Possession

 Possession

Lifeblood coveted / measurements eyed

pigeon proud chest

fowl or fashion

prey or debutant

hunted prize, trophy wife

by Margaret Bednar, Noember 3, 2023

Today's five-line observation.  

I am making a collage with a 1909 New York Fashions magazine and I also have a ton of bird books.  The dresses were ... unbelievable - impossible chests, waists, and "bubble" butts... The big collage I'm working on is NOT the image above (this is a page of my five-line observation poetry "repurposed" book which I am having fun collaging as well.)

Weeds Upon the Green

 

Weeds upon the Green

Once immaculate
Now called back
unwanted blooms 
frolicking 

amongst 18 reclaimed holes.  

By Margaret Bednar, November 1, 2023

Offield Nature Preserve is an old golf course turned land conservancy;  a favorite place to walk with a gorgeous view of Little Traverse Bay (Lake Michigan).  

Today's five-line observation.

Home

 

Collage by Margaret Bednar

Home

Why does time

play tricks?

Sister's hand held in mine;

seems like yesterday

dandelion wishes

sailing summer's breeze,

silly giggles.

Our mother's grown small;

time blinked 

and my hands look like hers.

Firstborn held close,

seagulls and songbirds,

beachside and blue mountains,

sixth one mostly grown.

My knight's hair is grey,

yet I still see him

with the world's wonder

before him.

Swear I'm still

a barefoot girl

living horseback days

exploring fields, quarries,

and country lanes;

still a young mother,

babies and toddlers,

parks and zoos,

elephants and penguins,

bedtime stories,

cream puff cheeks.

A whispered prayer,

my Mother's voice,

no longer a phone call away.

How does all this

exist at once?

Click my heels,

find home

is not a place

but a feeling inside.

by Margaret Bednar, October 22, 2023

This is for "Poets and Story Tellers United - Friday Writings #99 Why". Trying to explore the complexity of memories and how time flies and how... time is slow and fast and the feelings that are jumbled inside me - seemingly sliding back and forth on the time scale, so to speak.  I wrote this poem in a hurry - it doesn't quite flow the way I want it to - I did want it hopscotching about on the time line - but I will have to let this rest and revisit it again - winter is almost here and I need to get outside and enjoy the days we have left of Fall!

Gratitude

 

Gratitude

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 always heard

above splash of wave and wind,

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 Great Lake's breeze

beneath clouds that tell me

it's time to settle inside, before a warm fire,

before snow descends,

book in hand, cat on lap,

all the while thanking God

this is my ordinary.

by Margaret Bednar, November 28, 2018

This is linked with "What's Going on? Gratitude".  

Originally written for dVerse Poetics - Magic of Ordinary Things".  I also linked with dVerse Open Link Night #234". A few small changes have been made.  

Mountain Top

 

Mountain Top

Bourbon butterscotch 

brightened to a shiny penny

before the hold of a sky,

matched your blue eyes

and mixed with cucumber waters,

rushed past woodland lichen 

and pussy willow,

life-giving sustenance 

caressing ancient paths 

and chaste mauve lips

both thirsting 

for past and present 

to be vineyard and vine;  

for all, for one.  

A mountain is mighty

but beneath a tree branch, 

a flannel grey sanctuary

embraced our youth,

the glacial stream curled by

as fauna and curling willow

turned your eyes to candied lavender

and mine to Celtic green

as we picnicked and drank 

from mountain waters, 

settled ourselves, became lovers.

***

A tawny owl blinks

into a raven-wing night

blessing each season

as we return

beneath a peppercorn sky

ablaze with the northern star;

refined amber 

above windswept cliffs

whistling a serenade to love.

This ancient pathway 

our spring nectar,

where summer coneflowers 

and yarrow bloom,

fall's fiery hue 

yielding soon 

to winter's alabaster drape.

by Margaret Bednar, December 7, 2020 (Reposted October 3, 2023)

Reposted and playing along with "Poets & Storytellers United - Friday Writings Earth, Air, Fire, Water".  I did change this version slightly from the original.

