Wednesday, June 16, 2021




"From the solemn gloom of the temple
children run out to sit in the dust,
God watches them play and forgets the priest"...

My collection of Marian planters
align perfectly upon dusted shelves -
no nerf gun bullets hidden inside.

Carpet's nap pristine -
no footprints tell tales 
of make-believe.

Toys double stacked in neat rows
tucked away in closet -
no lego man sticks to heel or sole.

Entryway's hooks and basket
add architectural interest - not a respite
for seasonal jackets and misplaced shoes.

Inhale silence, wait for peace
to flower within...
find I yearn for yesteryear.

by Margaret Bednar, June 16, 2021

Back in the day, I had six children who created quite a mess - longed for the day when rooms would look like a magazine spread ... or so I thought.  

This is a writing prompt offered by Toad Hall Editions if you support and join them on Patreon.  You can follow them on Instagram at toadhalleditions.  They are creating a publishing ecosystem that lives and thrives on collaboration, mutual benefit, and equity.  (My poet friends - you should look into this :)  

I will also link this with "Poets & Storytellers United Tuesday Platform" - next week. 

Wednesday, May 12, 2021

Then & Now

Then & Now

Barricaded, I breathe deeply
as questions continue,
their bodies slide down 
wooden expanse as if shot,
find slit at bottom of door,
implore to be let in;
writhe, feet beat floor
as reprieve is not granted.

Before me, resplendent,
an array of old friends:
perfume, hair clips,
powdery pinks, delicate lace, bows,
strand or two of bobbles and bits
I caress as old friends, perhaps lovers.

I emerge, their arms and limbs draped
over chaise and lounge,
eyes blink with sleep and surprise
as they whisper, "Mother"?

and I answer with a smile, 
tie apron about my front, 
clean fish, roll dough,
hang laundry...

little ones convinced 
forever more this day
an Angel descended.

by Margaret Bednar, May 12, 2021

Times don't really change that much - I think most mothers will understand this poem.  Linked with "Poets & Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #69 - The Hunt".  Am I the only mother who has locked the master bathroom door and looked longingly at makeup and such?   It's been a while since I've felt "desperate" (LOL), but I remember when I had 5 children 10 years and under ... !!   Number six came along five years later.  

I ordered an ephemera package of Paris/France goodies - vintage postcards, magazines, book pages, lace - I will use it in journals I am making.  This is one postcard that came in the pack.  Isn't it lovely?  You can find such treasures (Vintage Book Art, Journals, and Paper Ephemra at : and Instagram: book.and.paper.arts. 

Sunday, April 18, 2021



Which is more radiant,
a sunbeam or moonbeam?

Why am I so happy standing
beneath maple and mountain ash,
joining leafy arms praising,
birds instead of bells,
earth instead of incense,
luminescence instead of stained glass?

How is it at night,
it's silence that glorifies,
the soft chirping, the low hoot,
the sliver of light outlining your cheek,
the moon that serves as Host?

Is it possible trees sing for joy,
that He holds mountains in His hands?

When did we stop listening,
stop observing, stop learning
from that which He created?

by Margaret Bednar, April 29, 2019

Reposted and linked with "Earthweal Open Link Weekend #65" a poem I wrote about two years ago...  

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Poems in April - Asking a Question"  Don't get me wrong, I think the sanctuary, tabernacle, the Mass is an important part of my worshipping, but I find being in nature can be just as magnificent.

Also linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Platform Tuesday"  





Grandmother hovered
above childrens' play-set,
Ancient Wild Cherry tree
bent and a bit wobbly on her feet;
offered shade in the summer 
and arms to climb and nestle,
ponder secrets she held
within her countenance.

Crab Apple and Old Willow
joined our gossip on many a fine day,
but were much younger;
Willow's golden catkins 
and Apple's flushed pink florets
delighted us through spring and summer,

but it was Grandmother Cherry
who regaled us all with stories
she was willing to share. 
Songbirds entertained
as we picnicked beneath her boughs,
feasted on PB&J, our little musicians
on sweet and sour apples and berries
dangling above our heads.

And yet, as all living things 
face Destiny, it took a powerful storm
to prostrate her upon our lawn, 
leaves a halo about her head;
miraculously missed the play-set
directly in her path.  

I still marvel, 
yet should have known,
she'd bring no harm or disappointment
to those she loved.

by Margaret Bednar, April 18, 2021

We had a huge wild cherry in our backyard when the first three children were little - I was surprised it was a cherry tree as I thought they were all smaller - this one was supposedly over 100 years old and very tall and wide.  The tree experts insisted it was a wild cherry - who knew.  Anyway, one morning looking out my bedroom window the view was certainly different with the tree felled by powerful tornado-like winds.   She was rotten in the middle and it scared me to think it could have fallen anytime - but somehow she stood - I guess she was stubborn :)  And by all means, she should have fallen right on the swing-set and play area, but didn't.  

