Faith of a Child

My New Poetic Challenge I host - please join in!  Artistic Interpretations

Faith of a Child

Sanctuary is the smell of lilies, incense
lifting me bodily into ornate ivory,
intricate Stations of the Cross -
a guilty pleasure as a child,
(and sometimes, I admit, to this day)
diversion from homily, from prayer -

Myself in each scene: sitting beside Mary, my hand
touching Jesus' linens, John's compassion evident
in his tears, thankful for carved alabaster (no blood-red).

Perhaps I'm wrong.  Perhaps it was an intimacy,
a vision, a message to ponder,
a conversation between God and me -
a seed nourishing the narrow path,
providing safe harbor when life strikes,
threatens to rock the boat, rip my sails -

Pray my vision's a bit cunning; no need to see Jesus
walk on water.  Trust in the power of the parables
and lilies placed in a vase, reminding me

of childlike wonder residing in my breast.

by Margaret Bednar, April 8, 2020

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:  



This is linked with my NEW CHALLENGE I HOST:  "Artistic Interpretations #3 Moonlight Sailing"  All are welcome.

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #14 - Let's use Pathetic Fallacy, shall we?"  I used it really just in the first stanza... I think.  Hope this qualifies to link to the challenge.

Also linked with Sky Lover Poetry's word list  #skyloverwordlist (Instagram) for the month of April.  I used about 12 words. 

The Beckoning

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A July moon softly glows through my window-screen, barricaded, unlike the night's breeze that cools my skin from the day's humidity and shapes the draperies into ghost-like apparitions.  Beyond the sill, Willow beckons me with her long, pliant branches and dangling, whispering leaves tinkling like gentle wind chimes.  I tiptoe down hallway, past my parent's room.   Find me beneath Milky Way, Dippers, and North Star, face upturned.  Feel a bit dizzy with the immensity of it all.  I run, steal myself beneath Willow's feathery strands, the tickling about my shoulders and neck a sensation comforting me as I listen to the cicadas and toads (both of which I am afraid) hopefully chirping far off in bush and field and not here beneath umbrella'd security.  Silhouetted, an owl hoots from my old tree fort, its large stout limb juts out into the field and I imagine the owl feels as adventurous as I do midday imagining I'm a cowboy or Indian; whichever takes my fancy.  I wonder, does the owl ever dream of being something other than he is?  I tiptoe towards split rail fence for a better view, climb up and lean over just as a flash of shadow and whir of wings sends my heart a-flutter; sends me scampering back inside.  Screen door slams, my backside hits pillow and mattress as Mother calls my name and Father gets out of bed as the July moon softly glows through my window-screen.

Moonlit shadows glide
Caution is thrown to the wind
Young rabbits tempt fate

by Margaret Bednar, March 30, 2020

This is linked with "dVerse Poets, Haibun Monday - Snapshots of our Lives"

Take an old autobiographical poem and rework it into a haibun.  HERE is the one I used.

Temptation (another version)

by Margaret Bednar

Temptation 

My red-tipped tongue swipes sour-sweetness
from upper lip, hand-held fan hiding half my face,
an attempt to hide transgressions ...
for I can't restist temptation.

June's soft breeze and rapidly moving paper fan
imprinted with the Savior's face,
challenges mid-afternoon's heatwave
surely reminiscent of Hell.

Yet the perfumed shade evokes images of Eden,
tree limbs laden with plump, ripe sourness
as thumb and fingers grasp hold, gently pull,
pop another red explosion into puckered mouth.

I stop fanning, ask forgivenss,
for Mother has cautioned a belly-ache
and Grandmother desires the bounty
for cherry pies, cobbler, and jams

for which we will gather around the table,
give thanks.  And I promise (once again)
to fill the bucket, aware of the stickiness of the imperfect ones
upon the ground beside the fan.

Look into Jesus's gaze, hope He understands.

by Margaret Bednar, February 27, 2020.

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #8 - Red Fruit Rendition".  I've totally re-written this poem - I've struggled over the years to get it just right.  I think I like this version the best.  Let me know what you think .  HERE is an older version if you are interested. 

