Friday, December 20, 2019

Kindred Spirit

William Bednar-Carter (Cedric and both James Potters)
Harry Potter & the Cursed Child - Curran Theatre, San Francisco CA

Kindred Spirit

I remember a sad, young boy leaving all he loved behind, face pressed against the window, rearview

mirror framing his last glimpse of home.  My words of comfort and reassurance weren't enough for
a heart breaking, no matter my painting it an adventure.  The dog licked his nose, but it was the books
given him that absorbed him, welcomed him into another world where he could forget himself and
identify with another boy dealing with life's unexpected twists, turns, upsets, and triumphs.  I
never dreamed (fast forward 20 years) he'd be on stage living these characters, wand raised, 
empowering another generation of eager hearts and minds with the gift of imagination.  

by Margaret Bednar, December 20, 2019

A long-winded, rambling "poem" - more prose than poetry... but I'm calling it "Acrostic" and using artistic license and linking up with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Just One (Last) Word: Imagine"

With his blond hair dyed brown and a wand in his hand, my son is bringing Harry Potter and the Cursed Child to the West Coast - San Francisco's Curran Theatre.  Official Grand Opening was December 1, 2019.   HERE  William plays Cedric and both James Potters.

I remember he read the first three Harry Potter books within a week, sitting on our backyard hill with a view of Lake Michigan.  Petoskey became a dear home in our hearts, a move we never regretted and one where my kids made everlasting friends.  But that first week was hard, and Harry Potter and the gang became kindred spirits...

Monday, December 16, 2019



I'm listening to the Boss sing Western Stars,
find I like this older version better than the youth.

Pour myself a whisky, kick off my stilettos
(Kahlua and slippers, who am I kidding, but it sounds sexier this way)

his raspy voice more weathered, more mellow,
carries experience if not wisdom.

Raise my glass, give thanks to John Wayne and the like,
when a man's man was acceptable, (probably not hip to admit)

close my eyes, feel myself believing
western stars might shine brighter;

trace my fingers along a map, tempted to replace slippers
with traveling boots, let myself drift a bit on the open road,

66 to San Francisco, swing 'round through Yellowstone.
Don't need the lonely, biker bars, roadside motel (not my style)

but old towns, roads less traveled, sundowns in places remote?
Finish off my "whiskey", lean back against the pillows

find myself humming his tune.

by Margaret Bednar, December 16, 2019

HERE is a video and Bruce Springsteen's song "Western Stars"  I enjoyed this interview a lot.  And I really am contemplating such a trip this summer.

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

Sunday, December 15, 2019


Reposting this poem I wrote a few years back.  It is a fictional poem, one I wrote after driving through Tennessee in December - this homestead "spoke" to me.


I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  -Maya Angelou

Like grandma’s shawl, the old, worn farmhouse 
tucked into Appalachia's hills always gave me comfort, 
even when spring rains flooded the stream bed, 
more than once licked it’s wet, swollen tongue along the rear porch. 

Black snakes and such slithered from beneath 
seeking higher ground; even the goats and mules
grazed their way up pasture hills.  Frightened me near to death

but Grandma always said, “Have faith” and I swear
if the waters didn’t recede.  Secretly I likened her to Moses,
as at her word, miracles seemed to happen. 

The one Christmas I stayed with Grandma, 
she collected pine boughs, wove them together, 
draped long looping swags across the warped wooden house,
hummed a mix of hymns as she lit single candles 
in each window.  

Beneath thousands of twinkling stars, 
we stood on the winding, dirt road that ribboned past her farmstead
and admired the holiest of nights, Grandma’s threadbare shawl 
securely wrapped about us both.

by Margaret Bednar, December 28

This is written for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Play it Again".  I selected "A Gift of Wisdom from Maya Angelou"   

Also linked with "Poets United - Pantry of Poetry and Prose #8" on December 15, 2019

Oh, Sister

Oh, Sister

She prays the glow from a devotion,
turns hope to penance, twists virtue into vice,
her crucifix the reason for her stoop,

rumored it delivers a memorable wallop
across one's backside.

