The Dance

The Dance

Dusk is put to bed

with raven's wings soaring above,

pulling night's curtain

toward the northern star.

My Victoria roses

no longer hold court,

no songbirds serenade,

but I hear quiet yelp of fox

playing beneath vineyard and vine,

flashes of red, moonlit.

It's a beauty that rivals

the sunflowers and blue iris

sprinkled within field midday

when my breath will catch,

but now I'm caught up

in the wildness, 

heart fluttering, skipping,

wishing I could join the dance.

by Margaret Bednar, January 16, 2012

This is linked to "The Sunday Muse #90"

also linked with Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #13

My 12 year old son wrote to this image as well:  HERE

Forbidden

Image used for "The Sunday Muse #99"

Forbidden

A smooth-talking serpent
tempted Eve;
Eve, Adam

and in an instant
Good and Evil danced,
not six feet apart, but close

like apples and sin
seafood markets and snakes,
toilet paper and sanitizer.

If only sin weren't so beautiful,
so tempting, if our hearts
didn't turn from red to black so fast.

by Margaret Bednar, March 15, 2020


My attempt to write to the image and current events in five minutes' time.   I'm not saying those who get this virus are sinful - it is our reaction to this whole pandemic I'm referring and it is a bit ironic that a snake may be the cause or the host...  Stay safe everyone. 

linked with "The Sunday Muse #99" 

Chopin

Image used for "The Sunday Muse #97"

Chopin

Her right hand touches her neck,
left hand expertly plays the chords,
melody suspended for a moment,

but not memory of kisses
skimming, teeth nipping, thrilling, 
freely flowing over her body; 

hands over piano keys, notes repeated,
sometimes traditional, sometimes revolutionary,
waltzing heroic... like a good lover.

She often plays the night,
an escape, when structure unwinds
and romance tilts the room,

enshrines emotions as moon and stars outside
cast shadows upon the lake, twinkling,
willing him back safely into her arms.

Only then she'll allow clasp to be unfastened,
ring taken from delicate chain and placed upon her finger.
When his promised return will be answered with "Yes".

by Margaret Bednar, March 3, 2020

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #97".

Also linked with Instagram: "A Skylover Wordlist".  I used enshrines (shrine), teeth, escape

I invite all of you to consider my new bi-monthly challenge "Artistic Interpretations".  All are welcome!  

Superstition

My Art Blog is linked on my side bar

Superstition

Three crosses dominate the pasture hilltop high above winding gravel road, Appalachian mountains a backdrop to these Christian sentinels.  Or superstition as some folks insist.  Wonder and well-being flood my soul but to each his own.

Here in the South, there's plenty of legend and lore, such as deep porches with ceilings of haint blue, traps between realms of the living and dead, tricking turbulent spirits as water they cannot cross.  I've seen cobalt blue dangling from crape myrtle trees, bottles that seize minions set on maiming souls, evil scorched come morning sun.  Bottle trees reside as folk art outside upscale shops; like Ouija boards in toy isles - yet one tempts me, the other terrifies.  They say the Devil's beguiled by his own handsome face, mirrors hang upon southern porches, distract him until the swell of morning sun, wherein he turns tail for hell, house-invasion thwarted.  And of course, Bloody Mary chanted 13 times, hand mirror held aloft, flight of stairs ascended backwards, room darkened, candles lit... beware, benign or wicked she may be.

Hold your breath, count graves
School bus stops at traffic light
Blue faces, wide eyes

By Margaret Bednar, January 18, 2020

Linked with "The Sunday Muse #91" and with "Poets & Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #3"

This is a Haibun - the ending Haiku doesn't really qualify as it doesn't hint at a season, but it IS an American 5-7-5 syllable count... I had fun writing it though.   We ALL did this as kids, right?  Even us Northern ones.  (Holding breath as one passes a cemetery so the dead spirits don’t enter our bodies)

Haint Blue ceilinged porches - I love them.

and the photo from The Sunday Muse that inspired it all:

Oh, Sister

Oh, Sister

She prays the glow from a devotion,
turns hope to penance, twists virtue into vice,
her crucifix the reason for her stoop,

rumored it delivers a memorable wallop
across one's backside.

It's hard to say how her angel-face became frozen,
how her eyes closed in prayer and lips silently moving
look like a sweet Raphael,

but I'm witness this masterpiece needs restoration;
that this seed fell amongst thorns,

grew green and lush before choked by greed,
jealousy, by power's unclean?  I don't know;
just pray for intercession, a miracle

to cure unfruitfulness; return me
to a healthy fear of the Lord.

by Margaret Bednar, December 15, 2019

I am so sorry, Sister Margaret Claire.  I may burn in Hell for this one.  I have NO idea where it came from - I only knew kind nuns.

This is for the poetic challenge over at "The Sunday Muse #86"

Where Heaven Meets Earth

"After the Rain" by Cyril Rolando 

Where Heaven Meets Earth

Mountains have welcomed a rainbow's promise,
burned with fire from Heaven,
been engraved with commandments.

Worn with time, they've kept secrets,
exposed a few; some of awe-inspiring wonder,
places to gather hope.

At the foot of one Jesus prayed,
at the top of one, He died.