HERE are some amazing cherry recipies.

The Rooster

I invite you to listen to me read my poem (below)  photo: 123rf

The Rooster

Rhode Island Reds, Plymouth Rocks, and Leghorns
pecked, chirped, picked their way through Mother's compost pile,
a source of faint clucks of contentment
and a flourish or two as hens fought over a delicacy.

It was the rooster, red with inky black tail feathers,
chest foolishly thrust forward, strutted about with a chip on his shoulder,
bright red comb and wattles a warning of sorts,
that taunted and threatened my childhood existence.

I learned to scan the yard before opening screen door,
summer sunshine beckoning, tempting me to forgo due diligence.
Once is all it took, scaled pasture fence faster than a speeding bullet,
stranded forever and a day beneath scorching midday sun,
he marching below as if a member of the Queen's Guard,
all pomp and circumstance; temperament, however, unbecoming.

Oh, but it was a classic case of pride before the fall.

The day he chose to chase Mother
was the day he fell from grace, bought a pass to the Underworld.
His body seethed with righteous indignation as the long arm of the law
aligned his head upon crescent-shaped stump,
my heart faintly sympathetic as Father's ax dealt the fatal blow.

Hens can be broody sitting upon their nest,
flattened out upon the straw, clucking, almost purring,
pecking hands gathering eggs; a small price to pay
for carefree days, backyard claimed once again as my own.

by Margaret Bednar, February 10, 2020

The bane of my childhood existence and a response to A Skylover Wordlist.  (can be found on instagram).

I changed it up a bit (I believe for the better) with the addition of the following challenge:  This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #6: Turn Cliche into Poetry or Prose".  I used more than one:  faster than a speeding bullet, forever and a day, pride before the fall, fell from grace, long arm of the law, dealt the fatal blow.

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:

Fire in the Sky

Fire in the Sky

As a toddler, I'd stand transfixed as mother
crumpled up newspaper, layered kindling,
added a log or two, fanned embers
until they roared to life within the hearth,
screen carefully placed for protection,
rocked asleep to spits and sizzles.

This evening's sky reminded me
of many youthful evenings spent fireside,
popcorn dancing in cast iron skillet,
cat's paws kneading, rearranging afghan upon my lap,
dogs desperately begging for buttery kernels.
flickering light upon book's page.

With awe I gaze at distant horizon
skylit with flames, wonder at those cozy nights
of childhood, feel blessed.  Yet shiver,
no heat upon my cheeks as frost lurks around the corner.

Walk inside; sit at my desk like I did as a teenager,
(journal filled with scrawl, pages within losing the war
as crumpled ones gained momentum at my feet).
Tonight I'm typing, floor and rug neatly displayed
as words are deleted upon the screen, memories relived,
the wonder of being rocked, of rocking my own little ones...

flip a switch, fire comes "alive"... isn't the same,
although cats seem content and dogs cast pleading eyes
toward popcorn bowl. Call my youngest son's name,
settle in, snuggle before artificial logs, open a book,
read aloud as horizon winks, blinks and nods.

by Margaret Bednar, October 19, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - On Wonder" and "The Sunday Muse #78".  

Finding Fortitude

Finding Fortitude

I was never his princess,
just a girl who seemingly
couldn't do anything right,
nor behave properly in church.

His frown seemed constant,
his smile and laughter
lasted as long as it took
for the front door to close.

His father was supposedly the same,
often tried imagining him as a boy,
alone, tears in his eyes,
telling himself he didn't care.

I almost surrendered, gave in
to negativity inside and out,
yet chose to fight; perhaps it was
the rebel '70's that saved me,

the beauty of voices raised
and youthful opinions taking on authority.
When he died, I wasn't bitter.  Just sad.
I was never a beautiful princess,

but I did find my crown.

by Margaret Bednar, October 13, 2019

crown, fire... struggling with that last word.  Originally had "voice" but I used it in the fifth stanza and I don't like to repeat words (unless it works well for the poem - here I don't think it does.)  So I'm contemplating the ending still...

