stories reminisced,

occasional tear traces curve of cheek
which with fingertip
I collect

and press to my lips.

by Margaret Bednar, November 17, 2018

Rest in Peace, Grandpa Bednar.  My father-in-law passed away early this morning - on the same day his beloved mother died.  I like to think she was calling her dear son home.

Here is a place I could easily ponder hope and replenish my soul:

Thursday, November 15, 2018

If You Forget Me

If You Forget Me

I remember the first glimpse of you,
how you rocked the tank top,
arms strong and sexy.
You wore tight jeans (that didn't go unnoticed)
yet it was your hands that captured me:
elegant and strong, politely expressive (holding your beer)
nails carefully clipped,

and when I looked into your eyes,
I melted.  The bon-fire before us flickered
and I blamed my flush on the flames.
I remember the excitement of that night,
your interest in ... me, and I, not exactly a romantic
(I'm far too practical) felt like a princess.

I hold dear your opinion, as fine men
are to be treasured.  Our years filled
with six children and (according to you)
far to many animals.

My fondest wish to grow old together,
enjoy the fruits of our labor,
watch you learn how to relax,
read something other than medical journals

and if dementia raises its ugly head,
if you forget me, rest assured
I will hold your hand, live on memories,
continue to love and care for you,
(as you would for me) my dear, sweet prince.

by Margaret Bednar, November 11, 2018

I already know what my husband's reaction will be.  He will roll his eyes and shake his head - he doesn't do sappy very well and I don't do love poems very well.  But it is all true ;) 

*  I did read this to him and HE said it wasn't a bon-fire but a beer keg.  Hmmm.   I'm not so sure.  Anyway, it's more poetic with a fire :)

linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads' - Sanaa's Challenge - All in November's Soaking Mist" -  Our frame of reference is the title of Neruda's poem.

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

No Commitment

No Commitment

Ol' Tom's full of charm
rubbing my leg with a feline smile,
hoping for a little lovin' in return.

Not promising much,
just willing to spend a night, maybe two,
before off howlin' for more at another door.

His gorgeous green eyes honestly twinkle
"no commitment".  Perhaps that's why
I offer the porch instead.

by Margaret Bednar, revised November 12, 2018

This tomcat hung out at an old mill where I bought my fresh ground flour mixes.  One nice day I opened my van door and Mr. Tomcat hopped in!  I picked him up and told him he had it made right where he was!  I originally wrote this poem February of 2012 and updated it a bit today.

As you can see, he had a fine home at Red Mill
My son in NYC took in a stray/wild black kitten the other day.  Vet checked and shots and she is living the good life now.   A few years ago he brought home a stray kitten from college who now sleeps at the foot of my bed every night - proof I can't resist them all (or perhpas it is my son I can't say no to?)

this is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform"

Sunday, November 11, 2018



Every spring I anticipate the songbirds,

thrilled to glimpse first flashes of jeweled color,
sip mint tea, wait for lyrics to filter in through screens flung wide

to embrace new life, joy, and warmth of the sun.
Today I'm forlorn as the last one wings southward,
storm windows securely shut as my coffee grows cold.

by Margaret Bednar, November 11, 2018

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Fussy Little Forms - Cherita"

Grandma's Cranberry Bread

Grandma's Cranberry Bread

Maybe it's the saturated color, teasing me.

Glistening berries, rounded and full,
a dash of orange peel, walnuts, cup of sugar.

Grandma folding them into flour mixture.
Aroma of the baking, the cooling, the waiting my undoing;
this reminiscence, this childhood refuge, an elixir I miss.

by Margaret Bednar, November 11, 2018

As a kid I really didn't like cranberries.  I hated them served at Thanksgiving and Christmas (I love them now) but I loved my Grandma's Cranberry Bread (probably all the sugar she put in the recipe).  Anyway, I saw this huge supply of cranberries at the grocery store and I was almost transported back to the warm and welcoming kitchen of my Grandma's ... I ached for it!

It's sad, but I don't have her recipe, but I am going to try the one below.

