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"