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.