It's hard to say how her angel-face became frozen,
how her eyes closed in prayer and lips silently moving
look like a sweet Raphael,

but I'm witness this masterpiece needs restoration;
that this seed fell amongst thorns,

grew green and lush before choked by greed,
jealousy, by power's unclean?  I don't know;
just pray for intercession, a miracle

to cure unfruitfulness; return me
to a healthy fear of the Lord.

by Margaret Bednar, December 15, 2019

I am so sorry, Sister Margaret Claire.  I may burn in Hell for this one.  I have NO idea where it came from - I only knew kind nuns.

This is for the poetic challenge over at "The Sunday Muse #86"

Saturday, December 14, 2019



Dusk and early twilight are magical,
nights not dark enough to do anything but soothe;
it's the hush before the witching hours,
a time (this Catholic girl) is certain to be tucked inside
beneath quilt and comforter as fixed prayer is silent in the dead of night.

I'm a country girl at heart, love to walk my dogs
in this early blue-black, tonight's steps dampened by mist rolling in;
other times echo off mountains that frame the moon.
My road meanders along open pastures and sections claustrophobic;
behind rhododendrons and pine fox dart and deer stare, still as statues.

We walk by the farm with red barn swing, three goats
and gray retired horse.  The floodlight reminds me of Bethlehem's Star,
a beacon of golden light, spilling forth warmth, wonder, love. 
Tonight clouds obscure the sky, no twinkling lights as we trek homeward,
but I'm illuminated, December's glory internalized.

by Margaret Bednar, December 14, 2019

In the Western Christian tradition, the hour between 3 and 4 a.m. was considered a period of peak supernatural activity due to the absence of prayers (fixed prayer) in the canonical hours during this period.  

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - 13 Poetic Bits of Kerry

I used #7 The nights are not dark enough - an excerpt from the amazing poet, Kerry O'Connor, from her poem:  "Self Portrait in Night"

Thursday, December 12, 2019



From my porch, I witness lambent moon
raised as an offering above mountain's western edge,
a beacon of radiance, a whisper of prayer.

Turn, simultaneously see crowning sun
spill hues over mountain's eastern edge,
promising a day glorious, fulfilled.

Can't help but think "Alpha and Omega...",
of a time when "night will be no more,
nor will they need light from lamp or sun..."

Wonder at the meaning of eternity, truth,
redemption, restoration.  Of Creation, Revelation.
A new day, an end to another with me in the middle;

a moment, transfixed.

by Margaret Bednar, December 12, 2019

This is linked with the challenge from "Poets United - Midweek Motif - A/The Moment"

We moved into our home this past March... and I've never witnessed the simultaneous setting of the moon and rising of the sun until this morning.  Snapped the photo just about 7:00 am and KNEW what I was writing about today.  Seriously lucky enough to see the one from my back deck, the other from my front porch... OR if I stand in the middle of my living room as we have huge windows facing both directions.  It truly is like a cathedral - it's what sold me on this house.  In the poem I take creative license and shorten it to the porch.  

Tuesday, December 10, 2019

Arroyo, TX

An arroyo - near the town of Arroyo, TX
(small steep-sided gulch with a flat floor usually dry except after heavy rains)
(my Flash Fiction Prosery is at the bottom - I originally forgot about the fiction and the limit of 144 words)... sigh.  Well this first is the backdrop.)

Arroyo, TX

Before Farm and Market Streets
dotted a small, vanishing town,
Mexican shepherds picked their way
along the red creek bed
meandering its way toward Mother Lagoon,
around yuca, prickly pear
and a few stunted oak trees, twisted.

Horses, thin but tough, kept their distance,
as did whitetail deer and bobcats.
Heat of day survived with wide-brim hat,
long sleeves, and a faithful mongrel of a dog
helping gather sheep, goat, and a cow.

