Grandfather

My youngest son who is in high school now! 

 Grandfather

It's the freedom of childhood,

raised high, secure,

knowing Grandfather won't let go;

playing "I Spy" when laughter erupts.

It's horizons, youthful and old,

merging, finding common goals.

Beneath necklaced peaks of yellow gold

   and sunset clouds of Touraine blue,

'long old black bears trail

resides gossamer lit havens and veiled vaults,

glimpses of time begun,

viewed upon swaying bridge.

Trading preconceived notions

of boring, for adventure tapped

when living begins.

Remnants, delicately interwoven

amidst folds and cracks layered ancient:

triumphs, tragedies, truthful tales

of character and struggle

along hidden, well-worn paths,

beneath blood-red sourwoods 

and pumpkin-hued beech.

It's finding joy in each other,

guidance along rocky paths,

a safe place to rest one's head;

of wisdom shared

and shoulders strong.

by Margaret Bednar, December 14, 2022

Playing along with "Girlie on the Edge's Thursday Six Senctence Story". Word is VAULT. 

I used to live in Boone, NC where Grandfather Mountain is a destination for locals and tourists.  We climbed parts of it many times. 

Grandfather Bednar passed away, but he was full of life and love.  He was very important in our lives and my children adored him.  He had a love and personality as big as a mountain.

Grandfather Mountain's original Cherokee name was "Tanawha" meaning fabulous hawk or eagle.  It is steeped in Native American lore.  HISTORY about Grandfather can be read HERE.

Stars & Moonbeams

 

Stars & Moonbeams

Winter's fast approaching

and what's left of Autumn gold

resides in tonight's evening sky

whose embers illuminate

flocks of southbound geese

slipstreaming their way into the night

where they will surf celestial stars 

and wing their way through moonbeams.

by Margaret Bednar, December 13, 2022

Playing along with "dVerse Poetics - St. Lucy - Bringing light into the darkness".  The photo I snapped tonight (it's two blended into one image) and knew I had to write a poem.  

The Sewing Circle

Collage by (me) Margaret Bednar

The Sewing Circle

Stitches pull taut,

arms extend, slightly raise

as if holding heavenly swords,

not needles,

and within each breast,

shy or fierce,

resides Joan of Arc

battling the Devil's claw.

by Margaret Bednar, December 8, 2022

playing along with "Shay's Word Garden Word List: The Smiths".  20 words provided, I used 5:  stitch, Joan of Arc, heavenly, devil, shyness (shy)

Devil's Claw is a quilt block pattern.

Allure

 

lino print be me, Margaret Bednar

Allure

With a sweep of her eyes

she read the room, not for what was,

but for possibilities.

Red ties alluded power, but one,

a bit twisted, a bit loosened,

defied the "importance" of the room,

obligatory whisky held loosely,

sipped, fascinated her

as his tongue followed just as slowly.

She lowered her eyes, adjusted her dress;

of an era when bra straps shouldn't show 

and ladies didn't stare.

Reticent by nature, she downed her Mojito,

side-glance a bit unsure, rum and mint 

a slight burn; something they laughed about

for years to come.

She kept her dress, ditched the bra,

learned how to entice with a tempting eye;

a possibility he spied when he'd read the room.

He lost the tie, slow-danced in their kitchen,

enjoyed the range of contradictions

she tossed his way; possibilities, promises,

adventure.

by Margaret Bednar, December 7, 2022

Playing along with Girlie on The Edge's "Thursday Six Sentence Story Link Up!"  The prompt word is RANGE.  Link-up begins today at 6 p.m.  

Apricity

 

Apricity

No footprints in the snow,

just a hazy shade of winter white 

yawns before me this morn,

as cold-weather blues court Gainsborough, 

paint sky above outstretched fingertips 

of evergreen and oak,

into a white winter hymnal

framing a congregation flocking south,

leaving winter things behind.

Cries of, "Let it go" float downward,

encourage me to fashion roses from snow,

a "make love, not war" invitation,

which I accept.

The hounds of winter have yet

to swirl and nip their way across the lake

through a long December night,

and Jesus, 21 feet below,

has yet to be trapped beneath ice,

but when lit, will encourage me

to love like winter, sun warm upon my face,

truly feeling kissed.

by Margaret Bednar, December 7, 2022

Playing along with "dVerse Poets Come Sing with Me!" Use at least two titles within the body of a poem.  I used 11 of 16.  GO GIVE IT A TRY!  

Apricity is an amazing word that dates back to 1623 and never really caught on.  It is a "warming" winter word - Have you ever gone outside and felt the soft warmth of a winter sun?  This is apricity.  (spell check wants me to change this word as it doesn't recognize it - truly archaic!

Thomas Gainsborough 

HERE (click for article) is a link to the Giant crucifix beneath the shores of Little Traverse Bay, Petoskey, MI.  I hope to experience it some day.  Love my hometown.  

Driven

Print by Margaret Bednar (me)

Driven

Looking back

means tampering 

with consequence.

