In our Blood

The Moors, North Yorkshire  Source

HERE is an absolutely stunning website of six amazing "North York Moor" walks... 

In our Blood

Wind and rain sweep the moors,
past Roman and iron age hearths,
over venerated hilltops
carrying song of tribal gatherings
and rituals, tucked away shadows
buried beneath misty mounds
and prehistory of oak and hazel.

When light is low
and squalls rage upon the cairns,
one hears them, neolithic, bronze,
realm of our ancestors,
and as storm settles,
we also turn toward the sun,
in procession, in celebration of life.

by Margaret Bednar, September 4, 2019

linked (late) with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Monday with Wild Woman - Castle Ruins, Lowering Skies ... Tell us a story".   I see NOW I was really supposed to write a story for this prompt... Sorry!  So below is my 10-minute attempt to follow the rules :)

In My Blood

A chipped piece of flint draws blood, still sharp after centuries beneath windswept moors, tromped upon by Roman boots, nestled beside stones of an ancient iron age hearth.  Light is low upon the cairns, the squall has simmered, and I can hear them, perhaps winging from hilltops: venerated voices, whisperings of rituals untucking from misty mounds, shadows escaping from prehistory of oak and hazel.  As the storm settles, so does my soul.  Squeeze my finger, release a drop of blood upon the earth, my tribal offering to the realm of my ancestors as I turn toward the sun and follow the procession of light toward the moor's horizon.

By Margaret Bednar, September 4, 2019

I adore "Time Team" a British archeology show that ran for 20 seasons and had 59 "special" episodes.  I'm on season 14.   Below is an episode you might find interesting based on a Moor in Cornwall.

Shabby Chic

Shabby Chic

I've settled-in for morning's coffee
or an evening's movie a zillion times,
cushions still comfortable though worn;

held my babies as they sipped bottles,
learned to read, watched way too much Disney,
held an old, aging dog;

reborn as puppies toss about,
dislodge sleeping feline,
warm spot apparently not reserved.

New pillows at each end,
a face-lift of sorts,
run my hand over faded fabric

and bump where son dripped Gorilla Glue,
(I've still not recovered from that)
grant timeworn a bit more life.

by Margaret Bednar, May 2, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - Celebrating the Ordinary"

Enough

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Enough

The moon has craters,
the Beast was disfigured,
and scabs come before healing...

Is it better to be gorgeous or angelic,
bewitching or pleasing,
dazzling or nice?

Does charming outdo helpful,
foxy trump fair,
shapely vanquish ideal?

All I know is the moon's light
soothes me, Beauty found true love,
tribulations make me stronger,

and when you laugh with me,
I'm thankful (after all these years)
fair, nice, and helpful is enough

and that you still hold my hand.

by Margaret Bednar, April 4, 2019

This is linked with the challenge "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - Scars to Your Beautiful". 

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. 

Nurturing

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Nurturing

This poem is a fresh breeze.
This poem is a comforting hug.
This poem sheds a tear.

This poem is morning's mist
ascending mountain's valley,
buoyantly poising upon her crowns
before soaring freely skyward.

This poem is a mother's arms,
reassuring, a tender stroke
upon weary cheek, soothing words
gently whispered, eyes adoring.

This poem is a light
that doesn't flicker, memories
fostering confidence, a love
that nurtures, guides...  lets go.

This poem soars upon a fresh breeze.
This poem heartens with a comforting hug.
This poem nurtures as it sheds a tear.

by Margaret Bednar, February 21, 2019

Morning's mist is also supposed to be a metaphor for a child...  The poem is a "Boomerang Metaphor" poem created by Hanna Gosselin a few years back.  I have linked up with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - Hannah's Boomerang Metaphor Form".

I am a bit behind in visiting and commenting on a few poetry challenges and I will be getting to that today.  I have been busy organizing and getting ready to pack for the move to our house we purchased - our back yard is a beautiful view of the Blue Ridge Mountains and I can't wait to share them with you.   I also have two new puppies - Irishdoodles, 13 weeks old and they are keeping me hopping as well!

