margaretbednar365.blogspot.com (Of Verse, Poesy & Odes) is for poetic challenges and poems that may still be unfinished. Poems have been "nurtured, weeded, and snipped" from that blog, uprooted and transplanted to Drops of Black Ink; poems I consider "in full bloom" Poems can be searched for by subject by selecting and perusing "Categories" below. MOST POSTS ARE ACCOMPANIED BY A SOUND CLOUD AUDIO OF ME READING MY POEM.
It's as if I'm looking through a keyhole, the two of them silhouetted against a future bright. One looms large, admired, fedora tilted over one eye. The other? Innocence, unaware of flaws in his hero. Youth demands attention; I make excuses, my heart tender, understanding both as only a mother can.
If only the hero can comprehend, for a moment look down, truly see how similar they are. How once he filled my minutes and hours with words. Does he remember I listened? Know I still thrill with the wonder inside him?
Youth needs a hero and he's been chosen. My youngest and oldest; boy and young man upon a threshold. Hero can lend a guiding hand, provide a key for frontiers yet to be explored.
Worship won't last forever - nor should it. But the honor, for as long as it is offered, is a gift few ever receive.
"The important thing in life is to let the years carry us along." Federico Garcia Lorca, Yerma"
This evening I press my ear to your chest, hear the ocean's waves and laughing gulls that reside inside, distant laughter of children you've made fast friends, your voice calling Mother, come look!"
Close my eyes, see you walk a mermaid's path, white frothy sea foam and iridescent bubbles slowly fade and pop as morning's surf recedes, tears glistening as you mourn their death.
Wrap myself around you, whelk like, my shell far too fragile for true protection. Realize tears are as important as laughter yet my heart bangs along the shore, chipped and worn, fighting for a journey resembling my dreams perhaps more than yours.
And there's the fissure as you turn and take the covers with you surely as decisively as the tide reclaims what is hers. Always.
So, I settle upon the porch, chastised a bit, yet revel in the sounds I've heard, know you are alive and growing, tumbling along life's shoreline beneath the laughing gulls.
The college boys considered it a roadside 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 beggared 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.
Come evening, hellos and goodbyes emanated from beneath these covered respites, 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, boys insisting its presence was a "legacy" to be upheld.
Summer mornings I"d watch as he of wing and tapered tail, royal and rust, and early morning swoops over field and lawn dive-bombed my not-so-innocent-cat; shoulders hunched, eyes averted, whose tail, raised in supposed surrender, would suddenly twist and paw for the arial acrobat always just out of reach.
Even spied my little lion, quivering, chattering, balancing on barn's wooden beams, eyes fixated on unattainable little mud cup plastered to the wall where five little nestlings precariously perched, tipping, swaying at nests edge seemingly willing to offer themselves up any minute with a vertical fall.
A few found fate's end flat and lifeless as a preserved flower between pages of a book; their press a dirt floor and a horse's hoof.
As my cat aged (and wizened) he in my lap and I reading a book, we'd let evening tide tuck us in beneath shadowed porch, tangerine sky settling in and watch the skimming aces frolic after winged insects, their kvik, kvik, wit, wit joining mid-summer's lullaby.
It qualified more as a mud puddle than a lake, but we kids didn't notice or care that sand was hauled in each year and ended at the water line.
Squishy mud greeted our toes the moment we stepped in, quickly swam to the floating dock which wobbled back and forth
with every single neighborhood kid upon it, perhaps doing a better job at babysitting than Mrs. Phillips, basking not only in the sun but the latest Harlequin Romance,
or the gossiping mothers smoking and sipping "soft drinks", rearranging bathing suit straps to avoid tan lines;
shook our heads as some boys strained eyeballs hoping for a peek of Mrs. Blue's ample bosom. At least they came,
some moms packed a few soft drinks in a styrofoam cooler, waved goodbye from the front door; provided sunblock, more often baby oil.
One day feared I'd sink beneath greenish brown depths as there was no room upon the floating "nanny",
was sure no one would ever notice my disappearance. Believe that's the day I learned to float upon my back, but not after a few near-death experiences.
Spent many a summer evening digging through the sand searching for stained red cigarette butts, hesitantly inhaling and coughing
as we hid creekside below the dam. Spied our teenage crush wooing a girl upon the beach, giggled at the corny things he said, but in the end he got his kiss and we swooned.
Summer seemed to last forever in those days, but the years since have certainly flown. I revisited Lake Leanna a while ago, surprised to see a sign "Swim at your own risk".
Had to laugh as we always had, just no one warned us.
"because a red geranium has blossomed open." Carilda Olivar Labra
Grandma's red roses nest my earliest memories of sisters and me seated beneath fragrant blooms, white trellis a backdrop for Polaroid images now faded with a time
when Grandma sat and enjoyed evening's breeze while we balanced blocks sky high, tested sidewalk's freedom in front of her small red house, unsuccessfully tried to quiet childish country voices.
Earthy and safe was the scent of her yard, clothes wrung and hung on t-post line, grass tickled bare feet as we picked cherries from gnarled trees; impatiently waited for warm tart pies with buttery crust.
***
Drove by her house long after she'd passed, years after I'd married. Gone, the splash of reds which made Grandma's house stand out. Had to circle 'round twice to be sure.
To this day wish I had a green thumb; thank heaven for my hardy scalloped lace-leaved flowers that last all summer long, give me that dash of color I'll always crave.
Palm a poem as if fragile
even if the words are bold.
Let them sink into your skin
as if moonlight,
let them flow through your veins
until they become ordinary
for only then will we know
they nourished
by Margaret Bednar
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