The Barn Swallow

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.

by Margaret Bednar, June 30, 2016





Lake Leanna

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.

by Margaret Bednar, April 12, 2018





Coney Island







Before the clamor and confusion of mid-day,
before shadows slant lean and low
and seagulls dive-bomb a littered beach,

I gaze down the grey-boarded walk
bejeweled with brightly colored umbrellas
and awnings hawking lobster rolls, soft serve, and beer.

It's a calm before the storm, a respite;
ghostlike. As if I look hard enough,
I'll transport back in time

when five cents gypsied one down the tracks
to a beachside breeze, promise of a Nathan's frank,
and a Steeplechase thrill.

Electro Spin and Sea Side Swing seem overshadowed
by Wonder Wheel's grace (that's probably still the same)
and Classic Rock rolls its rhythm

as Carousel and Thunderbolt act as grand sentinels.
I'm eventually drawn to the beach
dotted with small shaded oasis's, crowded with coolers & chairs.

"Cold Coronas, Cotton Candy!, Snow Cones".
"Get it!, Get it!" and I buy two umbrellas for $20,
my refuge beneath a partially cloudy sky,

close my eyes as a life guard's whistle blows,
children laugh, bicker, cry
and Latino hip hop filters from over my left shoulder.

by Margaret Bednar, 07/01/2019