She prefers 

eyes straight ahead,

candor the guiding light -

no time or patience

for vanilla-lipped explorers

with hymns in their throats.

Determination her oxygen

as she reaches for star-flocked sky,

Milky Way garlanding obsidian tresses,

moonbeam grasped in the fist of her hand.

by Margaret Bednar, December 4, 2022

playing along with "Word Garden Word List - Paige Ackerson-Kiely"

20 words, pick at least 3. I chose tampering, candor, explorers, flocked, garlands, hymns, oxygen, vanilla

We've all heard of velvet-lipped but I like the idea of vanilla-lipped.  LOL.  Thanks, Shay, I had fun with this. 

Longing

 

Longing

Beyond the lonely light of the moon

I witness all that is quiet,

and my fingers,

familiar with beaded bone,

wish this was my ordinary,

this temporary oasis before stretch of day.

Wish I could join the dance,

let moon become my friend again,

for a glimpse at water's edge,

of blessings,

of beautiful melodies,

all without a hint of subterfuge,

where newfound desire to shine

would be appreciated,

gifting me with freedom, with life;

for service, not idolatry.

Yet, of the sweet, stubborn, and selfish,

some things never change.

by Margaret Bednar, December 1, 2022

This is written for the challenge over at: dVerse MTB (meeting the bar): In my end is my beginning.  Take ending lines of your most recent poetry (at least 12) and create a new poem.  Lines must remain intact, but can be placed in any order, may add preposition, conjunction, and change tense.  Enjambment is allowed.  

I looked at about 30 of my most recent poems and selected ending lines from 16.

THIS WAS NOT EASY!  (beaded bone = rosary)

The Anchor

 The Anchor

Home is Mother

silhouetted behind kitchen screen

as sister and I ran through sprinkler

soothing sunburnt skin,

or sat, shaded on porch,

playing pick up sticks and crazy eights.

Monopoly's test of endurance

challenged camaraderie;

squabbles brought

Her voice upon High

warning "nap time".

We'd plead for lenience,

and from behind her confessional

she often showed mercy.

For an hour or so each day,

not classical but soap opera

theme songs floated from windowsill

as 'round flowerbeds 

we spun and danced;

little ballerinas we,

awaiting her voice telling us

the 'sabbatical" was over.

Remember the summer

a single sunflower grew and grew

and grew beside the lamppost.

"A bird must've dropped a seed," she said

with a voice reserved for miracles.

At night we'd peer out Mother's window,

see "feathered" face turned eastward,

itself a softly glowing orb.

Childhood memories

often bring me to tears.  Why?

People take a second glance

as I sit upon "dedicated" bench,

almost crying.  Not unhappy,

but grateful I have learned

to settle into yesteryear's moments,

feel front yard's grass

beneath my feet, journey home,

sister and I everything to each other,

Mother our blessed anchor.

poem & collage by Margaret Bednar, October 24, 2022

Remember When

Collage by M. Bednar

 Remember When

Beneath bright stars strummed a guitar,

a lover's voice, pure honey,

vowed forever, vowed sweet love

to the beautiful moon and back.

Knee bent, promises meant,

a silver ring placed,

we danced, hands laced,

kissed at the edge of the sea.

Swirled, whirled,

lived dreams, breathless,

eager and restless,

we danced by the light of the moon.

Until one evening,

all light faded,

face unfathomably sad,

moon didn't know what to do

as we looked at each other,

differences observed, melody unheard;

we'd become a masquerade.

So you took wing, over the sea,

Owl to my Pussycat, you disappeared

beyond the lonely light of the moon.

by Margaret Bednar, September 18, 2022

This is linked with "Poets and Storyteller's United #44 To Err is Human".  Divorce isn't just between two people - it unsettles the whole family with a heavy heart.  (This is not about my marriage)

Comfort

Lee Madgwick leemadgwick.co.uk.  dversepoets.com
 

Comfort

The old limestone house cradled Charlotte,

slanted porch a bosom of activity all afternoon

into early evening, her hands busy

peeling potatoes, snapping peas, shucking corn;

come evenings, mending socks and shirts,

her wooden chair not for leisure nor daydreams.

She was a vintage vision, her button down dress

wrinkle free, tissues sensibly folded 

in front pocket, hair smoothed into tight bun, 

no-nonsense shoes, polished.  Matronly, yes. 

But it was a term of endearment.

Past glimpsed as she showed me old well,

chicken coop, outhouse, noble red barn

with peeling paint, rustlings of spirits

echoing off horse and carriage stalls.

Majestic cedar trees towered over lawn,

grand sentinels dripping pinecones like diamonds;

peanut butter wedged between prongs,

enticed birds to flirt and flutter, fill up

as I sketched, each declared a masterpiece.

Charlotte passed on when I was a little girl.

