The Chapel

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The Chapel

"Do you know what the earth meditates upon in Autumn?"  Pablo Neruda

Autumn's mid-afternoon sun
slants just so, backyard a chapel,
St. Francis almost drowning in gold and scarlet,
no need for fancy vestments
as Fall's bounty provides the finery.

With arms raised, the congregation
of maple and oak offer adoration, swaying,
genuflecting, perhaps remembering
summer's sumptuous behavior,
pleading forgiveness as October's eve,
with cool eye, seemingly judges.

A squirrel scampers along a branch,
acorn, not eucharist, upon his tongue,
although upon reflection,
from mighty Oak it came,
offering sustenance, offering life...

and so I join this thanksgiving,
submit to the Su(o)ns warmth
and Autumn's gracious sanctuary,
strip myself of worries and wants,
lean against Maple, pray
for God's love to strengthen me.

by Margaret Bednar, October 23, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse - Tuesday Poetics - The Question as Poetry" and "Poets United - Midweek Motif - Forgiveness"

pondering on the ending... for God's love to enlighten me.  to fortify me.  to grow within me.  to renew me.  

The Portrait

The Portrait

He strolls the shoreline,
pants rolled above ankles
as waves crash, seemingly cling,
momentarily comb October's beach smooth
before rapidly receding, repeating ,

footprints lasting as long
as the chords he strums.

Silhouetted against the sinking sun,
he's mysterious, a balladeer, a poet,
a young man beginning a journey -
seeking, offering his voice
as a gift to the sky

which is swooped, caught, and carried
to the clouds upon seagulls' wings.

I imagine him in New York's subway,
no blue, no fresh breeze,
playing these tunes, lyrics birthed -
hair escaping over furrowed brow,
leaning back, slouching, James Dean style,

offering a glimpse of a smirk, almost
allowing us in on his secrets.

Imagine him gazing at the moon
from small apartment window,
fighting sleep, dreaming of a lover's kiss,
wishing upon a star (straight on 'til morning),
penning his soul,

a moment leatherbound,
etched into forever.

Dreams fill him daily, I envy him that;
ponder when I misplaced my daring,
my castles in the air.  When did I forget
imagination isn't delusion?  His chin
tilts upward, his heart in his fingers

as they strum the chords.  I kick off my shoes,
roll up my pants, test the sand with my toe.

by Margaret Bednar, October 9, 2019

I invite you to listen to me read my poem:

This is linked with "Poets United - Midweek Motif - Everyday Living" and "dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics - Profiles and Portraits" and "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads -  Sanaa's Challenge - October - When Poets Dream, Lament, and Sing" - the song I chose to listen to and reflect upon was: Aerosmith - I Don't Want to Miss a Thing. 

Back in the Day

Back in the Day

Hot humid days, we'd ride our pony early
clad in bikini top, shorts, no shoes.

Late-morning found us playing jacks,
pick-up-sticks, gin rummy where Aces are low.

After lunch, a sprinkler run, fort construction,
start Monopoly; rarely finish.

No helmets, skin unprotected, unsupervised.
Summer.

Margaret Bednar

linked with "dVerse Poets - Quadrille #77 - Ace"

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.

Pre-School Masterpiece

Pre-School Masterpiece

Strokes of gold upon Amethyst,
brush held firm, cream puff cheeks
inches from canvas, eyes intent,
her five little dashes, an inch long,
boldly slashed along the edge;

perhaps not a Monet
but my heart is captured.

My hand signals, bid escalates,
after all, priceless her marks
embedded in glistening paint.

by Margaret Bednar, January 8, 2018

I can honestly say, I put the fear of God into my husband that night at the fund-raiser for the pre-school.  I was NOT going to be outbid.

This painting has been hanging in my living room for 14 years.  I've had many people think this is a painting from an accomplished artist - I love telling them it is from my youngest daughter's pre-school class of eight children.  I have photos of them painting it.

My daughter is the one in the pink shirt, sitting down.

This is linked with "dVerse Poetics - Come Hang with Me"

My Ordinary

My Ordinary

The geese have long since
v'd their way south,
bare feet have been replaced with boots,
yet I still

sink footprints into chilled sand,
tide fills them up,
makes them disappear;
a wonder of which I never tire.

My heart pounds yet isn't heard
above roaring surf,
an exhilaration that is commonplace,
at least for me.