I am almost recovered from my hysterectomy operation.   I had a small infection at the top of my incision which slowed me down for a few days.  A few more weeks and I will be as good as new.  

Monday, March 8, 2021

Inspired by R.L.S.

Inspired by R.L.S.

Into tiny treetops,
rose & thyme I'd peer,
search for fairies dear.
Imagine rain pools were seas,
floating leaves small ships,
& clover leaves,
shade above my head.

Close my eyes
& seaside I'd be
with wooden spade & sandy shore.

Open them,
find myself nestled
in Old Oak Tree,
spy foreign lands
beyond road, river & sea.

My Shadow, my confidant,
and Wind a song,
Swing pushing me up
into air so blue...

& little birdies
yellow-billed & breasted,
tweeted advice (& chastisement)
in language I understood.

All a gift from poetic verse
& images dear,
my land of counterpane
safe & snug,
me a giant upon pillow-hill
afraid of Dark no more
as Moon had a face
like Clock in the hall.


A Garden of Verse
falls apart in my hands,
dear pages faded & frail,
long since slipped their binding.

Close my eyes,
grown woman cease to be,
child within crystal clear.

by Margaret Bednar, March 8, 2021

This is linked with the GREAT "Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #60 - What Got You Started".   My love for poetry I KNOW started with Robert Louis Stevenson and my mom would read "A Child's Garden of Verses" to me every night - and I have the very book.  I love any version of this classic.  I truly believe the inner peace it gave me as a child is part of why I write poetry today.  My poetry is seldom dark - that would do me no good.  But we all write for different reasons...  Anyone who LOVES Robert Louis Stevenson will recognize references within the poem above to his beloved poems...

Wednesday, March 3, 2021

The Melodrama (junk journal poems)

 The Melodrama (junk journal poems)

Bluebird trilled an almost querulous song this morn,
challenging spring to sprout,
but Shepard's Purse rosettes and Peppergrass pods
are still too green to scatter easily upon March's breath,
a sure sign winter maintains her upper hand -

so Bluebird weaves grass and pine
into an old woodpecker hole 40 feet above ground
and awaits, angelic.

As Blue Jay does, he wings boldly onto feeders rim,
beauty seemingly a privilege exalted
as he drops below, scattering devilish squierrels.

Love doesn't discriminate between sinners and saints,
bird feeders filled as all congregate,
and I behind curtained window
delight in antics of songbird, rodent, and, crow,
of the sweet, stubborn, and selfish.  

by Margaret Bednar, March 3, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United Scribblings #59 - Wait For It" I chose the line "Love doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints".

Thursday, February 25, 2021

Red Roses (junk journal poems)


Red Roses

Long-stemmed and red
he declares with a dozen, yet my eye also
upon spying Forget Me Nots
his protection and care; thank my lucky stars
our life's 
journey has been full of God's 

by Margaret Bednar, February 25, 2021

This is a poem form called "Waltmarie" (10 lines, even lines are two syllables, odd lines are longer (but no specific syllable count).   Even lines make their own mini-poem if read separately. 

Friday, February 19, 2021

The Invitation (junk journal poems)

The Invitation (junk journal poems)

Moon silently rises
over hill's sloping shoulders,
loneliness silhouetted
this dark night.

Among the shadows -
faint lights, catlike,
playfully romp,
invite Beloved
to satisfy his longing:

burst into constellations of dance,
love songs, love nips,
sinking into the warm rain
'till dawn.

by Margaret Bednar, February 19, 2021

Write (together)"  The blackout poem I chose was "burst into constellations together" and I also added my own blackout poem inspired by my junk journal.  The website where I get printable graphics from (I signed up for a year) is Graphic Fairy - so very inspiring.  

I am three challenges behind in visiting and commenting but I will catch up this weekend.  I've been busy preparing to be out of commission for a bit - I've been organizing, freezing meals, getting laundry done - as I have an operation scheduled for this Wednesday - a hysterectomy - and a big vertical almost to the belly-button incision it will be!  I guess I'll do anything for breakfast in bed :)  My "new" used laptop computer will come in handy over the next week or so.  

Monday, February 8, 2021

Into the Fold (junk journal poems)

Into the Fold (junk journal poems)

I’d play dress-up, Mother’s knee-length dress

a train behind me, hair, towel draped, 

cotton locks heavy upon princess shoulders.  