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Fussy Little Forms - Cherita"

Friday, November 9, 2018

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 think it does.  I tried to convey a certain message with this poem ... I've had a long week - Drove to Michigan &Delaware) and I'm tired - so I have to call it quits for now - no haggling over words and such.  I plan on massaging this a bit further - so this is a rouhg

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Make Believe

Make Believe

I imagine I'm a southern belle,
strolling jasmine scented pathways,
besotted beau beside me
as I smile charmingly after saying something coy.

Practice a hair toss, lashes lowered,
glance over shoulder...
find elderly gentleman watching me
as I blush (yes, 50 year olds can blush),

mutter to myself, attempt dignified exit
across arched bridge, past live oaks;
impromptu theatrical audition witnessed
by one other, a chipmunk, who scampers away
almost as quickly as I,

my sketchbook not as forthcoming
as this poem (years later).

by Margaret Bednar, October 23, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday Mini Challenge - Notebook Poetry".  We had an option to handwrite our poems ... but I hate my handwriting so I thought I would show you a glimpse into my sketchbook.  The top two are colored pencil, the chipmunk is watercolor and pen.   I talk to myself a lot (especially when in a creative mode) and historical places always get me dreaming and imagining things...

Saturday, October 20, 2018

Weko Beach

Weko Beach

Renegade leaf summersaults across boardwalk,
braving, (more like) defying, Lake Michigan's headwind,
seemingly determined to forge a path of its own.

Grandpa's behind me, leaning heavily upon my husband's arm,
determined but cold.  Body, like the leaf, frail, life slowly ebbing,
yet spirit still seeks that which he holds dear.

Grandchildren, evergreen with fiery daring of youth,
plunge toes into frigid water, laugh and scream
when waves splash with abandon,

laughter tumbling leaf-like, hitching a ride upon its back
as it pirouettes out of sight.

Melodious chords mix with surf, songs strummed by The Balladeer,
while my youngest causes my heart to flutter as he defies "Keep Off",
challenges Mother Nature as she licks pier's edge.

Grandpa's cold.  My voice calls out, boomerangs back
without reaching them.  The sand is fine and soft, but
unlike the skipping leaf, I plod towards shore in my shoes,

gather them in, cheeks full of colour and life.
Slowly walk Grandpa to the car.   He's shivering, tired
from sitting bench-side.

Just last year he was walking dune's wooden stairs;
today, empty.  Legs unable to carry his spirit to a favorite lookout.

Memory will have to suffice - and yet even his abundant,
bounty-filled life is becoming misty, crumbling into fine fragments,
compost enriching a path we will tread one day as well.

by Margaret Bednar, October 20, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Get Listed - October edition"  my list of words:  fiery, plunge, colour, leaf.

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Prince of Darkness (take two)

Prince of Darkness

Autumn breeze rustles forest's underbelly,
sanctuary's silence disrupted

as silvered statue upon bare branches
swoops down, unearths devout,

ignores pious prayers for deliverance,
his thanks, a swift devouring.

by Margaret Bednar, October 14, 2018

This was actually a version of a poem I wrote in December 2013.  I greatly massaged it and like it so much butter.  I think I'm a bit better at this poetry thing than I was five years earlier.

Happy to participate in (but posting very late) in "Poets United = Midweek Motif - The Owl"

Saturday, October 13, 2018

Full Circle

Full Circle

Guiding hand, grasped.  Comfort of father for son:
first footsteps, training wheels, cross country meets recorded -
boisterous voice encouraging from infancy to young man.

Vibrant sunsets shared over Lake Michigan. Taps enjoyed by men
who served; at attention stood father and son -
hand over hearts, remembering loved ones. Recorded

VHS tapes, family gatherings, dated clothes: corduroys
and plaid, bellbottoms, short shorts... yet smiles remain the same. Man
before him, bent and frail, leaning against his son.

Son, greyed, memories recorded, movies not of Hollywood
but of life as he holds frail hand that showed him how to be a man.

by Margaret Bednar, October 2018

I am behind in visiting and commenting on everyone's poems ... I plan on spending my Sunday morning catching up.  I've missed the Garden and my friends here.    Tonight I'm taking two of my children to see "A Star is Born".  Theatre popcorn and good acting and music... Just can't wait..

HEY - fixed my "commenting problem".  I switched browser server from Safari to Chrome... seems to be working now.    

