A Kiss

A sketch I did of Ocracoke's Silver Lake - July 2020

 

Tempest skies chase the moonlight, 

deliver a felted-gray morning sky

where windswept seagrass and mermaid murmurings

awake me from a slumber - drizzling rain, a serenade, 

in this cottage by the sea.

Vanilla-creamed coffee and baguette in hand,

I stroll the docks, sunflower faces tilt toward a hesitant sun 

as seagulls and pelicans balance like marble statues 

silhouetted against a crystalline sky.

A slash of red draws my eye.  A millionaire's cottage

hugs Silver Lake - a battle between past & present,

humble & posh.  I stroll past shop windows,

spy artisan jewelry; find I desire far more

gifts of early morning's tide.

I meander the day away, enjoy iced deserts

and fish fresh from the sea, settle oceanside,

beside salt marshes offering pink sunsets,

where blue jasmine collides with raspberry skies

and pensive moments accompany

soft breezes filtering through sea-salted hair;

leave an irresistible kiss

upon smiling lips,

a witness to all that is quiet.

by Margaret Bednar, August 5, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #31 - What Makes You Smile"

The Overlook

The Overlook

Spring trees are rowdy, elbow each other below 

as I sink into the terrain before me, 

ravine full of wordy beech, birch, and buckeye.

Tulip tree steals the scene, her full dowry

on display, trillium's satin white sprinkled beneath.

I might be a bit naive, but I listen to their spirited stories,

spruce-fir whispering his tall tale from a distance

and believe every word as it sinks into my skin;

breathe deeply and settle myself.

Just before pink's onset and the subtle change 

of yellow to gold, I watch the hand of God 

brush over the bluest of skies with the rosiest silvered glaze

and reset the scene.  

I'm still no saint and this is no Garden of Eden, 

but all have become silent; even black-capped chickadees 

have stopped their sorties as I lean back upon outcropped stone.  

I know it's late, but I'm lulled by the Master's touch,

stream's serenade, and the hint of a thousand nightlights

beginning to twinkle above my head. 

by Margaret Bednar, May 28, 2020

This is linked with the fabulous "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #21 - Anagrams" I used the following:  below/elbow, dowry/rowdy/wordy, ravine/naive, sink/skin, listen/silent, trees/reset, satin/saint, rosiest/sorties/stories, subtle/bluest, late/tale, stone/onset, masters/streams.

I have been absent from writing poetry for almost 2 months.  We have a house full because of this pandemic.  I am thankful I am able to help my oldest children out and have them and their spouses/significant others stay with us for a while.  They hailed from NYC and San Francisco.  I also was homeschooling my youngest son and my high school daughter is on autopilot - I just allow her to do her thing.    Summer has finally begun for me, school is out and the older ones are going back to their places in a few days.  

So, I'm back and I have missed everyone.  I can't wait to read your poetry.  (and thank you, Jim, for checking up on me)

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 Pond

The Pond

Water violets and lotus bejewel the pond,
lily pads sprinkle the surface, little oasis's
reflecting the sun for painted turtles, dragonflies, and snails.

Silence is a bubble of air floating to its surface,
a butterfly winging its way, a tree limb's leaves
dabbling its reflection;

yet, what is it that lures and whispers "Peer closely",
my eyes squint, search for a crystalline scrim
beneath willow's shade as goosebumps caress my limbs?

Surely fairies who flutter in at dusk,
dance delicately from pad to pad,
feet leaving misty patterns come morn

as wings of gossamer silk
and skin luminous as the moon slip away,
envelope in mist and mystery

leaving me entranced, eagerly wishing
for a glimpse at water's edge.

by Margaret Bednar, March 16, 2020

This is linked with "Artistic Interpretations #2"  MY NEW CHALLENGE OPEN TO EVERYONE.  Please click over and consider playing along.  It is a bi-monthly challenge and stays open for two weeks.  It can also be accessed at the top left of my blog.

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #11"

This poem has been updated (and I hope improved) by accepting the challenge at "Poets and Storytellers United #11- Hypophora and all that" where we ask a question and answer it. 

Wonderment

Wonderment

Sunrise seemingly slept in this day
as remnants of moonlight remain
from wintersweet sky,
clouds seemingly hand-spun, perhaps felted.

Chaste mauves, mellow mangos, sedate grays
waterscape morning's horizon,
cocoon me between sand dunes
as if I'm a mermaid with sea-salted hair.