I pity the ones who never know
the wonder of a flock of seagulls
lifting in unison, filling horizon with swoops
and angled wings, riding ocean's breeze

beneath clouds that tell me
it's time to settle inside, before a warm fire,
before the snow descends,
book in hand, cat on lap,

all the while thanking God
this is my ordinary.

by Margaret Bednar, November 28, 2018

This is for "dVerse Poetics - Magic of Ordinary Things"  I was too late in linking with this to post my poem but others have nice poems at the link for this challenge.

I did link with "dVerse Open Link Night #234"

Gratitude

Gratitude

It’s the lull between the flame and the last ember,

the quiet of the buttercream sky before the blazing sun sinks low.

the spark in your eye before the laughter.

As a child we’d slip on our coats not bothering to button,

slip into Dad’s boots, trudge quickly toward woodshed

through shovel-wide snow path, 

collect tinder we’d gathered since spring,

rosy cheeked, return, feed wood-burning stove,

jockey for position beside cats and dogs.

Mesmerized we’d watch the flames take off, 

roar and snap as Dad loaded the logs, 

added paper for our oohs and awes.

We felt safe, happiness being together,

warm, popcorn and cider a treat, 

tossing a kernel or two to dislodge the dogs.

When I parade myself along the shore, 

watch the luminous sky combust and spread it’s glow 

along the horizon devouring sky’s blues and whites,

I feel a warmth akin to my fireside idles; my heart swells, 

feels twice as large, seemingly the cause for the tears 

that balance precariously but rarely spill.  

Happy tears, not sad, they fill me up

and, like the fireside embers,

kindle a well-being 

that rivals only the flicker of laughter

I spy in your eyes as you respond

to something I say, something I do,

an all consuming love that leaves me rosy cheeked,

grateful for the fire that still burns.

by Margaret Bednar, November 27, 2018

This is for "dVerse Poetics - Fire Up that Creativity"

"Susan"

Cathy & Patsy paper doll clothes framed on my wall

Susan

There's a photo
rests upon Mother's bureau;
girl with blond hair, straight bangs,
fair of skin.

Used to think she was me.

But how could that be
as she was older
and I didn't recognize
the plaid, button-down shirt?

Sat for hours one afternoon,
sorted through hidden boxes stacked;
found hand-drawn, paper-doll clothes
labeled Cathy & Patsy: ski boots,
poodle skirts, evening gowns,
polka dot pajama's ...
thanks to someone imaginative.

Wondered at Mother's tears
on afternoons I played
 Judy Garland's Trolley Song,
Meet Me in St. Louis,
Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
over and over again...
Asked why the record skipped,
who played it before me?

_________

My favorite number is nine
after a little girl who dreamed of

being a year older,
an artist,
swinging in the park,
feeding the ducks,

but eight is all she had
and blue eyes & a smile
within a silver frame
that reminds me of me.

by Margaret Bednar, April 24, 2018


This poem has been reworked a number of times, and thanks to this challenge, I believe this is my best effort so far (added quite a bit and deleted a stanza or two)

I really don't look like anyone in my family - my sisters being darker and having different facial features - but Susan's features looked like me.

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: Body Image"

and NaPoWriMo 2018 (30 poems in 30 days)  

"Threads of Feeling"

Fabric swatch, token, an identifying "record"
of a mother & baby
Threads of Feeling - The Foundling Museum

Threads of Feeling

I wish I'd a gossamer braid, 

sheer and silky,

yet all I have 

is a faded floral cotton square

that joins a red striped camblet 

(snippet of a mother's gown?),

and colorful ribbons trussed together, 

scarlet flowered chintz,

woolen heart, and threadbare sleeve 

of berries red and white.

Witness a calico bird pinned 

to newborn's chest

beneath a mother's tears 

and fears he'll be laid to rest

before she can return, 

if she can return.

Godspeed, little one, 

with this swatch do remember me,

this snippet still warm from my skin
I place upon yours, 

so dear to me...

so lost to me.

by Margaret Bednar, March 8, 2018

This is linked to "dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics - Threads of Feeling"  London's Foundling Hospital opened in 1739.   Mothers brought their babies there due to poverty and other reasons (some hoped to return to reclaim them but most never were able to and some babies died)  Mothers left a token, as proof of identity in case they did manage to return.  If you click on the "Threads of Feeling" link below you will see a few fabrics left behind (display in an exhibit in 2010/11).

Threads of Feeling
The Foundling Museum

"Comfort"

Comfort

When savage storms warred upon night's void,
snapped power lines, felled trees,
I'd resurrect Oz's tornado
and Mother would smile, light candles.