Pony and I missed her encouraging smile, 

comforting friendship, lively stories;  front door 

forever closed, no more peaks 

into magical kitchen, porch empty...

yet when I think of home and dearest neighbor, 

my memory sketches in the cedars, the wooden chair,

and dear Charlotte waving, forever inviting.

by Margaret Bednar, September 13, 2022

This is a true recollection.  I was a very shy child and Charlotte gave me such comfort.  I would ride my pony over and stay all afternoon.  I am grateful her grandson has fixed up the house and barns and outbuildings to a very high standard - they host beautiful weddings in the barn now and I recently walked through it.  It was like a hug ;).   

linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - The Strange Houses of Lee Madgwick". The image isn't spot on to my limestone house in my poem - but it inspired this true memory of a dear woman and her farmhouse.  Something must be wrong with me... everyone else seems to have found this image haunting or scary - I find it comforting if not a bit lonely, protective, maybe a bit sad...

Also with "Poets and Story Tellers United - Friday Writings #43"

Thorne Swift

 Thorne Swift

I raise my eyes to sky of blue, quietly walk,

guard this place I internalize, scrutinize

her dappled light - a fairy's flutter?

Beauty wings t'ward water's edge; I follow,

clean(se) my feet, unwind this day - free ...

from burdens; seagulls sing, sailboats slide,

rust(icily) simple.  Sigh and sink into sand -n- sun.

by Margaret Bednar,  August 28, 2022

Linked with "dverse poets MTB: Vertical lines of kisses". This was a hard prompt. The line I chose was "I guard her beauty clean from rust".  Each line begins with each successive word in the sentence.  I took some photos of a nature preserve that leads to a gorgeous beach on Lake Michigan and wanted to tie it in to this challenge.  I tried for over an hour to keep the meter of the chosen line but the words  did not allow me to do that so I scratched it out and started over.  This beach is a 20 minute drive from my home and it is not as well known as others - I felt like it was all my own! 

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #41"

One Direction?

Collage by M. Bednar (click on image to enlarge)

One Direction?

When I retell a cherished story,

I sometimes embellish the plot, sink into it, 

stay far longer than a few paragraphs; 

new chapters emerge, new characters, different endings:

Alice decides to stay in the rabbit hole, 

Cinderella refuses her prince, 

Old Yeller's given a vaccine,

Black Beauty helps Ginger mend her ways.

What makes happy endings?  

A handsome groom,

white picket fence, gems, jewels, 

glamorous dresses, adventure?  

Perhaps it's simple:  a mulish devotion to self - 

not absorption, but awareness.  The giving of, 

not pampering of.  Allowing strength and conviction

to rule the day, not simpering whimsy, not fantasy.

Life is our story; may we fill pages 

with intrepid words written with a bold hand 

and a few mark throughs, as rethinking 

(and changing course) is honorable -

best route to happily ever after.

by Margaret Bednar, August 21, 2022

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #40 - Lists in Ink".

Audrey

Audrey

A princess

may not be royal

nor bedecked in jewels.

May come from humble means,

pursue life

where grace is an acceptance

of a role, not a crown -

a heart offered

for service, not idolatry.

by Margaret Bednar, May 6, 2022

I have recently watched a documentary and read a long article on the life of Audrey Hepburn.  She truly believed beauty was from within and seemed more than happy to leave Hollywood and dedicate her life to serving others.  She was an ambassador for UNICEF and they say she would gather the children (covered in dirt and flies) into her arms and hug them.  

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #25". This is not a rewrite which was the suggested prompt for this week.  The mixed-media collage above is my work.  

I Wore a Red Dress

 

I Wore a Red Dress

I wore a red dress today,

hesitated on my lipstick… too bold?

Thought, “When did my wardrobe

become boring?  When did my lips 

become pale?"

Limitations loom large. 

Ponder the fact:

Goals aren’t necessarily dreams,

nor life’s path, aspirations.  

Step outside in sensible shoes,

remember when I owned 

more stilettos than flats.  The sun is warm.

Honeybee, whom shouldn’t be able to fly,

buzzes about (didn’t get the memo),

importance just shy of water and air.

Realize I need to regrow a new “old me”,

hang on to my core, release “outgrown”,

contemplate mystical and magical,

question behavior and belief,

shed skin like Gecko,

whose pretty green darts before me.

His path crisscrosses with Butterfly,

ultimate sign of grace, of lightness, 

of life’s continuous unfolding.  

Youngest son once asked

if turtles smell flowers.  “Why not?”,

I answered.  “Just because we haven’t seen it,

doesn’t make it so.”

Repetitious days have made me forget 

I’m strong. Even bold.  January first

isn’t the only day for resolutions.

Went back inside to don a red cap 

to match my lipstick, and smile, 

as I’m the only one to know,

red panties to match.

By Margaret Bednar, April 30, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #24". It has been MONTHS since I last wrote poetry and it feels so good.   I also created the mixed-media collage which goes along with this poem.  i can't wait to sip morning coffee this Saturday morning and read all the incredible poems you all have written.