Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
— William Shakespeare
So much depends on the poetry of William Carlos Williams. Without his poetry, how many American poets would still use the formal language of Whitman? Continue reading
Snail sets sail
on cordgrass stalk.
Gulls squawk.
Copyright 2018 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Let me be the shadow
under your bloom,
the stone that
lifts you,
the lichen that
breaks rock to soil. Continue reading
implacable rain
drenches skin, soil and stem but
my words keep me dry
Copyright 2018 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Groundhogs amble past brambles.
Winter torpor adds a weighty waddle
to their dandelion waltz. Continue reading
Fresh rain dimples
Mother Ocean,
intertwining with brine
in frothy swells, Continue reading
Minnows swim. Crabs hide.
Tides roll in, tides roll out,
drowned to drought.
Plovers pipe. Wren nest.
Mussels and clams filter waste
and toxins out. Continue reading
snow doesn’t stick
buds burst, robins return
it’s spring
Copyright 2018 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Under the snow
that falls today,
are blooms that
smell like blue sky
and sunshine.
Copyright 2018 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Acevedo’s words wake my inner girl,
that angry, confined, injured girl
who broke free of youth, rose up,
and found that her bruised layers Continue reading
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