For "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Messy Little Forms - Tritina"  A pattern of (ten lines) with three tercets and a final line featuring repeating, non-rhyming line-end words, like this:

The final line contains all 3 words as 1-2-3

Creative license has been evoked as the last "stanza" is supposed be one line  - the triton is supposed to be 10 lines.  Mine is 11.   I also changed "man" to "men" in the second stanza. AND a  VERY liberal abuse of the rules is.... "corduroys" is close "recorded"..   (cord)   It is a slippery slope when one starts to break the rules...

This seems "rigid" to me as most form poetry does when I write it.  But I consider this a first draft - gathering thoughts and I will visit this again very soon as this is what is going on right now and always on my mind. My son wrote very moving music and lyrics for a song about his grandfather...  I will share it once he records it on YouTube.

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Thou Shall Not

Thou Shall Not

I still remember the combo
(and I'm not good with numbers)
the back and forth swivel
to align the arrow

the way I'd pretend it didn't work
just to watch you walk past
holding my breath, heart beating fast,
wobbly knees (a real thing)...

Quickly align dashes and numbers,
locker door slammed -
mad dash to religion class.

My desk facing the crucifix
and ten commandments,
imagine number six
a neon blinking chastisement.

by Margaret Bednar, October 3, 2018

This is in participation with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Camera/Flash 55"  I tried to shorten it to a 55 but it didn't work.

The original image that inspired this poem is a collection of locks by Pierre Dubreuil "Lines Meeting" (1932). 

Thursday, October 4, 2018

Scrimshaw, 1849

Eve - Mid 19th Century Scrimshaw
Nantucket Whaling Museum
Adam - Mid 19th Century Scrimshaw
Nantucket Whaling Museum

Scrimshaw, 1849

The lure of gold is intoxicating,
far easier than whaling, they say.
From the harbor I watch sails fill,
sink into the horizon,

clutch Adam to my chest,
Eve in my pocket;
No need of temptation,
of dreams too big to fill.

Come back to me
and simplicity, keep a promise:
carve your mark
into flesh and bone,

come back and rest your elbow
upon fire's mantle,
Adam and Eve either side, reunited,
as you smile at me.

postscript:  Adam & Eve Scrimshaw, 
Mid 19th Century, 
Nantucket Whaling Museum, 
Artist: Anonymous

by Margaret Bednar, October 4, 2018

This is for "Artistic Interpretation - A Whale of a Tale".

"carve your mark" - meaning signature

Many scrimshaw are not signed by the artist - they are beautiful pieces of artwork and labeled "anonymous".  The pair above are bone (ivory) from whale teeth.

HERE is a brief history of the end of Whaling on Nantucket and the lure of California gold.

Tuesday, October 2, 2018



Does love become an antonym
when deflected?
Animosity, enmity, ill will?

Perhaps indifference was your tall shadow
between me and the sun,
my star dulled by your distance,
but not for long.

Learned to search for light,
bent my will towards it;
eventually found it
without your approving eye.

by Margaret Bednar, October 2, 2018

Sunday, September 30, 2018



Heat of day sways
a delicate beauty with resolute spine

but don't confuse lace
with weakness

or drops of blood
with defeat.

Spirit, wild and free
is nature's way;

so why so often do we seek
to tame and bind?

by Margaret Bednar, September 30, 2018

Note:  In the second year, Queen Anne's Lace has a red or purple center which legend says is Queen Anne of Great Britain's spilled blood from a pricked winter while tatting lace.

linked (late) with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - Earth Grief"

Sunday, September 23, 2018

A Golden Touch

123RF Stock Photo
A Golden Touch

A bit of powdered bronze, a flush, a blush
is all she needs to lure 'long path and curve.
Kissed golden are sprouting reds, yellows,
oranges.  Even green glows as if glossed,
sun-dappled, unabashedly exposing
hill and valley to anyone longing
to embrace such a beauty unfolding.

