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".
Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #56"
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.