This is Red with my son.  Irishdoodle - we also have his brother, Blue.  

Saying Goodbye

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Saying Goodbye

I've learned how  to cry
after fifty-three years,
to find hope in the catch of my throat.

Used to rein them in,
deny them due course;
today

embrace as purification.

Love swells, expands,
with time bubbles into laughter
and stories reminisced,

occasional tear traces curve of cheek
which with fingertip
I collect

and press to my lips.

by Margaret Bednar, November 17, 2018

Rest in Peace, Grandpa Bednar.  My father-in-law passed away early this morning - on the same day his beloved mother died.  I like to think she was calling her dear son home.

Here is a place I could easily ponder hope and replenish my soul:

Sovereignty

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Sovereignty

Heat of day sways
a delicate beauty with resolute spine

but don't confuse lace
with weakness

or drops of blood
with defeat.

Spirit, wild and free
is nature's way;

so why so often do we seek
to tame and bind?

by Margaret Bednar, September 30, 2018

Note:  In the second year, Queen Anne's Lace has a red or purple center which legend says is Queen Anne of Great Britain's spilled blood from a pricked winter while tatting lace.

linked (late) with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - Earth Grief"

Languid

Acrylic Painting by Margaret Bednar

Languid

Bees, like amber drops, roll in the petals
their buzz industrious, not threatening,
my childhood phobia placated.
(I avoided flowers, 
tiptoed through dandelion patches
afraid of being stung)

Perhaps it's the Adirondack chair
and the sun, both slanted just so
as to make movement nigh impossible
(like the stone bunny next to me).

Mid-summer I'm supine, moony;
observe crows at forest edge,
breath in fresh-cut grass,
mower’s distant whir a lullaby,

content to cloud watch,
thoughts shape-shifting spiritual mirages..
Perhaps it's part dehydration,
swear I'm floating on angel wings,
weightless, prayer frivolous
as I childishly plea summer never end...

and the bees drone on.

By Margaret Bednar, August 8, 2018


This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - Piggyback Poems".

The first line is from The Roses a poem featured in American Primitive - poems by Mary Oliver 

"Say the Name, Ocracoke"

Ocracoke Harbor: Silver Lake

Say the Name, Ocracoke

I say the name, Ocracoke,
let it click at the back of my tongue,
glide gently past my lips,
almost puckering if for a kiss
as it leaves me and my mountain top home

winging eastward toward Pamlico Sound
with its batik sky,
dissolving its vowels and syllables
into aqua, turquoise or teal
as it slips into Silver Lake.

Will soon eagerly lean against ferry rail,
say the name, Ocracoke,
salt spray and sun's warm slant
welcoming me as we squeeze
through The Ditch

into beckoning days charmingly simple:
coffee slowly sipped Down Creek,
hammock naps at Springer's Point
and if we are really lucky,
perhaps a pirate's wail adrift a foggy morn
over Teach's Hole.

by Margaret Bednar, April 20, 2018


This is linked with "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Wordy Thursday (Fri) with Wild Woman - Say the Names of the Places you Love" a tribute to Canadian poet Al Purdy and perhaps his most famous poem "Say the Names".

and NaPoWriMo 2018.

"Sister of my Heart"

A Lotus Shoe (a 3" foot) About Chinese Foot Binding

"In every message she spoke of birds, of flight, of the world away.  Even back then, she flew against what was presented to her.  I wanted to cling to her wings and soar, no matter how intimidated I was."  "Lisa See - Snow Flower and the Secret Fan"

Sister of my Heart

We will rise above
foul and disfigured
flourish
as modesty and virtue
are enshrined
in embroidery and silk.

Our husbands
will palm our feet,
perhaps kneel
not caring to know our heart.

We will spin, weave,
and sew for them,
be obedient, bare sons,
be yin to their yang.