Find myself wishing I'd left earlier,
put away dust pan, broom and mop,
allowed dishes to remain thricly stacked.
Accept swaying birch trees' offer to dance,
skirt myself along trails just beginning
to color outside lines as leaves flutter
and skit downward, one landing in my hair;

decide to wear it as if I’ve been crowned. 

by Margaret Bednar, September 22, 2018

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - A Rainbow of Sonnets"

Great liberty here as I have created my own "Modern Sonnet".   14 lines (but I added the last single line as a "clincher", tried to use internal rhyme as much as possible as I don't have ending lines rhyming, and tried to use iambic pentameter when I could and... I tried to keep each line to a 10 syllable count (I think one is over by one, and another line short by two).  

Saturday, September 15, 2018



How important is conjugating a verb
or mastering Algebra?
How inspiring is a brand that stifles?

Charting impossible is adventurous,
but what of resistance from those who diagnose,
chose from labels pre-set, who resist possibilities,
accept excuses?

Hail those who prod, inspire, dare to dream
of glass ceilings shattered,
who seize the day,
rules changed; mother bears
ferociously guiding, challenging.

Burning is talent unrecognized, world at peril
as Einsteins in basements
collect government assistance
neglected of inspiration and an equal place
to live for today so we have tomorrow.

Why is "different" only applauded
when it's outwardly beautiful?
Why are we unable to see within -

why does it scare us?

Margaret Bednar, September 15, 2018

It isn't that being "labeled" is bad, it is what comes with that label.  Back in Grandin's childhood days, it would have meant institutionalization - and look at her today because of her strong-willed, highly educated mother - who fought the "establishment" and in my opinion, a hero.  A significant percentage, perhaps, of computer "nerds" and people like Einstein have changed our world - are (were) most likely somewhere on the Autistic spectrum.   What miraculous discoveries are not being fulfilled because of coddling, "sympathy", or labeling that thwarts their genius?   In my opinion, today our school systems, college degrees, etc. are set up to do quite a bit of harm to these individuals (to anyone who learns differently - my son might be mildly dyslexic) ... who need to have education personalized, learn differently from the majority...  What will our future be missing because "administration" and government regulations stifle their progress?

I watched the movie "Temple Grandin" (a "watch now" movie on Amazon Prime) and then just couldn't let this woman go and I googled her and have listened to many of her conference talks and interviews. HERE is her specific web site.  Below is an interview you might enjoy:

This if for two prompts.  One is "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Music with Marion - Made for Now" a Janet Jackson video and have applied the sentiments to this poem.

I also hope it qualifies for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Challenge - Resistance".  
Of which I apologize as I think I missed the actual point of the prompt - to delve into that which blocks us from our inner poetic voice - what do we avoid saying, feeling - therefor not writing our best truth... ?  I think it's a bit too deep for me to figure out ... 

Monday, September 10, 2018



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


Image found on Pinterest HERE

Heavenward is skyward, as a child
I'd search past clouds, past stars at night
and moon's consecrated light.

In my room, St. Michael
fiery Seraphim
fighting for souls
sword steady



while others,
words mispronounced,
some out of order;
youthful fervor, devout -

billowing curtains, white wings
fluttering, soothing.  Window screen
my confessional, eyes seeking God.

by Margaret Bednar, September 10, 2018

This is for (submitted rather late) "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads-Fussy Little Forms - Nonet".

Thursday, September 6, 2018

The Fisherman

They say fly fishing's been 'round
since the Macedonians; red wool,
two feathers from under a cock's wattles,
six feet each of rod and line - and there it is:
200 A.D.

Grandma said angling's in Grandpa's blood;
once, while napping, I saw his fingers working
as if tying on flies; he awoke in the best of moods.

Weekends often found us amongst hill country's
gently moving streams, numerous lakes,
he explaining (for hundredth time)
how to read water, knots, flies, casting tips.

Remember how he ceremoniously handed me
well worn rod and reel,
adjusted float line, backing, leader.

Allowed me to choose (probably the wrong one,
but certainly the prettiest) my favorite of his feathery flies
and with sun and plenty of grass behind my back,
I cast.  Cast again, and again...

Grandpa was proud, pointed out to many passerby's
his granddaughter's natural ability.  I wasn't so sure,
glad the day's success wasn't rated with ice box bounty
but with laughter and sharing of ancient ways.