This is a reaction to a line in the poetry book "Milk and Honey" by Rupi Kaur.  This is her first poetry book and if you follow the link to Poets United, HERE, you can read a few poems from her collection.  I know I will be ordering her book.   The lines I chose to reflect upon are the first two of the following poem:

(i)

You tell me to quiet down
cause my opinions make me less beautiful
but I was not made with a fire in my belly
so I could be put out
I was not made with a lightness on my tongue
so I could be easy to swallow
I was made heavy
half blade and half silk
difficult to forget
and not easy for the mind to follow.

(by poet Rupi Kaur)

linked with "Poets United - Wild Fridays"

Nostalgia

Nostalgia

Whisked until light,
eggs threatened bowl's rim
yet Grandma was in control,
poured mixture into buttered pan, flame low,
skillet held above heat ...
Said they'd finish cooking
on the plate as she jellied my toast,
smothered from edge to edge
with grape jam, compliments
from vines just outside kitchen door.
Her cherry jam had chunks,
of which I'd yet to appreciate.

Aproned, she'd fill a small glass
with apple juice, go about chores,
shoes tapping wooden steps
descending to the cellar
where clothes were soaking
in rinse tub, waiting to be squeezed
through old ringer washer, 
basketed and hauled outside 
to air dry on clothes line.

Occasionally I'd hurry and eat
in order to join the fun.

Other times she'd make the beds,
ironed sheets hand-smoothed, corners tucked,
blanket folded just so in order to
be pulled up under one's chin 
if needed in the night.

Sometimes she'd sweep her carless garage,
vacuum braided area rug
where I'd play with blocks, puzzles,
read for hours, screened, pull-down door
veiling us from pesky flies.
Before noon we'd escape inside 
where lined curtains had been closed
upon sunrise, crisp morning air captured
(at least until mid-day).

Upon reflection, I don't remember 
her being much of a cook,
don't remember pancakes, french toast,
omelets for breakfast.
Evenings we ate T.V. dinners,
watched Lawrence Welk on Saturday nights;
don't recall Grandma making many deserts
or a family dinner.

I've tried to recreate her eggs;
always fail.  I can hear her instructing me
as I stood by her elbow and watched.
Have bought different pans, vintage and new,
trying to recreate the magic;
I've come close, but I guess

some things are meant for nostalgia,
remembered with love. 

by Margaret Bednar, September 23, 2019

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Weekend Mini Challenge - Grandma's Kitchen"

Night Sounds

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Night Sounds

A weeping willow talked to me as a young child,
her soft summer whispers beckoned through window screen,
one midnight stole to her side, leafy strands about my shoulders, listened;
cicadas (of which I was afraid) and toads (of which I was afraid)
chirped far off in bush and field.

First time hearing an owl hoot, not from barn,
but an old tree I'd fashioned into fort.  Full moon offered light,
so I tiptoed forward, (left Willow's safe embrace) leaned over fence...
a flash of white, whir of wings sent my heart fluttering,
feet scampering back to bed; head between pillow and mattress.

Night sounds muffled and muted.

by Margaret Bednar, July 27, 2019

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse - Night Sounds"

Nostalgic

My original books from childhood

Nostalgic

This summer's eve is reminiscent of bedtimes long ago, Mother's voice rhythmically soft,
screen window flung wide, toads and cicadas a backdrop to book's pages slowly turning,
coaxing eyes to blink, lashes to droop; (summer of '73 - Misty of Chincoteague & Sea Star).

Perhaps it's the birdsong winding down as the cricket's chorus begins,
occasional shadow passing overhead (realize it's bat, not swallow), back deck, screenless,
mountain breeze soothing, book in my lap as if the effort to hold aloft is too much...

Awakened by muffled bark of a neighbor's dog, mine at my feet, his rumbling
a feeble attempt at a warning (he's as somnolent as I); invite him beneath cotton-worn quilt,
our cozy haven as darkness tucks us in and Mother's voice resumes.

Margaret Bednar, July 27, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - Let Evening Come".  Seriously, this happened just the other night ... I was hard-pressed to make it to my bed.  I think we will soon have the lower back deck screened and I will spend nights on a true, southern summer porch.  Below, I invite you to listen to me read my poem.

