Pocketed (junk journal poems)

 

Pocketed (junk journal poems)

Thankfully, it's easy for me to pocket melancholy,

tuck it away,  hidden behind trinkets

of memories and favorite things happily enjoyed

like butterfly wings riding the mountain breeze

and flannel shirts wrapped and comforted - 

a faded well-worn red a particular favorite,

the color of an old barn, my favorite lipstick,

Polaroid image of roses on Grandmother's front porch.

I have a treasured memory of Father, 

hands holding a pencil, fingers sure,

sketching, shading, captivating. Yet,

he never found approval in mine.

He taught young boys softball, 

but a weekend spent with me, coaching,

my determination focused, so eager...

was never repeated.

Mother read the stories at night.  I absorbed

every word.  Father called her away,

his voice never added to the wonder and delight.

It was the way things were. I didn't question it much.

Yesteryear's childhood full of freedom and joy,

yet how much richer if Father had truly mentored

like my husband does with ours?  

The adoration a blessed thing 

I'll never tuck away; freely offer red kisses 

upon his cheek for proof.  

By Margaret Bednar, February 6, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #55 - What you Resist, You Become".   This is also inspired by a page in my "Junk Journal Poems".  

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #56"

I have been organizing and cleaning lately (that's why I've been gone for these past few weeks as I had said I wanted to be back in the swing of things writing with my fellow poets and their wonderful prompts ... I am having a hysterectomy in less than three weeks and want everything in order. 

The Raid

 

The Raid

Purple clover and meadow foxtail grass

rimmed edge of field and "forest"

where sister's and my fort was an old oak limb

slumberously hanging over property line

offering a world secret and secure 

during summer's heat.

However, I recall cool mornings

where I'd lay upon grass, enchanted,

tempted by luscious berries slowly deepening

to ruby red, heavy upon stalks, almost pouting

in their perfect little circle garden 

Father had dug for Mother.  It took a bit of discipline

to resist such flavor, but father promised 

the wait would be worth it.

The berries were surrounded with scrolled white wire,

twelve inches high where I knew little fairies sat,

shared laughs while fashioning clothes

from scalloped green leaves -

I just never caught sight of them.

June in Illinois is humid and hot, buggy,

where the drone of insects overpowers birdsong.

It was a day like this, sister and I snug in "forest" shade,

heard Father, mad as a hornet, yelling.

Perring from our post on high, doom and despair

met our gaze.  Our milking goat had escaped her pen,

berries and green leaves staining and hanging

from her white countenance, eyes drunk

with the sweet taste of berry and vine, fairy fence

wrapped about her neck, trailing behind her 

as she dashed just ahead of Father's flailing arms.

It became an addiction, year after year,

Momma and babies successfully raided

the round oasis of sweetness, until my Father

waving a white flag of surrender,

planted grass seed instead.  Ever after,

every Sunday in June and into July,

roadside farmer's stand supplied us

with baskets of strawberries

(of which I secreted a few to the criminals

in the barnyard).

My first garden was graced with a few statues:

St. Francis, a little pig, a chicken... and goat,

and produced many delicious meals: beans,

lettuce, tomatoes.  But no strawberries.

by Margaret Bednar, January 12, 2021

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United -  Writers' Pantry #52 - Year's Beginning" and I resurrected the old post "#22 - It Takes a Bit of Discipline"  I changed the word "takes" to "took")  309 words