Kindred Spirit

William Bednar-Carter (Cedric and both James Potters)
Harry Potter & the Cursed Child - Curran Theatre, San Francisco CA

Kindred Spirit

I remember a sad, young boy leaving all he loved behind, face pressed against the window, rearview
mirror framing his last glimpse of home.  My words of comfort and reassurance weren't enough for
a heart breaking, no matter my painting it an adventure.  The dog licked his nose, but it was the books
given him that absorbed him, welcomed him into another world where he could forget himself and
identify with another boy dealing with life's unexpected twists, turns, upsets, and triumphs.  I
never dreamed (fast forward 20 years) he'd be on stage living these characters, wand raised, 
empowering another generation of eager hearts and minds with the gift of imagination.  

by Margaret Bednar, December 20, 2019

A long-winded, rambling "poem" - more prose than poetry... but I'm calling it "Acrostic" and using artistic license and linking up with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Just One (Last) Word: Imagine"

With his blond hair dyed brown and a wand in his hand, my son is bringing Harry Potter and the Cursed Child to the West Coast - San Francisco's Curran Theatre.  Official Grand Opening was December 1, 2019.   HERE  William plays Cedric and both James Potters.

I remember he read the first three Harry Potter books within a week, sitting on our backyard hill with a view of Lake Michigan.  Petoskey became a dear home in our hearts, a move we never regretted and one where my kids made everlasting friends.  But that first week was hard, and Harry Potter and the gang became kindred spirits...

Preparations

Preparations

A few weeks ago deer gathered beneath the apple trees, meadowland and mountains a security of sorts, although coyote (and ever rumored mountain lion) must have been aware of their presence.  Early one morning a late birthed fawn darted about, no adult in sight.  I slowed the car, pondered what to do; startled it more, and my heart grieved.  Sweetness lured them, juicy ripe, bordered on rotten; can't imagine amount of sugar consumed.

The wild orchard is vacant now, temptation played its part, trees less weighted, resplendent for a stint in temporary burnished glory.  Now that's gone too; first frost has lashed her icy tongue and deer slip out of woodland earlier; perhaps for breeding, but consuming as much green as possible.  I wrap my shawl closer, walk the dogs, their awareness of danger or hardship almost non-existent; wolf-like instincts dormant as they beg the cats to befriend them.  Fireside has yet to be shared.

A fine line exists between wild and domestic.  How long would it take for survival and instinct to kick in, or would my puppies be like the fawn, startled out of safety, nature taking its course?  How would I fare if grocery store vanished, if I had to can apples and store food for winter?

Apples over-ripe
a last desperate banquet
before winter's fast.

by Margaret Bednar, November 9, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Burnished"

Michelangelo

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I invite you to listen to me read this poem - link at bottom of the poem.  (No need to sign up for Sound Cloud App to listen to me read it)

Michelangelo

Perhaps "orchestra camp"
wasn't as groovy as "summer camp",
instrumentals bowed and plucked
beneath Northern Michigan pines
versus horseback riding, kayaking, and hiking;

and perhaps as a middle school elective
it meant a lot of dedication
and practice at home.

Michelangelo's scroll loomed large
over his slight, boyish frame,
fingers stretched for position,
establishing rhythm, cheek sucked in, lip bit;

and as a teenager he'd flip his head,
curls temporarily banished,
but soon slid back over left eye,
red bandana 'round his wrist
as that was cool; shoulder and arms
supported, fingers moved easily
up and down Michelangelo's neck.

He liked the phrase "Bass players
are sexy" but soon learned
bass guitarists are sexier...

Michelangelo played his part,
raised my boy, accompanied him to New York,
sardined into back seats of ubers
and cabs, folk tunes sung and strummed
in pubs by this dynamic duo...

Brought to tears when I found out
my son sold him, surprised days later
I'm still choked up.  Grieving I think;
wish he'd called me instead of trying
to make ends meet.

Some things money can't buy; some things
can't be replaced.

by Margaret Bednar, September 13, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Groovy"

No need to buy my daughter a nice violin... it wasn't her thing,
but William did quite well.  

Noon

Sunrise side 

Noon

Shadows are cast,
olive gives way to chartreuse,
blue fades to gray,
and storm clouds flirt with the sun
as a patina of platinum
glosses sky and mountain rim,

where I sit, midday, writing this poem,
inspired neither by sunrise nor sunset,
but a moment folded in between,
festooned either side
with wildflowers, grasses, and pines

halved by a winding road
ribboning its way along ridgeway’s spine;
raindrops unhindered by the divide.

by Margaret Bednar, August 10, 2019

Linked with “Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Halved”

Sunset side

July Serenade

July Serenade

Summer morning has slipped her hold on the sun
and mist has long since joined the waterscape sky
beneath which sloping shadows have started to stretch
and amber haystacks, freshly rolled, shimmer as refined trinkets before me.

I half expect to see Monet, hat tilted, before an easel flourishing with stabs
and strokes of his brush, silhouetted not before his beloved Giverny,
but my mountains shrouded in violets and smokey blues.

Indulgently open my sketchbook, try capturing the mythic greens before me,
admire flutter-byes of butterflies, songbirds, and hawks;
embelish with artful twists of sweet lavender, ancestral golds, and blissful blues;

a midday serenade, an ode unsung, lovingly stroked and shaped
in the open air, time and movement captured with broken color,
my hat removed, sun upon my face, and I trust, Claude over my shoulder.

by Margaret Bednar, July 13, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Trinket"

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...

Conversion

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Conversion

I grew up a stone's throw from Chicago,
where impatience is considered authoritative,
disinterest as focused, rushed as efficient.

Married, moved south, Texas south,
where they commented on my accent, good-naturedly,
(excuse me, Midwesterners don't have one),
always waved, smiled, made time to chat,
and courtesy is as important as religion.

Now I reside in the Blue Ridge Mountains
where small towns receive many tourists
of which I can usually pick out the Northerner,
feel a bit of comradery, sip my soda water,
wonder if I finally blend in...

and hope I do.

Margaret Bednar, April 8, 2019

I still say "pop" as that is what we call it up North but after all these years living in the south... I sometimes do call it "soda".  That's a huge concession.  I don't say "ya'll" and probably never will, but who knows...

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Etiquette"

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.

Seraphic

Seraphic

Hallowed's not easily found

find it sometimes at sunset,
golden halo sinking,

before stations of the cross,
carved emotions supplicating,

listening to hollowed bass, bowed
and vibrato'd with skilled fingers.

The purest form of beauty,

 love and desire, 

and I bask in its temporary shroud.

by Margaret Bednar, January 12, 2019

linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Hollow".