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Collage by Margaret Bednar

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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?"