On my little mountain, from the front porch,
I watch the sky flush awake,
from the back deck, wink goodnight;

my prayers tucked between evergreens,
hidden deer paths, and shape-shifting angel clouds.

by Margaret Bednar, November 24, 2019

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #83" 

Fire in the Sky

Fire in the Sky

As a toddler, I'd stand transfixed as mother
crumpled up newspaper, layered kindling,
added a log or two, fanned embers
until they roared to life within the hearth,
screen carefully placed for protection,
rocked asleep to spits and sizzles.

This evening's sky reminded me
of many youthful evenings spent fireside,
popcorn dancing in cast iron skillet,
cat's paws kneading, rearranging afghan upon my lap,
dogs desperately begging for buttery kernels.
flickering light upon book's page.

With awe I gaze at distant horizon
skylit with flames, wonder at those cozy nights
of childhood, feel blessed.  Yet shiver,
no heat upon my cheeks as frost lurks around the corner.

Walk inside; sit at my desk like I did as a teenager,
(journal filled with scrawl, pages within losing the war
as crumpled ones gained momentum at my feet).
Tonight I'm typing, floor and rug neatly displayed
as words are deleted upon the screen, memories relived,
the wonder of being rocked, of rocking my own little ones...

flip a switch, fire comes "alive"... isn't the same,
although cats seem content and dogs cast pleading eyes
toward popcorn bowl. Call my youngest son's name,
settle in, snuggle before artificial logs, open a book,
read aloud as horizon winks, blinks and nods.

by Margaret Bednar, October 19, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - On Wonder" and "The Sunday Muse #78".  

White Rock Depot

https://hiveminer.com/Tags/surreal%2Ctraintracks

White Rock Depot

Evening train no longer whistles,
commuters no longer wait
for last connection home.

Hovering gulls no longer swoop
for a young man's crumbs,
melodies but a memory

upon Semiahmoo Bay,
breeze unhindered as it blows past
seaside tracks, past museum

past theatre where Lowrey needs tuning
and Sunday evenings settle silently,
platform and pier silhouetted,

weathered, as an old man's ashes
join the herrings soaring, his dreams, his destiny
joining surf and sky.

by Margaret Bednar, September 26, 2019

Lowrey Organ HERE

This station/depot still exists today as a museum.  HERE  White Rock, BC is 35 minutes north of New Westminster where the (above) challenge photograph was taken.

White Rock, BC depot @1912

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #74"

Daydreaming

Jacek Yerka - website image used with "the Sunday Muse #69" 

Daydreaming

I wish I had a strawberry tree

surrounded with fields of (truly) golden wheat

from which I fashion choker and crown,

gracefully settle upon queenly chair,

linen-draped table adorned with china

awaits a feast; at my feet, a mighty lion

(kitty wants in on this wish too!)

and why not, a fountain for Grecian flair.

A bouquet of Juliet roses graces my table,

and cherries jubilee with crystal goblets 

offering trifles and cheesecakes, meringues,

mousse, parfaits...

dessert before the main, for this is my fancy,

my pleasure for which I think I'll forget to pinch

and awake, sink into it as I ignore storm clouds

of laundry, dishes, beds, and more...

by Margaret Bednar, August 21, 2019

This is for "The Sunday Muse #69"

Escape

123rf

Escape

Can you hear the Caribbean,
feel the Queen that once resided inside
as she floated in shallow waters
amongst seagrass and reef?

With fingers, caress the whorls
and spire, admire her whole,
not chipped away for jewelry.
Listen to her siren call,

close your eyes; escape,
your heartbeat joined with hers.

by Margaret Bednar, August 12, 2019

This is linked with "The Sunday Muse #68" - the photograph used for inspiration can be found if you click on the link. 

Felis Catus

Image used for The Sunday Muse

Felis Catus

I can be charmingly coquettish
to win admiration and affection
so you'll treat me like a queen.

And when in repose, I stretch,
soft paw touches your arm,
I could just as easily scratch you,

take your hand between my teeth,
tear it to shreds (why do you think
Fido's so afraid?),

and my blink you see as love,
not a hiding of the feral tiger
that resides inside.

by Margaret Bednar, July 22, 2019

Linked with "The Sunday Muse #65". 

The Orphan

Image used for "The Sunday Muse" 

The Orphan

The college boys considered it a road-side treasure,
excitedly hauled the orphan home, lugged it up
worn steps and placed it (for the next three years),
none too gently on the slant-floored, over-sized stoop
mostly out of reach of rain, snow, sleet, and hail.

If not an antique, it was certainly "aged";
not a worthy investment with one leg missing,
but nothing a cinder block couldn't cure.
It's suede-like fabric boasted a distant connection
to fashion, but one had to squint to notice.

But free was a different story,
and the boys felt they'd rescued it from its beggard fate,
and many an evening and starry night were spent
playing cards, laughing, and attempting to woo a girl or two.

Napoleon Street was not as grand as its namesake,
nor did neighbors complain of the addition
as they had similar settees gracing similar porches.

Mid-day one might find clothes-lines sagging
with undergarments; I particularly was charmed
by the occasional quilt drying in a shaded oasis,
as if sunlight might damage faded and worn fabric.

Come evening, hellos and good-days emanated
from beneath these covered respits,
glasses raised, even the teetotalers joined in,
swigged down refreshing toasts on hot summer days.

Must confess I was never tempted to rest
upon the golden "velvet" couch, but was sad,
upon graduation, when I watched it hauled off
to another college porch, the boys insisting its presence
was a "legacy" to be upheld.

by Margaret Bednar, July 15, 2019

linked with "The Sunday Muse - #64" and "The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform".

I invite you to listen to me read my poem: