Last Stand

Last Stand

Tremulous stalks sway
where once crickets fiddled their way,
nightly concerts played

now silenced as frosty nights
lick quivering petals,

tickle mountainsides bursting aflame;
defiant southern rebels
dressed not in gray

but majestic golds, purples, and reds,
arms raised toward the sun
in surrender.

by Margaret Bednar, October 22, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse - Quadrille #90 - quiver"  44 words

October's Glory

by O. Bentor, Jones House Art Exhibit, Boone, NC

October's Glory

Katydids and crickets fiddle no more,
curtain having closed to boisterous concerts
and lively evening encores; deep silence
awaits frosty nights and quiet days
of soft sunlit meadows and mountains

languish as faded goldenrod
and blazing stewartia nestle
beside devil's walking stick,
spiny stems having nectared butterflies,
its fruit songbirds, foxes, and coons.

Astors flaunt lavender blooms,
grace woodland's edge, bowing low
beneath wind and rain, dignified and humble,
as yellow-tassled witch hazel, defiant
late-blossoming teenagers, gather for flight.

I love the names turtlehead, ironweed,
and poke, jewelweed a favorite, thicketed,
protected orange cornucopia heads
dangling, bursting with seed, favorited
by ruby-throated hummingbirds.

October's glory center-stage,
curtains drawn back, presenting a muffled hush,
not subdued; perhaps tongue-tied,
quieting down, a settling into reverence;
a time to reflect and learn.

by Margaret Bednar, October 22, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Artistic Interpretions - Alcohol Inks Part II"  

The Meeting Place

The Meeting Place

Yes, on little cat feet the fog rolled in,
but hasn’t tiptoed on; instead has settled
for a long catnap.  Whiskery branches
tickle my shoulders and back
along narrow woodland trail,
puppies' barking muffled;
hope they aren’t as far off as they sound.

It’s damp and I wrap my shawl about me
as early mornings have become chilly,
my footing slips a bit as the leaves are damp,
the crunch and playfulness of yesterday’s hike
replaced with tedious wariness.

An owl's hooting is what set them off,
the cloistered atmosphere perhaps
giving them confidence; it troubles me
as I can barely see my hand before my face,
yet the rolling terrain of the mountain
offers a respite of sorts when I reach
the hilltop, fog yawns a bit, offers me
a brief glimpse of the family cemetery.

Golden marigolds encircle numerous sugar skulls
placed beneath an altar of pumpkins, gourds,
and a bottle of whiskey; a favorite indulgence
of a few buried beneath this hallowed ground.
I’ve always enjoyed it here,
especially during the Day of the Dead,
when we celebrate our loved ones’
spiritual journey and remember and tell stories
of our ancestors.

We aren’t Mexican, but we’ve fashioned
a celebration of our own;
the smell of tamales in the kitchen,
sugared sweet rolls pulled from the oven,
and the hibiscus tea with its ruby red color
make me want to hurry back without the puppies
and finish up the leftovers.

Mother fashioned me a Halloween costume;
a La Catrina skeleton, mask a bit scary,
but the dress is emerald and chartreuse
with matching hat; the ensemble’s  flourishes
and ornamentals are so beautiful
I plan on leaving it on display all year;
(and partly because the mannequin
scares my little brother!)

The puppies burst through my thoughts,
tongues lolling sideways, all wet,
look like furry crazed skeletons;
whites of their eyes flashing about
proving they are very much alive.

And that’s fitting, in this place
where I imagine our spirits meet the other side
for a brief moment.  I fondle my puppies ears,
say a quick prayer, before taking off after them
as they run toward the house;
hopefully not tempted with another adventure.

By Margaret Bednar, October 7, 2019

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:


This is linked with "Poets United - Pantry of Poetry and Prose - October is Here"  Maximum of 369 words.  I am three under with 367.  Of course, "little cat feet" is a nod to Carl Sandburg.