Coney Island

As of March 1, 2020 (NOW) I am hosting a NEW Bi-Monthly "Artistic Interpretations" at a new blog site set up for this new challenge.   All are welcome, poets, painters, etc.  Click on the link below and read the details.  I hope you can join the creativity.

Coney Island

Before the clamor and confusion of mid-day,
before shadows slant lean and low
and seagulls dive-bomb a littered beach,

I gaze down the grey-boarded walk
bejeweled with brightly colored umbrellas
and awnings hawking lobster rolls, soft serve, and beer.

It’s a calm before the storm, a respite;
ghostlike. As if I look hard enough,
I’ll transport back in time

when five cents gypsied one down the tracks
to a beachside breeze, promise of a Nathan’s frank,
and a Steeplechase thrill.

Electro Spin and Sea Side Swing seem overshadowed

by Wonder Wheel’s grace (that’s probably still the same)

and Classic Rock rolls its rhythm 

as Carousel and Thunderbolt act as grand sentinels

(that’s how I imagine it). I’m eventually drawn to the beach

dotted with small shaded oasis’s, crowded with coolers and chairs.

“Cold Corona’s, Cotton Candy!, Snow Cones”. 

“Get it!, Get it!” and I buy 2 umbrellas for $20,
my own refuge beneath a partially cloudy sky,

close my eyes as a life guard’s whistle blows,

children laugh, bicker, cry
and Latino hip hop filters from over my left shoulder. 

By Margaret Bednar, July 1, 2019

Linking this with a New Challenge:  "Artistic Interpretations - Coney Island, NY" March 1, 2020

This is linked with “The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse - Keeping Cool”
And “Imaginary Garden With Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform”

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:

I'd Like to Thank...

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I'd Like to Thank...

I waited for about thirty minutes.  Annoyed.
Had things to do,  This routine,
this inconvenience, tiresome.

"Please, follow me"
took me by surprise.
thought, "This is it.  My turn."
Remember thinking
"one foot in front of the other."

The hallway stretched through eternity,
(fifteen seconds transformed!)
imagined a red carpet, suspenseful music,
imagined film crackling
as it wound around the reel,
wondered about next scene,
would I know my line?

What kind of actress should I be?  Tragic?
Dramatic? Composed?

"Everything looks the same.  No change"
the nurse said.  "Reschedule for six months."

The lump I'd suddenly scripted; deleted.
No Academy Award, no nomination...

but I'd still like to thank my lucky stars,
God, and the harvest moon ...

gold plated bronze and crusader's sword
gladly traded for this light
which shines upon my upturned face
and bare breasts this night.

by Margaret Bednar, September 13, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Waiting for a Poem"   This happened just recently - I have, a "something" that my mammogram showed as something to watch.   2nd check and all is fine.  But honestly, those few seconds down the hallway I HONESTLY thought "This is it..."

Awe - I just missed the deadline for this prompt but ... do yourself a favor and click and enjoy the other poets' take on this challenge.

Since I missed the above, I am linking this to "dVerse Open Link Night".

Also linked with "The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse - Harvest Moon".

I have a hot tub on our back deck - backyard the Blue Ridge Parkway.  No neighbors can see in and my daughter asked me why I always wear a bathing suit.  So, I let the moon shine upon me, in thanksgiving, in wonder, in celebration.

Reflected

Reflected

Beneath lily pads, clouds cavort above sunfish, bluegill, and bass,
as mountain laurels and rhododendrons showcase green
upon water's smooth surface,

no resplendent flash of pinks or rosebay as high summer has passed,
chicks have grown, and swan seems to have lost his mate
as solitaire he soldiers on about the lake.

I can hear babbling brook, as summer without rain is unheard of,
feel sun's heated brand upon my back as it peaks between clouds
blanketing sky in a downy fashion,

and peer between tall grasses at water's edge, enjoying blues,
emeralds and golds reflected and rippling, circles drifting,
disappearing beneath lily pads and dancing clouds.

by Margaret Bednar, August 21, 2019

This is linked (LATE) with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Weekend Mini-Challenge - Messages in Water" AND "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform".

And "The Sunday Muse/Wednesday Muse: The Beach".  We were given permission to use a lake scene as well, so it is not as oceany as the image offered in this prompt... 

Cicadas

Cicadas

Covered in brown sugar and milk chocolate,
topped with a double dare, I don't care;
the answer's the same.

Remember hovering behind summer's screen door,
feeling protected, their high-pitched song
of chirps and clicks sent fear down my spine;

these nymphs emerged, zombie-like from the ground,
shed exoskeletons draped upon favorite trees,
horrified when I learned there were annual types

not just 17-year broods.  Some boil them
as one would a lobster, five minutes, immerse them
in ice water, picking off wings and legs
(or they'll get stuck in your teeth).

Perhaps I adore red-headed woodpeckers as they feast
upon these beady-eyed beasts, no need
for fancy toppings or provocation.