Perceived

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Perceived

Squeaky screen doors witnessed our release

as we heedlessly tumbled through, 
slammed to its frame, Dad's reprimand abridged,
our voices voluminous as country children’s are.

Looney Tunes babysat early Saturday morns,

Fruit Loops eaten from the box; 

(an unspoken bribe we gladly endorsed)

but come 10:00 a.m. we were wired 

(perhaps all that sugar) 

and arms and legs pumped simultaneously 

as we shot toward freedom

and lax parental supervision,

when screen door was a barrier 

between their world and ours.

Gone were restrictions, nagging voices

preaching decorum and tidiness. 

We were free to muddy our feet 

running through corn fields and riverbanks,

lakeside collecting toads (which I wouldn’t touch),

snaking our way through forbidden terrain 

(short cuts through neighbor’s back yards)

and experiences never shared

with grownups.  One such I'll never forget

featured getting stuck in quicksand, 

chased by ravaged beasts, boot left behind.

We went back following day 

to dried dirt path, red boot sideways,

backyard dogs barking … but we knew 

(know to this day) we survived a terror, 

perhaps an alien invasion.  Our hearts 

had pumped so, our whispered retellings grew

(perhaps more than a little) 

but scraped knees and muddied palms still tingle 

when I dream (every few years) of this, always glad
screen door shuts quietly, securely behind me.

by Margaret Bednar, June 8, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Muddy".    This true experience immediately came to mind.   It wasn't an easy memory to put to a poem, but I gave it my best effort.  Funny how the sound of a screen door always reminds me of summer.  But now I realize my Dad took it off after "Indian summer" and put a storm door up for fall and winter.

I also must add, my Mother NEVER allowed "junky" cereal.  Rice Crispies was her way of meeting us halfway.  When I spent the nights at my friend's houses, I was so thrilled to eat Apple Jacks and such cereals.

I might have to do a poetry prompt based on the sounds of the seasons...

I Wish

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I Wish

He always had time to listen,
to care; made me feel like a princess
for the very first time.

Somehow sparked into existance
the tiniest bit of confidence
which took root and grew;

yet so very fragile.  Had to hold tight,
shut out the loud voice at home.

When he finally became a father,
I visited, little baby's fingers
wrapped itself around my hand,

and I leaned in close, whispered:
"You're the luckiest little girl alive."

by Margaret Bednar, April 12, 2019

Really, this is not finished - quick, dashed out thoughts so I can participate in "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Fireblossom Friday - Love"  But we were to write about a love for someone that doesn't know how we love them.  Mine is a father figure... A wonderful man who made a huge difference in a very, very, shy girl's life - one with no confidence and a father who was very critical and hard to please. 

Anyway, I plan on coming back to this poem as this is really just a beginning - I had ten minutes before the stroke of midnight.

Also linked with "NaPoWriMo" - National Poetry Month, a celebration of poetry which takes place each April, was introduced in 1996 and is organized by the Academy of American Poets as a way to increase awareness and appreciation of poetry in the United States.

Sunday Mornings

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Sunday Mornings

We left Mom behind every Sunday morning
because she was a Protestant, and anyway,
she had morning dishes to attend
while we sat slouched on hard pews
as Dad hummed Catholic hymns off-key.

Sometimes sister and I dug our fingernails
into the back of the wooden pew as we knelt,
carved our initials (sometimes a boy's),
often feigned dyer need to use the restroom
before the Nicene Creed,
and almost always played "elbows" as we sat
straight-backed, trying to dislodge the other.

If Dad noticed, we'd find out after church,
car-bound, as he enjoyed newspaper, coffee,
and a few donuts, as we sat contritely,
Donut Shop's glass window 

cause for our contrition.

Margaret Bednar, February 1, 2019

This is for "Imaginary Garden of Real Toad's "Kerry Says - Instructions for Living a Life - A Tribute to Poets of Our Time".  I selected Julia Alvarez.  I own a book "Cries of the Spirit" (1991) where a number of poets (Mary Oliver is one of them) are collected together - many have passed on, but not all.  One of the poets in this book is Julia Alvarez.  I adore Julia Alvarez and have ordered her book "Homecoming". 