Despite raging winds and bursting sky
the mellow flickering shadows hypnotized
and frolicked upon our walls
as Mother's voice became a rhythmic flute

and I, cocooned within Grandmother's quilt,
swung up and down, became lost
in a magical land of counterpane,
and the wind became a song...

by Margaret Bednar, February 27, 2018

This is an exercise offered by "dVerse Poets Pub: Poetics - finding Emotions and Concepts in Things" Our marching orders are to "write a poem that captures the concept without ever telling us what the concept is.  It will be up the readers of the poem to name the concept or feeling in the comments.  Take what you are feeling and make it so real through "things" that we'll be able to name it."

I will title this poem from the comments left by one of the readers...

A Child's Garden of Verses, by R. L. Stevenson was my favorite book (beside Cinderella) as a child.  I have both books still - very worn, very loved.  Oh, and Black Beauty as well.

Vintage

Pinterest HERE

Vintage

My Grandmother always wore sensible shoes.
Wide, low heels, usually black, neatly laced
and tied with an even bow.  Not rounded toes,
nor too pointed; she didn't like her feet
pinched.  She walked with a purposeful,
steady, no-nonsense stride.

In her attic I once found an old, worn pair
of slender, soft, rich grey, high-cut
side-buttoned "Parade" shoes
which the box advertised were for
the "Fashionable Young Lady",
sporting "stylish toes, high arches,
and emphasized "Louis" heels with "Spanish"
scrolled in fancy print just above.

Remember taking off my thick cotton socks,
as with them on, my feet were too wide.
Clunked around the wooden floor;
couldn't for the life of me begin to imagine
who these sexy shoes had once belonged.

by Margaret Bednar, August 30, 2017

This is linked with "dVerse Poetics - A Closet Full of Shoes"  Also linked with "The Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Tuesday Platform"

"Hope Always Rising"

This photo has nothing to do with the poem -
This is an image of the Blue Ridge Pkway at 96% solar eclipse
...and the bee buzzing about this wild grape vine.

Please do not read this poem without reading the inspirational (current event) true story which inspired it.  "Devota, Valentine: "Everyday, We Are Blessed To Be Alive" by Jon Katz

Hope Always Rising

As a child I read fairytales, believed enduring wrongs
and injustices would always be rewarded if patient,
if good.  I lived on hope; hoped I'd be pretty one day,
hoped I'd have a fine wardrobe, find a handsome husband,
hoped ... oh so many frivolous things.

I never imagined walking over two thousand miles
in a war ravaged country, fleeing genocide,
a baby upon my back.

Never imagined plunging into a year's long hardship,
avoiding, not always successfully,
rape, hunger, bone weary exhaustion.

Never imagined passing by children
abandoned upon forest floor, starving, some already dead
as there was no one to save them.

Never imagined dodging bullets, fearing countless soldiers
and farmers (as food was scavenged from their fields),
not always escaping injury.

Never imagined "walking on bones".

As a child, and shamefully even an adult, my hopes
and prayers sometimes seemed fickle -
as if incorrectly answered I might read a book
instead of recite a nightly devotional.

But Devota never abandoned her Valentine,
her prayers never ceased, happiness not expected,
nor survival - although hope for freedom,
hope in perseverance, hope of a friendly border
did cling stubbornly to her belief in salvation.

Twenty years a U.N. refugee, waiting in Africa
for America to finally extend her hand;
and we are all the richer for Devota
and her wise and solemn "Grimm" fairytale.

Happily ever after, to quote Emerson
"...is to be useful, to be honorable,
to be compassionate, to have it make a difference
that you have lived and lived well".

Immigrants and refugees remind us
what's really important, the giving of ourselves,
each to the other; remembering what compassion means.

by Margaret Bednar, August 22, 2017


An interesting link from the History Channel:  Rwanda-genocide

This is linked with "dVerse - Poetics: Border"

"Sanctuary"

Sanctuary

Effervescent and plaintive -

a contradiction or so it seems,

my song, undeciphered

left behind as I rise,

sail into clouds upon ocean's spray

a spirit suspended -

almost an Assumption...

but with one last breath

I mercifully plunge, a gentle behemoth,

back into deep blue's silence

of bubbles, sunbeams, and vibrations -

an underwater sanctuary.

Can you hear my plea?

by Margaret Bednar, March 28, 2017

My dear friend, Toril, is an artist living in the driftless region of Wisconsin.  She can be found on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/torilfineart/ and these fine fellows are for sale (there are actually three of them!) and many other new paintings she will be selling this spring & summer. 

With such beauty, it is daunting putting words to the feelings these images evoke... I am my own worst critic, I'm afraid... 

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: From Natures Point of View"

"Beyond the Hush"

Beyond the Hush

She rests in the hush,
watches as summersaulting remnants
of last fall's brilliance sweep with crumbling footprints
the swirling dirt floor.

Comfort to me always smells
of Bluegrass, Timothy, or Rye
upon which she nestles and listens
to wind's whispered warning.

Crows add cries of caution;
what rankles them today, who knows,
and pony raises his head from a pile of hay;
hears it all.  Understands far more than I.

The weekend's chore list waves "get busy"
but summer's fan spins as if to say
"It's time to play, to enjoy this day
as winter's storm is on its way!"

And so we head out, pony and I,
nod to feline as we pass.
We'll be back before the rains descend,
stall doors latched, secured,

but for now the rafters creak
and the latches bang,
offer up barns symphony of joy -
or lament; either way, I'm glad I listened.

by Margaret Bednar, February 26, 2016.

I have been inspired by Maria Wolf of Full Moon Fiber Art to record "Visual Poems".  Which would lead one to think a video recording - of course I have to add a photo and a poem so I probably defeat the purpose!  I need to remember to turn my iPhone horizontally for a better image AND the "choreography" needs to be improved - I think it is a learned process.

You're invited to Listen:  https://soundcloud.com/margaretbednar/beyond-the-hush

* Note - not really rye as it isn't good hay for horses - but it sounded better than alfalfa :)

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toad's - Natures Wonders - explore the world of footprints"  I stretched the meaning a bit I think... leaves are not animal tracks ...

Also linked with "dVerse Poetics - Adventures in Traveling"

"A Yellow Flower, Pressed"

Yew trees from the UK - "google images"

A Yellow Flower, Pressed

Praise the Oh Lord...

like mist evaporates, I skirt away,
hymnal discarded, chants faintly heard
as I race beneath bowing Yews, until
I see you  through the panes

God of Mercy,

I sigh, your image magnificent,
fills the Great Hall, makes it look small.
I hear you laugh - contagious, I smile,
spy your hand upon hounds head -
recall last night's caress beneath
watchful bishop's painted gaze.

Oh Taste and See,

you pluck a grape, teeth graze its skin,
lick, lean back upon heavy mantel,
eyes wander toward hearth's rug
and I know you recall.

Ask of Me,

not much, for brave I will
another moonless night for echoes
to reverberate in this vast room,
promises captured, muffled by red velvet,
dawn's soft pastel light befalling
a sight of limbs and hair co-mingling.

God of Grace,

we prayed for courage, for victory
beneath arches, hands clasped,
my eyes drawn to not bible held,
but flickering candlelight along your jaw.
Plead for another night before you depart.
will recite, will cherish my knight's
yellow flower placed between breasts
now pressed within prayerbook,
finally able to pray, for

Blessed is the Man.

by Margaret Bednar, September 27, 2013

Image found HERE

This was originally written in September of 2013 and I apologize for not posting an original poem for this challenge for "dVerse - Poetics - time to get a little medieval"

I tried to take things from the room - the bible, the flowers, the candles and also the setting and use if for this piece.  Go and take a look , give it a try!  The image of the room is a miniature on display at the Art Institute of Chicago.  

"So much for 18th century proverbs…"

White-breasted Nuthatch

"The Nuthatch"

Early to bed,
early to rise,
he's been advised

Even believes
early bird
catches the worm

But who cares
when the seed man
arrives at two?

by Margaret Bednar, December 2, 2014

White-breasted Nuthatch

This is linked with dVerse - Poetics "Winners & Losers".  So… is this cute little Nuthatch a winner?

"The Gathering"

Photography of Brooke Shaden

The Gathering 

Early dusk reverberates
with geese trailing petticoats in the sky
restlessly following horizon's light

and I among swirling leaves
spin, lift sensitive chin,
absorb Autumn's fulfillment

before fields whisper winter's song,
willow surrenders bare limbs to weeping,
and I burrow into silence.

by Margaret Bednar, September 23, 2014


This is for "dVerse - Poetics - Passion of Brooke Shaden" - a photographer gracious enough to share her art with us and allow us to write to her images.   I selected "the leaves of linden avenue".   Please give yourself a treat and visit her website "Brooke Shaden" and her blog "Promoting Passion".

"Overload"

Overload

Tucked away amongst tombs and palaces I wander,

become one with exotic and frenetic.
Inhale lentil soup,
sesame-covered peanuts,
dried apricots piled nine feet high,
figs, snails, pumpkin seeds, dates,
splashing fountains, citrus trees, mosaics,

and fetid disguised with sprigs of mint.

Resist goat head, brains,
and snake charming vendors
from stall number eight,
dodge overloaded donkey carts,
duck into labyrinths of textiles, herbs,
metal work, silk and leather.

Brand my skin with henna

as musical notes ride swirling dust,
follow scents of warm flatbread, honey,
and fresh squeezed juice of orange,
loose myself in filtered light, unnavigable souks,
dead-ending in spicy reds, golds, browns,
rustic oranges, tropical greens, pulsating blues.

Unmindful if I ever find my way back.

by Margaret Bednar, updated September 16, 2104

This is for "dVerse Poetics - Travel Poetry" - I updated a poem I wrote over two years ago about Morocco - or kind of.  About the only experience of Disney World I DID enjoy was Epcot.  I think I spent the most time in Morocco.  

"Veiled Window"

Photographer Guy Stern's Flicker Stream HERE

"Veiled Window"

I see young passion
Open window
Let my compliments tempt
Dance and come
To me; reparations
partake another day
Lady, let passion tremble
Surely my kisses
Prized.  Oh, sancutary
For me, desire to
Parlay - regard my
Lips.  This instance I bet
A dance and kiss I win.
Bless your beauty tonight
Open veiled window
And I'll come to you
Joy and more, I pledge

by Margaret Bednar, August 26, 2014

This is for dVerse Poetics:  Homophonic Translations.  Translate a foreign poem - translating just the sounds and the look of the words.  Try to stick to the original line lengths and stanza shapes.

The French poem I "interpretted" is below.  For a REAL English translation, see HERE.

Ici rien ne se passe
Tout est dehors
Le temps se plie comme un vêtement
Dans un coin
La mer rentre par transparence
Par la porte de verre
L’eau de la lumière tremble
Sur les murs lisses
Prison ou sanctuaire
Fermé à double tour
Par le regard même
La paix de l’instant se boit
Dans une coupe sans bord
Là-bas un bateau gîte
Toutes voiles dehors
Et avec l’écume bleue
Je mouille la page

Manawydan’s Glass Door (d’après David Jones, 1931)

"A Mother's Pondering"

A Mother's Pondering

Wings heavy with annoyance pick up speed, beat faster
than a diva's lashes.  Your parting words indecipherable
as I don't speak heron - but annoyance is universal.

Time and again I've held my breath, tried to come close.
Perhaps shyness I can understand, even recognize the need
for solitude - for wariness is evident in your tilted head.

You're often a blur in photographs:  s-curve neck, pointed toes,
expansive wings - a moment frozen - somehow a reminder that time
becomes memories - every second, day, week, month, year

all seem equally like yesterday, equally unchangeable.

I hope I embrace those I love with the same exuberance I feel when you stretch
and glide before my eyes.  Hope I've given my children the freedom to soar
without feeling the need to flee, without the need to lament my presence.

by Margaret Bednar, July 23, 2014

This is linked with dVerse - Poetics - Time & Time Again.  

dVerse Poetics "Keep Holy the Sabbath"

Keep Holy the Sabbath

Beneath Sunday's siren sun,
I squat, grip, heave, throw,
ignore scratchy hay 
between shirt, dirt, sweat.

Zombi-like follow row upon row,
squat, grip, heave, throw.
Makeup long gone, hair undone,
plastered wet, sigh relief

as baling machine
belches, sputters, jams,
twine spins, bales abort, distorted.
Wearily lean into truck's shade,

watch as he unbuttons, slips off shirt,
wipes brow, whistles low
(was that him or me?)
leans my way
(no, that's wishful thinking)
leans into breeze,
runs hand through my hair -
(I'm getting dizzy) his hair,

for the first time recall "Keep Holy
the Sabbath", quickly bow head,
thank God for the Glory
which stands before me,
(did I say that out loud?)
flush when our eyes meet,
and as if on cue, engine revs -
I squat, grip, heave, throw.

by Margaret Bednar, July 14, 2013

This is for dVerse Poetics - is this a pub or a mirage? Hop on over and see how the summer heat is interpreted by the other poets!

Grammar Heads .... my line (was that him or me?) - should it be "was that he or I"  I looked it up, but the more explanations I read, the more confused I got!  If you don't know - well that makes me feel good :)