Crickets and katydids lulled me in and out of sleep,
still find their night songs quite comforting;
darkness perhaps a soothing blanket.

Thank you, but I'll pass on the box of chocolates,
even the tempting selection from the heart of France;
plain old Hersheys will do.

by Margaret Bednar, August 15, 2019

Cicadas are daytime insects - crickets and katydids sing at night.

This video even starts out like a horror film - my childhood fears vindicated!  I had chills racing up and down my spine ... seriously!

Chocolaterie OnLine - they melt in your mouth (so they say)

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse - Cicadas!"  Now for those more adventurous souls, let me know if you order from Chocolaterie OnLine!

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"

Evensong

Westglow Spa & the Blue Ridge Mountains

Evensong
Pillars, porch, mountains, and sky; no hallelujahs, just sacred silence.

by Margaret Bednar, July 17, 2019

This for "The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse - The American Sentence"  A poem invented by Allen Ginsburg with 17 syllables. 

The photo is Westglow Spa - a place I get my hair done (not this building -  This is a resort, a restaurant, a wedding venue; the historic summer home of the painter Elliott Daingerfield.)  One of my favorite paintings of his is "Sunlight in the Forest" below.

And an article about the two women who own this place - on many boards and are strong voices in the war against sex trafficking:  HERE

The Performers

The Performers

Butterflies dance sun-drenched drunk
amongst Marigolds, Lavender, and Violets,
ignore puppies in clown-like pursuit.

Kitty's tail twitches as she regally sits
upon windowsill, a ringmistress of sorts
watches performers spin, tumble and soar...

green eyes plotting a Houdini-style escape.

by Margaret Bednar, June 16, 2019

linked with "The Sunday Muse #60" and The Sunday - the Wednesday Muse #12 - Sevenling Poem".
and "The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"

Photo for Sunday Muse #60

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:

Devotion

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Devotion

A poetic romancer you are not,
yet considerate you certainly are;
most likely to bring home
grocery store (last-minute) carnations

but I don't mind.  They're rumored to be
from Mary's tears, a mother's undying love.

My love is simple.  I don't need red roses,
just devotion; not worship, but sincerity,
fidelty, love... and let's throw in passion

because the kids will squirm
when I read this poem
and you'll wink behind their backs.

Only you.  Forever.  Let the rose thirst
and wilt on its stem; that's what happens
with high maintenance.

Aren't you glad I'm a carnation gal?

by Margaret Bednar, June 9, 2019

I invite you to listen to me read my poem...



Linked with "Poets United - Poetry Pantry #482"

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #59".  The prompt will remain open for a week at least.  Come over with your words and play along!  The image for the prompt is:

Photo by Carlo Pautasso

Promises

My peony buds basking in the mountain sun...

Promises

I planted eyes and a crown beneath the dirt,
watched as rain fell and suns rose and set.
Waited seasons for blooms
promising romance and fortuity
(for that's what the seed packet said).

Fragrant flowers eventually flaunted paper-like foliage
of strawberry cremes, pastels, Julia Rose;
and once upon a summer, my own Paeon arrived,
planted a kiss upon my lips, flushed my cheeks
all shades of peony pink.

Happily-ever-after sprouts peony buds
beneath my mountain's golden crown;
my love's hands calloused,  mine dirt-stained
awaiting rain, sunsets, and blooms
and lips that still like to be kissed. 

by Margaret Bednar, May 17, 2019

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse #8 Garden Spot" and a nod to Shay & Sherry for the "I planted" idea.  "Eyes and crown" are a part of the peony bulb plant... and romance and good fortune are some of the things peony's symbolize...

A glimpse of my floral gardens...

Mountain Rosebay

Courting Cowbirds... she lays her eggs in other bird's nests... 

Mountain Rosebay

My rhododendrons are birthing birds,
Towhees, Cardinals, and a pair of courting cowbirds
all scampering beneath
mountain rosebay's tightly fisted buds,
as if a mother's skirt, protective -

hop up her evergreen arms
leading them to my feeders. I'm still waiting
for my pileated woodpecker, but imagine
he'll be bolder, fly in
from the stand of dead trees across the road.

Glorious May, I await, when fragrant,
large blooms will blush lavender
and butterflies will flock to her nectar
within this woodland garden
where my rose tree will be
the bell of the ball for a swirl or two
come spring.

by Margaret Bednar, April 5, 2019

The birdfeeder I am getting to attract the big Pileated Woodpecker that lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains...

https://wildbirdsunlimited.typepad.com/the_zen_birdfeeder/2010/04/bird-feeders-for-pileated-woodpeckers-think-big.html

For "The Sunday Muse - Wednesday Muse #2 - Hanami"  I wrote this and then went back and read that I was supposed to write about how this flower made me feel ...  hmm.  Well, I don't have time to rewrite (I need to pay attention to the rules more closely)

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.