___

(Dec. 7, 2020) I wrote this poem to an expired challenge over at "dVerse Poets Pub - Synesthesia" - write a song full of colors.   I wouldn't say this is a song, but it is a poem.  I am linking this up with "Poets and Storytellers Writers Pantry #49". 

Dia de los Muertos

 

Collage by Margaret Bednar (click image to enlarge)

Dia de los Muertos

(Day of the Dead)

Marigold flowers and crucifixes,

Catholic Saints and skulls,

La Catrina and Madonna side by side.

A photograph, youthful,

BBQ salmon, hasselback potatoes,

garlic, butter, crispy and tender;

comforts all, vaguely familiar.

A hand I don't recognize

reaches toward my soul,

yearns for Monarch's fluttering touch;

reminiscent

of a faintly remembered heartbeat.

Yet soars away...

I feel welcomed and lost,

eternity and mortality

intertwined.

by Margaret Bednar, October 7, 2023

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #97 - October".

Spanish explorers conquered the Aztecs and in doing so, cultures collided.  Celebrating ancestors and the Catholic All Soul's Day created this amazing cultural "holiday", Day of the Dead - a "family reunion" of sorts (November 1 & 2) where dead ancestors are the guests of honor.  So, this isn't technically October, but I feel the altar and such are probably set up and food is being planned for it.  The Monarch butterfly is believed to carry the soul of the deceased.    

Finding Home

 collage by Margaret Bednar

Finding Home

Mother adored her books of Somerset, England, 

vintage portrait album close at hand; 

I'd search their features for hints of mine,

Lyfords, Hutchins, Beckingtons;

serious gazes and stories 

I now tuck away.

In my heart resides 

the red and pink roses 

that graced the side of our house,

quilts and kittens, faithful dogs

that never left mother's side.

And books.  Her love of books.

Reading to me, Black Beauty, 

perhaps second only to

A Child's Garden of Verses; 

sometimes close my eyes at night,

hear her rythmic voice.  

Home.  I'm glad it's easy 

to find my way home. 

by Margaret Bednar, October 1, 2023

This is written to the challenge from: "Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings #96 - What for you conjures up home?"

Sojourn

collage by Margaret Bednar

 Sojourn

My thoughts

ride the currents

along the Atlantic,

a migratory pattern

not unlike the Monarch.

Perhaps more an escape 

than a disciplined,

pre-planned route,

timeline to adhere.

Instead, I wander;

parameters of time

disregarded.

Find myself in decades past,

lamenting decisions

I can not change;

careening forward,

wishful of a metamorphosis.

Why the Atlantic?

I'm not sure

other than it's a place

I love to dip my toes,

watch the sunrise,

collect seashells,

lose myself on the horizon,

feel His presence,

witness the journey

of the butterfly;

a fellow sojourner,

seeking, searching,

losing track of time...

contemplating eternity.

Like the Monarch,

make a pilgramage yearly,

a temporary repreive 

from the day to day,

otherwise, like a prayer

or the tingle of fingertips,

this daily sojourn, 

this centering,

this sustenance.

by Margaret Bednar, September 23, 2023

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #25 - Losing Track of Time".  

I gave myself 10 minutes to write - close my eyes, feel the response, go with the flow, so to speak, edit very little and just post it.  Quite the opposite of how I usually write.  I did have my collage to inspire the direction of my thought - that is usual for me (some sort of image of mine - photo, drawing, collage).

Taken

 

collage by Margaret Bednar

Taken

As the sun slid

behind lucent clouds

she descended 

from Heaven

Flocks unfazed

shepherd boy asleep

Taken from me

on a similar

Autumn day

"Have you saved

a place for me?"

but her smile

seemed taken too

Did she remember

walks in the field

planting wildflower seeds

faces dirt-smudged

beneath wide-brimmed hats?

Far afield she gazed

before turning

"You've time

to grow

into robe and crown

Stay curious

You've time to breathe."