I think she has a very down-to-earth voice and focuses on things that are familiar to us all - family settings... I tried my best to pick up on her theme a bit (I wouldn't be as bold to say her style). 

Below are four of her poems:

Ironing Their Clothes HERE
On Sundays HERE
Hairbands HERE
By Accident HERE

Homecoming = published 1996 - A reisusuing of a 1984 book now out of print
The Woman I Kept to Myself - published in 2004

In the Time of the Butterflies - her novel made into a major motion picture.

Julia Alvarez - Backstage at Pen & Podium:

Sun-Kissed

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Sun-Kissed

Do you remember when childhood summers seemingly stretched into forever?  Endless sun-drenched days where Mother's voice was heard behind window screens, worlds partitioned, pardoned at lunch-time, banished soon after.  Sometimes our gravel-hardy bare feet fleetingly crossed hayfield and tracks to river's edge, threw sticks into swift current, contemplated chances of survival if dared cross.  Never did, water so dark and dirty we really weren't tempted.  Scampered up bank, balanced on hot railroad irons, one dirty foot in front of the other, imagined train's whistle in the distance, bravely waited for it to round the bend.  Never did, but we knew we'd have stared it down, made it come to a halt, disrupt its earnest progress toward Chicago.  With hats pulled low, unrecognizable, we'd escape, make way into forest preserve whose dirt trails were narrow, grasses brushed fingertips as we scouted along old Indian trail surely forged by Blackhawk and warriors.  Looked for arrowheads.  Never found one, but we picked up sharp stones, pretended.  When summer's sun dipped to four o'clock, we'd head home, wash hands (and feet), eat, listen to Mom and Dad share their day.  Look at sister across table, know my freckles were expanding across my nose and shoulders too.  Sun-kissed we were, life ripe with imagination, with youth, with forever.

by Margaret Bednar, December 14, 2018.

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - Life is Ripe"  We were asked to write a poem centered around a childhood memory which brings us joy as an adult.   We could write in any style but were also asked to possibly write in prose.  I did.  We were asked to keep it under 131 words.   Well, I did edit, but 214 words are the end result.   I did implement the "Life is Ripe" motto into my poem.  Hopefully, that will make amends.

"Heartwood"

Heartwood 

I often rummaged through Grandma's attic,

thin cedar planks betwixt neatly folded timeworn quilts, 

velvet hats with satin ribbons, bows, delicate silk embroidery, 

and impossibly dainty white gloves with buttons 

all carefully folded and preserved from almost another century.

Was fascinated with her small black and white photos

of Yellowstone, 1915, Marguerite side-saddle upon a donkey -

smooth face, plumpish body, dark hair mesmerizing me.  

Other photos of dashing young men, smartly dressed,

proper women with hour glass figures skirted and buttoned-up, 

images of grandma's arms tantalizingly outstretched 

holding treats for begging bears -

all proof she'd been young once.  I'd put everything away,

carefully descend narrow wooden stairs and look at her - 

try to find 1915 in her sweet dear face.  She'd smile, knowingly.

----------

The watercolor of an old red cedar graced the walls of first, 

Grandmother's house, then ours.  Great-Grandmother Nellie painted it, 

lived in the Red Brick house just a mile from my childhood home, 

died their 34 years of age - measles and pregnant with a fifth child.  

Other paintings of hers: little yellow chicks, farm scenes, florals. 

Imagine her walking past kitchen garden, beyond white picket fence,

setting up her paints, hair and face sheltered beneath wide brim hat,

brush in hand, humming between laundry and kitchen chores.  

----------

A red cedar graces my childhood home's lot line,

was there when our house was built.  Recently stood beneath her - 

old arthritic branches extending far above my head.  

Remember the dark purple-blue berries I'd pick

when I was young.  See a young soft sprout and marvel at this offshoot - 

proof of the nurturing force of nature, of an old matriarch's 

protective shade - thankful my father never chopped her down

for firewood.  