____

Will close my eyes,
remember giggling
into the night
as we imagined
childish arms as wings
soaring securely together

into a world away.

by Margaret Bednar, March 20, 2018

A detail from a quilt I own

an interesting post on foot binding HERE

I watched the movie "Snowflower and the Secret Fan" and liked it.  It is slow moving but beautiful (my husband thanked me a thousand times for not making him watch it).  It was so depressing researching this - it is so disheartening to learn foot binding lasted a thousand years.  Watching the movie and seeing the little girl getting her feet bound was very difficult for me.  Many women and children had infection and sometimes gangrene set in - the feet  hurt off and on for their entire lives and they could never walk far.  If you have the stomach, google and view the images of the feet - the Chinese husbands never saw the bare feet supposedly - they were always wrapped in 10 feet of binding, often had a foul smell, and they unwound them once a week (or was it month?) and usually bathed their feet with the bindings on (I think I read that).  Anyway, my mind hasn't left this subject for the past 24 hours ...

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Friday With Wild Woman - Speaking in the Voice of Another"  & NaPoWriMo - National Poetry Month  (30 Poems in 30 Days).

I will be on spring break for the first few days of April and will schedule my poems in advance - I am unable to figure out how (if I even can) visit and comment on my phone's "BlogTouchPro" app ...
I can post but Mr. Linky does not show up.   

So I thank you all for visiting me and commenting and I promise I will visit and comment when I return.  

A joyous Easter to all those who celebrate.

"Jeanette"

Seemingly holding up the horizon line :)

Jeanette

As a toddler she was persistent,
trailed behind her siblings, determined.
Knew when to acquiesce
although stubborn resolve simmered within dark eyes.

Middle child, quick to laugh,
quick to defend.  A dark horse of sorts,
content in the background for so long,
only to surge ahead, steadfastly making a difference,

always challenging others to join the race,
not to compete, but to be part of the relay:
to engage, convince, prevail.

Received a phone call yesterday,

Stoneman Douglas massacre on her mind.

Asked why I hadn't called my senator,
state rep.?  Forwarded me their numbers

made me a part of the youthful movement
adamantly marching for their lives.
Let's do more than hope this time,
allow them to become the leaders we've raised them to be;

follow the courage in their untainted hearts.

by Margaret Bednar, March 1, 2018

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - Being the Change"

Waffled between courage and wisdom in that last line.  I might change it back to wisdom, but for some reason I like courage.

https://www.marchforourlives.com

Jeanette

Life Blood

A much younger Live Oak in Charleston, SC
(Not THE Angle Oak in John's Island)

Life Blood

There are few things more innocent than trees,
more long suffering, more accepting, more resolute.

I've walked beneath the stately arms of Charleston's Angle Oak,
traced the steadfast strength of her lumbering limbs upon the ground,
my fingertips tingling along her ridges and grooves -
stoically strong as only a grandmother's can be.

She was once a sapling swaying in John's Island Ashley breeze,
surviving humidity, hurricanes, humans.

And yet, old age doesn't weaken
but magnifies her purpose.
Unfalteringly virtuous, possessed of unflinching strength
that sustains and nourishes.

I've been drawn to other trees -

a weeping willow's waterfall of branches
sheltering me as a youth tucked away
with a book and dreams;

a cedar tree's towering strength still stands
along the tree line of my childhood home,
craggy branches reach out, nymph like,
sparse wispy needles tickle sky's blue -
I gaze up a bit dizzy, still feel so very small;

a beloved tree, long gone,
our horses grazing beneath thick branches
as we dangled our scrappy limbs from above
enjoying a bird's eye view of surrounding fields.

Protected.

Reminiscent of a (grand) mother, an aunt, a sister.
There's an intimacy, a healing, a grounding
that courses through my veins,
making them more than mere memories.

by Margaret Bednar, January 18, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman - The Tree Sisters"

A glimpse of Angle Oak:

https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/the-angel-oak-tree