My eyes lowered

held the tears close;

...found her gone

Raised my hand

loosed yesterday's flowers

to plant themselves

Offered my spirit

No longer afraid

Understood the comfort

of ending up Home.

"You took my Mama.

One day you'll take me.

But first, I must live."

by Margaret Bednar, September 21, 2023

This is linked with the fabulous "What's Going On? Take this Poem" 

This is also part of my Emily Dickinson reflections series.  I read and reflected on her "IV Time and Eternity II" .  Her poem can be found "HERE".

The Bluebird

Image courtesy of Susie Clevenger 

The Bluebird

God gifted Bluebird

a cloak of royal indigo

and a vest of orange zest

habiliments worn 

perched upon matronly limbs

while performing lofty melodies 

proclaiming summer love

often silhouetted

against field and sky

singing for none other than himself.

But one day found himself

within a cage; a wild captivity,

requests for joy, ignored.

Ballads dried upon his tongue

vestments became frayed and worn...

a coveted prize no more.

Finally released, 

freedom upon blue feathers

he flew far and wide

and sang so sweetly

of renewal, his gift to God,

angelic song.

by Margaret Bednar, September 16, 2023

This is linked with (THE LAST) "The Sunday Muse #261".  Obviously, a long run and I thank Carrie Van Horn for hosting for so long!  

This is also part of my Emily Dickinson reflections series.  I read "The Bluebird" of which I borrowed her title.  Her "The Bluebird" poem is HERE

Some sounds (and sights) of bluebirds HERE

Summer Shower

Summer Shower

Stillness,

just before a storm,

tickles, teases,

gently lifts a curl,

whispers

as crows abandon shaded sky

and tasseled corn stalks

slightly bend.

I've been writing

beneath White Oak's sanctuary,

personal lines of poetry,

of loss, of love, of longing,

when drops of rain

stain my scrawling ink,

slide down parchment page

in sympathy.

A simple summer shower

kisses field and fauna,

its gentle harmony

soothes floral faces raised

before a final bow.

Drips and drops

fall from leaves and eaves

as Sunshine dons his sweetest smile.

Stillness, the only sound.

by Margaret Bednar, September 16, 2023

This is in response to "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #94 - Storm, Ink, Love".  Use these three words in a poem.  

I am also starting a series of poems I will work on randomly.  This sereis will be my response to Emily Dickinson's poems.  This one here is offered upon reflection of reading "XI - Summer Shower" - of which I have borrowed her title.   Her "Summer Shower" poem is HERE.  

Appreciation

 

Appreciation

The dog days of summer,

of BBQ, beach and bike rides,

soft serve ice cream

beneath mid-days unforgiving sun

are sadly over -

And Indian summer,

a few final days

of frivolity and farewell

before they too flicker and fade,

is promised -

And yet, perhaps I'm fickle.

Sweaters, neatly folded for months,

long to be matched 

with mittens, scarves, boots,

comfortable friends -

My horse, fluffy as a bear,

will make a path

through pristine snow,

he, dreaming of oats,

me, hot chocolate upon trail's end,

satisfaction -

Soon followed for an eager glimpse 

of Snowdrops, Snapdragons, and Crocus,

several red breasts,

and a steady stream of sunlight,

renewal -

Saying "Goodbye" and "Hello"

to old friends, new friends,

tucking away, dusting off,

a merry-go-round,

a warm embrace.

by Margaret Bednar, September 13, 2023

May 18 was the last time I wrote a poem! It's been too long and I can't wait to read everyone's poems and catch up with "old" friends.  This is linked with "What's Going On? - How's the Weather?"  This ended up being more about the seasons, how did that happen.  I guess my creative juices took a side path but I hope it still fits in a bit with the chalenge.  I need to fine tune my skills!  

Did you know the robin was named "red breast" before the color "orange" was named.  