Winter-time, sister and I played for hours,

basement’s cement floor and unfinished walls

our oasis of make-believe; flower pots and quilts

our castle walls, magical gardens and forests 

with friendly woodland creatures and moon fairies; 

adventure as far as imagination could see.

Rarely made a mess, as we didn’t have much:

one toy chest full of mother’s fancy frocks

and two small shelves, one full of toys, the other books. 

A wooden rocking-horse with chewed leather ear 

and sparse yarn tail, our faithful companion. 

I’d sit for hours, illustrations and words 

memorized, chair overflowing with books

and cat.  Poems of bluebirds and Bluebeard,

stories by Stevenson, Lewis, and a Land of Oz… 

made me a dreamer, a seeker of solitaire, 

an adult woman who easily slips into the fold

of a thought and gets lost for the better part of a day…

and I’m all the richer for it.

by Margaret Bednar, February 7, 2021

A quick google search and I found my faithful childhood steed: 

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #146" The image The Sunday Muse asked us to write to is "Natural Woman" Digital Collage Art "Covid Creations" by Susie Clevenger.  I was also inspired by my postcard clipped in my junk journal.

Saturday, February 6, 2021

Pocketed (junk journal poems)


Pocketed (junk journal poems)

Thankfully, it's easy for me to pocket melancholy,
tuck it away,  hidden behind trinkets
of memories and favorite things happily enjoyed

like butterfly wings riding the mountain breeze
and flannel shirts wrapped and comforted - 
a faded well-worn red a particular favorite,
the color of an old barn, my favorite lipstick,
Polaroid image of roses on Grandmother's front porch.

I have a treasured memory of Father, 
hands holding a pencil, fingers sure,
sketching, shading, captivating. Yet,
he never found approval in mine.

He taught young boys softball, 
but a weekend spent with me, coaching,
my determination focused, so eager...
was never repeated.

Mother read the stories at night.  I absorbed
every word.  Father called her away,
his voice never added to the wonder and delight.

It was the way things were. I didn't question it much.
Yesteryear's childhood full of freedom and joy,
yet how much richer if Father had truly mentored
like my husband does with ours?  

The adoration a blessed thing 
I'll never tuck away; freely offer red kisses 
upon his cheek for proof.  

By Margaret Bednar, February 6, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #55 - What you Resist, You Become".   This is also inspired by a page in my "Junk Journal Poems".  

I have been organizing and cleaning lately (that's why I've been gone for these past few weeks as I had said I wanted to be back in the swing of things writing with my fellow poets and their wonderful prompts ... I am having a hysterectomy in less than three weeks and want everything in order. 

Tuesday, January 12, 2021

The Raid


The Raid

Purple clover and meadow foxtail grass
rimmed edge of field and "forest"
where sister's and my fort was an old oak limb
slumberously hanging over property line
offering a world secret and secure 
during summer's heat.

However, I recall cool mornings
where I'd lay upon grass, enchanted,
tempted by luscious berries slowly deepening
to ruby red, heavy upon stalks, almost pouting
in their perfect little circle garden 
Father had dug for Mother.  It took a bit of discipline
to resist such flavor, but father promised 
the wait would be worth it.

The berries were surrounded with scrolled white wire,
twelve inches high where I knew little fairies sat,
shared laughs while fashioning clothes
from scalloped green leaves -
I just never caught sight of them.

June in Illinois is humid and hot, buggy,
where the drone of insects overpowers birdsong.
It was a day like this, sister and I snug in "forest" shade,
heard Father, mad as a hornet, yelling.

Perring from our post on high, doom and despair
met our gaze.  Our milking goat had escaped her pen,
berries and green leaves staining and hanging
from her white countenance, eyes drunk
with the sweet taste of berry and vine, fairy fence
wrapped about her neck, trailing behind her 
as she dashed just ahead of Father's flailing arms.

It became an addiction, year after year,
Momma and babies successfully raided
the round oasis of sweetness, until my Father
waving a white flag of surrender,
planted grass seed instead.  Ever after,
every Sunday in June and into July,
roadside farmer's stand supplied us
with baskets of strawberries
(of which I secreted a few to the criminals
in the barnyard).

My first garden was graced with a few statues:
St. Francis, a little pig, a chicken... and goat,
and produced many delicious meals: beans,
lettuce, tomatoes.  But no strawberries.

by Margaret Bednar, January 12, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United -  Writers' Pantry #52 - Year's Beginning" and I resurrected the old post "#22 - It Takes a Bit of Discipline"  I changed the word "takes" to "took")  309 words