Battered coral and broken shells speckle and glint
beneath watchful eyes of seagulls pronouncing
"Day's begun!"; industrious scavengers
whose work has yet to be done,

begging, stealing.  And I indulge them,
content to offer my bagel and a prayer,
watch both soar over heads of a mother and child;
remember when I first showed my babes

their first glimpse of the sea.

by Margaret Bednar, March 11, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #10 - Early Bird or Night Owl?"

I just got back from a relaxed stay in Florida's (the USA's) oldest city of St. Augustine and the beach.  Great food, great history, and glorious (gray) morning sunrises.  The sun, even hidden behind the clouds, is a wonder to me.

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:

Longing

Longing

My rhododendron leaves curl in upon themselves,
frosted with light snow; count the days 'till beachside.
For now, the taste of Myrtle honey
flavors my tongue; thank the industrious bees
that gather nectar from salt marsh shrubs -
horizontal thickets joined by Holly, Bayberry and Elder.
They lean and give to ocean winds, salty spray, and burning sun;

a harsh existence I won't acknowledge until summer.
I will also miss spring blooms beneath the Oak, Sweet Gum,
and Sassafras; witness not white innocence, lavender toadflax,
violet bull thistle, and green life everlasting.

Instead, I will ponder coast’s blue, shimmering surface come June,
above soda straw worms, knobbed whelks, moon snails,
and lettered olives.  A few will be tossed with the tide
upon the sand, collected along with angle wings, heart cockles,
small colored clams, and the rare chipped sand dollar
and sea star.

But for now, I wrap my sweater snuggly about my shoulders
and sigh, honeyed myrtle warming my tongue.

by Margaret Bednar, January 22, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #3 - Salt-water poems"

Two Orishas

Chelsea's body painting depicting the African Mythological Goddess, Yemaya and Oshun,
(some sites say they are one, others sisters)

Two Orishas

Of rivers and streams
and salt licked waves,
a venus in yellow-gold silk,
of peacock feathers, of cinnamon,
and seaside cowrie shells.

Of lakes and seas
and moonlit crescent nights,
an ocean mother of peaceful blues 'n whites,
of butterfly wings, loves and dreams,
and sprinkled pumpkin seeds.

Voices chant on sand and rocky shore,
passionately persuade, fiercely protect,
of incense and perfume,
Oshun & Yemaya; Goddesses
stirring Africa's life-giving waters.

by Margaret Bednar, January 15, 2020 (revised "Two Voices" March 8, 2013)

My interpretation of Oshun and Yemaya is both are Orishas (Gods of Santeria of which there are many - Yemaya being the older sister of Oshun.  Many sites, many different versions.  The above poem is a reworking of a poem I wrote in 2013.  HERE is a site that explains a bit about them.

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #2: Myth-placed"

The Caregiver

The Caregiver

The frozen gravel enchants me in a way the summer road never does, scampering barefoot, pads of my feet tougher in June than these thin-soled winter boots now crunching raised rocks, slipping now and again; rhythm and cadence hypnotic, somewhat musical.  Really it's more of a lane, tire tracks casting two deep ruts with no shoulder past the three widow's houses just outside of town.  I'm heading back, having sat bedside with Martha, scones and tea barely touched, yet her eyes sparkled, lips curved, as I read Little Women.  We were halfway through the book; could see the cast of characters dance in her mind for a good hour before she fell asleep, whereas I moved the blood-red Amaryllis from her windowsill, closed checkered curtains, turned on the Tiffany nightlight, and touched her dear, sweet cheeks with my lips before slipping out the front door, warmth of my wool cape about my shoulders, warding off twilight's chill fast approaching.  The icy-blue fervour of sky before me, promising darkness and a wintry mix of sleet and snow, is a harbinger I welcome, actually admire as the moon glows softly; looking like a fuzzy grapefruit resting upon the horizon.  The percussion of wind whispering against bare branches and ticking tall frozen grasses joins my rock crunching melody, and I look forward to the warm glow of a fireplace, a book, and the tucked-in feeling of a January snowfall.

by Margaret Bednar, January 10, 2020

Linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #1"  - We were to use at least three words - I used all but one word... cogitation.  Just couldn't make it work.  But I used the other 19.  Write 369 words or fewer.  For this prose piece, I used 235 words.  Well, I see this challenge has an expiration time - and I missed it.  But it was still a good exercise and I will enjoy reading the other poets and writers.