Finding Comfort

Finding Comfort

Iron bunnies arc over wildflowers scattered randomly a few months back by Mother's hand full of seeds, letting her chickens decide what was picked and pecked, what survived, thrived.  Flowering bushes and potted plants nestle amongst garden ornaments she loved: a windmill, water-spouting frogs, a birdbath, rocks from her travels out West, as well as winding rows full of vegetables.  She liked to weed and mulch, but didn't over-trim or shape her garden; she liked the natural look, a place where chipmunk holes were welcome, where birds and butterflies found safe haven.  

From a collection of hats, I select a blue-brimmed floppy from a peg, numerous garden implements neatly lined in a row below, idyl.  I slip my hands into a pair of her gloves, put one to my cheek, comforted.   I gather a few mementos, look forward to dirty fingernails, tired knees, and a sun-flushed farmer's-tan, Mother's iron bunnies cavorting above me.

This is linked with "Girlie on the Edge - Six Sentence Stories" - "Flush" is the word of the week.  I suppose this is more of a reflection than a story - I'm used to writing poetry so this is kind of a mash-up of a story and a poem, maybe.  But I'll post it and try and write a true story next time.

Artwork by Margaret Bednar

Spring's Promise

 

Spring's Promise

Stillness -

Not even a dragonfly

skims pond's surface,

Monet's paintbrush poised;

birth and resurrection's impressions

thirst for season's kiss.

    I thought to hang my hopes

    upon a crescent hook last night,

    but moon and stars

    fell before my feet,

    scattered, buoyant

    upon Claude's violet-blue depths.

    Reached instead

    within myself

    since made of stars are we.

    Fingertips tingled,

    started to mold

    and fashion dreams;

    mind raced upon cool breeze.

Funny how daylight's 

drowsy ardor

differs from night's

invigorating arousal.

Sit dockside,

stir concentric circles

slowly with my toe,

stillness and urgency suspended.

One little lotus bud

sprouts,

its minty elfin cap,

a promise.

By Margaret Bednar, May 12, 2023

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #76"

Lily pads represent birth, resurrection, purity, majesty, enlightenment

With Emily

 

With Emily

The pages

Rustle, curl, flip

Palm of my hand

Settles them

Absorbs

-----

I'm sitting beside her

Scraps of envelopes

Chocolate wrappers

Nestle within

The white folds of her dress

Auburn head

Bent upon slender neck

No flirtatious ringlets -

You resemble

Your beloved Indian Pipes

She laughs softly

Glances up

At her bedroom window

Her hand

Smooths Carlo's fur

Repositions herself

Within White Oak's shadow

Brown eyes that see

Far beyond this yard

Glance my way -

We are protected

She says

From what

I want to ask

But remain silent

As I watch her nourish

Repurposed scraps

Sentence snippets

Fragmented together

With dashes and slashes

Words looped and dotted

Her pencil pauses

Midair -

Listen

With loneliness

With fullness

With loss

With Wonder

She whispers

Pull life up

By it's roots

Her pen descends

I watch 

Transfixed

Seeds race across

In slanted rows

In curved

Planted

Blooming

Someday edited

Some roots snipped

By friends -

You will be famous

One day

She looks incredulous

Almost scared

Picks up her papers 

Pencil tucked in her hair

Walks toward warm bricks

So solid, safe

Pauses

Smiles

As birds serenade -

Birds sing

For independent ecstasy

She sighs

Not for applause

Nor recognition

As do I.

She slips away

Invisible

For now

_____

Wind rustles my hair

The pages

Whip across my knuckles

This afternoon with Emily

Enchanting as usual

By Margaret Bednar, May 5, 2023

Indian Pipe is a white flower that has a bent flower head.  It was a favorite of Emily’s. Carlo was her beloved big, black dog.  She supposedly became more of a recluse as she aged - spent hours in her room. 