Is screaming across the arroyo still heard,
still done to try and escape poverty
or launch one's dreams across a dry gully,
(or forceful torrent when tropical storms descend)?

Do dreams catch a ride astride wings
of the peregrine falcon, pelican, and crane?
Soar for a bit, cooled and encouraged
as they hover above Saltillo Flats?

Do they reunite with Karankawa and Coahuiltecan,
hopes turned toward ocean's horizon,
share in the mystery of a land that challenges,
strengthens, or destroys?

by Margaret Bednar, December 10, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Prosery #7: Jim Harrison" (must use the line "A cow is screaming across the arroyo."  Flash Fiction - 144 words or less)

AHHH  I see the above is not Flash Fiction - so I will attempt below to write a scene or character within this setting -  I NEED TO LEARN to carefully read directions.  

My exactly 144 words (excluding the title):

A Mother's Heart (El corazon de una madre)

Miguel had a lot to live up to, for his name meant "Who is like God" a fact his mother never let him forget, her high hopes for him evident in her eyes, her smile.

Miguel patted his dog's head, dust swirling about them as they skirted the yuca, prickly pear, and a few twisted oak trees.  The arroyo was barren today, like most days.  No torrent responding to seasonal tropical storms; the violence always excited him, as he stood safely back with his herd of sheep, goat, and a cow.

"Is screaming across the arroyo O.K.?" he once asked his Mother.  She paused, and in her soft voice that was like a caress across his cheek said, "As long as it launches dreams, lets them ride astride the Peregrine, refreshed and encouraged as they hover above the Saltillo Flats, reunited with spirits of the Karankawa and Coahuiltecan, sharing in the mystery of this land that challenges and strengthens."

Sunday, December 8, 2019


Kerry O'Connor Instagram: skyloverpoetry

Morning Star, shine upon my soul,
illuminate He who makes me whole.

Mystical Rose, infuse with beauty
so I may fulfill life's duty,

Tower of Ivory, may I receive His word,
His light, and faith undeterred.

Mirror of Justice, reflect love of our Lord,
an image I'll forever walk toward.

House of Gold, Star of the Sea, Gate of Heaven
you fulfilled his promise: life and resurrection

of which I wish to share one day
by way of witness, work and prayer.

Tree of Life, from Anne did bloom,
bore Tree of the Cross, Fruit of thy womb,

our Lamb of God; your heart of sorrows, of love;
may my eyes forever rest on you, Lady of the Dove.

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Art Flash/55 in December"

A quick write - I feel it needs a lot of work - have had a busy week with recitals and performances - the Nutcracker and singing with the Youth Choir and lighting (and watching the children sing) the local downtown Christmas tree... two more performances ahead, but Monday looks like a day of rest.  

Tuesday, December 3, 2019


Mountain (sunrise) horizon view from my front porch  My back deck
has another mountain view. 

Hold doubt close, bearhug it to your chest,
not a love fest but an intervention;
back it against a wall, unchained.
Let doubt squirm, needle it with questions,
don't settle for illusions.  Demand proof.

Curiosity's often followed with indecision;
embrace it, strip it of control;
allow it a voice, yet hear it with a lambent ear.

The horizon holds divergent clouds;
be not afraid of that which furrows brows
or trembles hands.  Tears followed with a smile
is a rainbow, a promise that false starts
and difficulties survive thunderheads -

that trust and doubt can hold hands.

by Margaret Bednar, December 3, 2019

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Rommy's Challenge - Words to Live By".   Also a word list from Skylover poetry on Instagram's #skyloverwordlist.

This poem is inspired by the words of Rilke ... "What should I say about your tendency to doubt your struggle or to harmonize your inner and outer life? My wish is ever strong that you find enough patience within you and enough simplicity to have faith. May you gain more and more trust in what is challenging, and confidence in the solitude you bear. Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right in any case." (Rainer Maria Rilke) Furnborg, Jonsered, Sweden, November 4, 1904 Letters to a Young Poet