This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #140"
This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #140"
Life's Wallflower (junk journal poems)
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
A poem I am resurrecting - I wrote it for a dVerse Poets Pub challenge two years ago. I am now linking it up with "Earthweal - Open Link Weekend #49" I live year-round in the mountains of NC, but I visit the east coast every few months and admit I love the sun and surf of summer but there is something special about a winter beach...
I believe this challenge is supposed to address current issues with earth's environmental challenges and I will ponder it more closely for next week.
The Tulip Tree
Embroidered with flowers
and hammock slung
through a summer's day
and flit between
and the love-notes of birds.
by Margaret Bednar, October 29, 20202
This poem is an erasure poem from an old book "Quiet Hours with Nature" Mrs. Brightwen (1904). The chapter on "The Tulip Tree" runs 7 pages with two beautiful illustrations.
Beeswax, His body -
wick, His soul - flame, His divinity;
my voice, soft and low,
eyes upon blessed candle,
lips caressing holy words,
my fingers familiar with beaded bone.
"Old family heirloom, a relic from the Holy Land."
Grandpa would wink (an antler he'd whittled),
but we allowed Grandma her antiquity
as she held me in her lap and told me
of relics: the holy grail, Eucharistic miracles,
incorrupt body of St. Bernadette...
and I, entranced, felt her breath on my neck,
her soft bosom better than any pillow,
and her voice, like incense, filled the room.
I pray from my heart; Mary brings the Trinity,
and I relax into peace and hear
Grandma singing with the angels.
by Margaret Bednar, October 21
This is linked with "Poets & Storytellers United - About those bones"
Write poetry or prose which explores where the bones in the poem below might've come from. (poem written by https://magicalmysticalteacher.wordpress.com HERE)
fingers framed by light
clutching an old rosary
carved of human bone
A satin cape cascades off a shoulder,
branches drape, sequins and diamonds sparkle
beneath sun's tickling touch; diaphanous
a new word to explore.
Mermaid gown, ivy embroidered,
travels upon forest floor, resplendently elegant;
more a ball gown than evening bedecked as she is
in swags and tulle, edged with flowers, rosettes,
Oscar Da La Renta bows to such as these,
grand dames and sprightly, willowy youth
showcasing bustles, bouffants, A-line, and tiered.
I'm underdressed, Timberlands and jeggings practical,
but certainly no competition. I think of tonight,
scratch the burger joint off my list, make a reservation
where newfound desire to shine will be appreciated.
by Margaret Bednar, October 20, 2020
This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - #42 Autumnal"
A slip of moon
coaxes me through night's
darkest hour to
familiar path, branches
gesturing protectively. So I
just a little at a time,
know with each heartbeat
lake's reflection of the stars
mirrors the big world,
not my tiny slice of it.
Oh, to escape, to soar
past my insecurities,
quiet my doubts,
rely on the promise of
self-confidence I know is a
treasure buried inside. I must
unfurl it slowly, nurture it,
venture forth and grasp
with both hands, life! Unlike the
xeranthemums pressed within my diary's
yellowing pages, my spirit longs to bloom,
zoom to the moon and back.
by Margaret Bednar, October 3, 2020
This is an Abecdarian Poem - use the 26 letters in the alphabet chronologically - each letter starting a new line.
Oh, to lasso the slowly rising sun
suspended and ripe upon morn's horizon,
almost bursting before it slips slowly upward
out of reach; keep it hovering there,
surrounded by ribbons of tangerine, ochre & mint.
I raise my arm, hand and fingers
delicately, reverently reaching,
knowing to touch is impossible and yet,
the yearning is there. I'm jealous
of seagulls whose wings are embedded
in this saturated tapestry...
this temporary oasis before stretch of day.
by Margaret Bednar, September 25, 2020
This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #38 - A Helping String"
It has been over a month since I have written a poem! I have been busy with schooling my son at home on-line through his school because of this pandemic. He goes back twice a week to school starting next week and I will have a bit of time to myself again! I have missed all my poet friends.
This is linked with the challenge "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #33 - Swallow screams for dinner" and "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #34"
The phrase "swallow screams for dinner" is a line from C. Sandlin's poem "Telling Stories" Her amazing poem can be found HERE. I changed the line to "stumbles". I used the previous quote for the prompt but didn't really like it. :)
I’ve a brimmed hat affixed low upon my brow,
step quickly between dappled live oak and cedar shade;
try to avoid midday’s scorching sun.
Sandals fill with crushed shells, dirt, and gravel
as I pass famous Howard Street signs nailed to gnarled tree,
pass burial stones slanted one way and another,
walk beside peeling white-washed wooden fences
adorned with whelks and weather-beaten decoys,
dangling decorations, silent and still.
Angry waves have washed beneath my feet, this very spot
trying to be claimed, perhaps reclaimed, by the sea.
Perseverance; a character trait paraded time and again;
one in which I admire as I sketch old humble cottages
along this path, pencil imagined families, pets,
Sunday dinners shared outside,
perhaps a waterfowl whittled beneath these very trees,
family cemetery next door; flowers watered, vines cut back,
stories and escapades retold, prayed over,
remembered. Such as Blackbeard’s quartermaster,
a fun subject for “haunted walks”; whether folklore or fact,
the first William Howard.
My belly growls; sixteen miles of fabulous beach
isn’t the only reason people flock to Ocracoke.
Around the corner awaits fresh seafood, refreshing drinks,
Some things never change.
Margaret Bednar, August 9, 2020
This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #32"
A sketch I did of Ocracoke's Silver Lake - July 2020
|My New Poetic Challenge I host - please join in! Artistic Interpretations|
|Image used for "The Sunday Muse #99"|
|Image used for "The Sunday Muse #97"|
|by Margaret Bednar|