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #75" 

http://bloggingdickinson.blogspot.com/. This blogger is doing “The Dickinson Blog Project” reading and commenting all 1789 poems 

http://bloggingdickinson.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-birds-begun-at-four-oclock.html  (where I got the reference)

https://www.amazon.com/Gorgeous-Nothings-Emily-Dickinsons-Envelope/dp/081122175X

Book - The Gorgeous Nothings: Emily Dickinson’s Envelope Poems

https://www.vulture.com/2019/04/behind-the-new-gloriously-queer-emily-dickinson-movie.html. VERY interesting article - I was intrigued how science detected the erased parts of Emily’s letters to Susan.  “… But in the process of attempting to read copies of every letter Emily had written, Smith got distracted. “I start coming across things like seven lines erased, half of the page cut out, words erased,” she tells me. “And I’m like, What in the world is this? And so I asked to go see the manuscripts at Amherst College — that’s where most of the mutilated manuscripts are.” Once there, new spectrographic technology made it possible for Smith to recapture what had been censored on the pages and to quickly realize that the lines being erased were “these affectionate expressions about her sister-in-law, Susan.”

Two movies wildly different from each other;  A Quiet Passion and Wild Nights with Emily

Mutilations http://archive.emilydickinson.org/mutilation/mintro.html

Like Dickinson

Doodling on a paper bag

Like Dickinson

Torn envelopes, chocolate wrappers, paper scraps;

Emily's words and sentence snippets

fragmented together -

wonders for stationary

which hibernated in her desk drawer, 

waited for slanted ink 

to nourish, to burnish its smooth surface -

similar to my stash of watercolor paper

upon a shelf, cold and hard pressed,

imitating collectible artifacts on display -

recycled, brown grocery bags,

newsprint; inspired torn envelopes

receiving favor of my mark, 

color and pattern explored. 

Why do I balk before a blank canvas?  

Did she fear the perfection of a pristine page?

by Margaret Bednar, May 3, 2023

A poem I am not happy with.   It really is more of a collection of ideas and a rough first draft and I have a whole other approach in mind... stay tuned.  

Telephone

Telephone

"Six cats smoking cigarettes

watch two kangaroos cartwheeling

over three charming chimpanzees"...

words whispered, giggled, gypsied

down telephone line,

exchanged and overflowed with foolery

your face mirrored shock, 

final translation received, quite distorted 

(I made sure of that).`

Enjoyed watching you clean up 

"Sexy sirens swearing

watch two ken dolls kiss 

while chugging three champaigns"

(quite smart-ass for third grade!)

into something acceptable.  Still doing it,

helping my sorry self get out of scrapes,

you, little Scarecrow, guiding my Dorothy

down life's yellow brick road.

Big sister to my little.

by Margaret Bednar, March 18, 2023

Playing along with Shays Word Garden List - Randy Newman.  20 words use 3.  I used 13: cats, charming, cigarette, gypsies, kangaroo, mirror, overflow, sailor, scarecrows, smart-ass, sorry, telephone, yellow.

Also joining "Poets & Storytellers United #68".

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

Silhouetted beneath parasols, Victoria and Sophie

giggle and gossip morning away; Alberts, Theodores,

Virgils roll of syntax tongues as if candy,

"wedding' a word whispered, a word

with countless rules heartily studied and employed.

Louisa scoffs, swirls her gin, longing to replace

ladies "codebook" for adventure, to take on "peculiar",

foreign names, Iguanodon, Plesiosaurus, 

far more spectacular than Alfred or Gilbert.

Oh, to basket the skies through fog and clouds,

skyward balloons her hero, not puffed out chests of men.

To push limits of possibilities, demolish coy for brazen!

To be brave and bold like the falls of River Tess,

tumbling and frothing, not reluctant nor reticent 

...life a riddle to be solved!

Victoria asks Louisa why she is smiling.  Louisa sighs,

"I'm thinking about tomorrow."

by Margaret Bednar, March 3, 2023

I'm playing in "Shay's Word Garden - Word List - The Legacy of Ladysmith". I used 13 of the 20 words (only had to use 3):  codebook, foreign, peculiar, spectacularly, syntax, wedding, fog, coy, hero, demolished, reluctant, riddle, river

Also linking up with the fabulous "Poet and Storytellers United Friday Writings #66"