----------

I find a fabric that quilts together these memories

and as I search for complimentary pieces and ponder patterns,

I anticipate wrapping myself up in cedar and berries, 

love and family. 

by Margaret Bednar, August 3, 2017

Painting by my Great Grandmother Helen Augusta (Lyford) Hutchins

Red Cedar trees can live up to 900 years.  The fine-grained, soft brittle pinkish to brownish-red heartwood is fragrant, very light and very durable, even in contact with soil.  Because of its rot resistance, the woods used for fence posts.  The aromatic wood is avoided by moths, so it is in demand as lining for clothes chests and closets, often referred to as cedar closets and cedar chests.

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Artistic Interpretations - Quilt Me a Poem"

The Eastern Red Cedar that was standing in my side yard when I was two years old and is
still there - a mile from where my Great Grandmother Helen Augusta lived - I like to think this
is an offshoot of the tree she painted above.  

Painting by my Great Grandmother Helen Augusta (Lyford) Hutchins

Home

A view of the backyard of my childhood home

Home

Summers were humid and hot
and barring gentle afternoon showers
we'd dash in and out of the sprinkler,
the cool tickle of grass beneath our feet
with the sweet bliss of backyard's shade,
which started to arrive just past noon
and loomed large by four o'clock,
to protect us.

If we weren't braving the heat - riding our pony
and enjoying a forbidden dip in the river
(Mother feared the Rock's swift current)
we'd drag the wooden picnic table over
and play Crazy 8's, Go Fish, and War.
Sometimes Monopoly, but we often
ended that game in a fight
as it dragged on too long.

Brown - not reddish or beige -
just a dark stain applied every few years
graces my childhood fortress,
yet Mother's orange, violet, yellow,
and red flowers pop against it,
various greens spike and unfurl
agains the bricks that line the bottom half
so it never appears dull.

The gravel drive swoops around
as opposed to straight in from the road
giving it a bit of elegance -
the hayfield (or corn depending on the year)
sways with the wind,
the trees having matured, frame the yard;
walnut, oak, evergreen, red cedar -
all have become intimate guardians.

Not many my age can slip into their old room,
feel sixteen again, walk around and touch
places one's toddler feet tread,
recall names of neighbors that once occupied life,
step beneath the same shade mid July
fifty years later.

Margaret Bednar, July 18, 2017

My Mother's green thumb

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"

I just returned from visiting my parents... not sure I walked into my room and felt 16 again (a little bit of creative license) - but it certainly brought me back a bit...

38/365 & "Childhood" my first attempt at poetry (take 2)

"Childhood"

by Margaret Bednar

Childhood is a time of wonderment
of security

encouragement and possibilities.

Exploration begins every morning
with fresh faces and engaging smiles.
Each day approached with boundless energy.

As the sun rises, imagination flourishes
and inspiration is found in the simple.
Creativity soars with seemingly no boundaries.

Each day is for experimenting
and is about the process, not the end result.
Failure does not define who they are.

As they are tucked away each evening
sleepy heads are filled with questions.

Confident there are answers.

Parenthood is a time of great importance

 a limited opportunity to re-learn life's secrets.

Offered in the sweetest of ways.

I totally feel silly posting this.  But I read the amazing, heart touching poem below and it really got me to thinking how childhood is so precious.  The above is more of a reflection than a poem.  But I think it is a start to poetry - thinking about the deeper meanings of life.  ...I can only get better, right?

http://originalartstudio.blogspot.com/2009/10/i-remember-when.html

24/365 "Boundless Energy"

"Boundless Energy"

I need to tap into his secret of "boundless energy".  It might just be "Don't worry, be happy".   (I liked the pattern the shadows made...)

16/365 "Childhood Friends"

"Childhood Friends"

These are his buddies, especially the elephant!  He loves building with blocks - and knocking everything down, of course.  His friends hang in for all the fun and adventure.  Did anyone see Toy Story 3?  I saw it with my 17 year old son and we both cried.  Woody, Buzz and Rex have been around for a long time.  

"Concentration"