Standing upon the banks today
I find myself listening for him as I cast,
sure he's singing my praises to the angels about him,
the twinkle of his eye upon me.

by Margaret Bednar, September 6, 2018

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform"   WAY late joining, but I will swing around and visit this challenge in the morning and comment then.

Saturday, September 1, 2018



Poe, Picasso, Van Gogh
enjoyed Absinthe, but I don't imbibe,
my green fairy no illusion.

I'm choosin' to be lured
by doe & fawn at forest's edge

and a trickling stream
whispering mysteries of an

emerald world surrounding me.

Leaves and bark,
braille beneath my fingertips,
cheer me forth.

Meadowlark's song draws me near,
yellow breast full and bright,

little sprite upon his back,
melodious.  I stay out of sight

emerald world surrounding me.

by Margaret Bednar, September 1, 2018

Offering up a bit of (mostly internal) rhyme and somewhat of a "going" theme for
"Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Going, Going, Gone with Karin Gustafson"   At least I tried!

Not happy with this poem and will revisit it - i like the idea of the trees being braille beneath my fingertips...

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

City Tavern: A Taste of History

City Tavern: A Taste of History

I raise a glass to two hundred years
(or more), gather knives, measuring cups,
bowls, don apron, open "the book"...
did I mention "test" the wine?

Begin my journey of fashioning
Thomas Jefferson's sweet potato biscuits
with pecans, (trees we've touched at Monticello)
cinnamon, and ginger rolled -n- baked

served beside pumpkin gratin, fennel puree,
smashed red potatoes surrounding
roast turkey with Madeira gravy.
(A good Madeira's woefully underrated -
I increase one cup to two (wink, wink)

Turnips and parsnips "hide" in potatoes mashed,
(kids and husband will never know)
court chestnut stuffing upon antique china plates

and tummies gathered table side magically find room
for Martha Washington's chocolate mouse cake,
not to mention blueberry cobbler, raspberry tarts,
and pumpkin pie (perhaps a few hours later).

Everyone walks away happy, content, sleepy;
quilted tablecloth weary with a few more battle wounds,
(I forgot to mention cranberry relish)
husband clears while I make sure
wine doesn't go to waste...

and shelf the cookbook "stuffed" as well
with another year's blessings
of laughter, stories, celebration
snuggled within trusted, well-worn pages.

by Margaret Bednar, August 28, 2018

linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - Let's Eat" and "".

My husband and I ate at the City Tavern (historic Philadelphia, PA) almost 20 years ago and the meal, prepared by Chef Walter Staib (author of "City Tavern Cookbook") was absolutely amazing.  We loved the setting, the history and Thomas Jefferson's biscuits!  Martha Washington's cake was amazing... It is an experience we have never forgotten and I honor it with cooking many of our family's Thanksgiving meals with the recipes from this book.  When I don't, we always feel like the day fell flat a bit... the food is that good.  It takes a lot of work, but I never regret it.  I have learned to make a few dishes a day or two before (keeping hands off the food is no easy task!)  I remember the first time I prepared a huge meal from this book it took like 12 hours... I think we ate at 8:30 pm and no-one was in the best of moods (especially me)  ha!  (for the record, I was a young and rather inexperienced cook).

I have found a YouTube a clip showcasing a cooking series Chef Staib is in - currently 8 seasons on Amazon Prime.  One can also go to the website HERE and buy videos.

The cookbook can also be purchased on the website above or just google it.

Friday, August 24, 2018

After the Storm

After the Storm

Off the slivered moon comes a faint light,
of the sky, a sprinkling
reflected in street puddles
as I night walk,

tip my toe, scattering poems.
Watch them pulsate to life,
silence dispersed,
gently whispering prose.

Mid-day my son,
helmetless, reckless,
rides island's backroads,
saturated and swelling,

amusement overflowing,
a slam celebration;
poems now spirited
with youthful passion and voice.

by Margaret Bednar, August, 24, 2018

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - On the Edge of a Starry Night" -
we are to take the line: "In the street of the sky night walks scattering poems" (the last line of E.E. Cummings poem "The Hours Rise Up Putting Off Stars And It is".

I broke up the lines into four segments and used my artistic license:

I changed night walk(s) to "night walk"
and (the) is taken out so it now reads "in street puddles"