close dreaming eyes
fragrance of cherry blossoms
intoxicates, breathe
Note: Dreams are magic. I dreamed spring into being today as I soaked up the lemon winter sun. The park may have been wet with snowmelt and smelling of mud but I was remembering cherry blossoms.
New snow,
pure and white,
softly falls and
outlines every tree limb
with its sharp contrast.
Blizzards stick to windows,
narrowing the view.
Each flake whispers,
Stay at home; stay inside.
The wildwood looks halved,
dark below but the white above
merges with the sky.
Snow settles, white as wishes,
paler than low clouds,
whiter than frozen breath,
pale as goose down
clinging to puffy coats.
The world is muffled
by the whitewash.
Sounds are muted and
traffic has ceased.
Wind whips crystals
into snow devils,
spinning like memories
of childhood past.
Thunderous snowplows
transform white into
salty mounds.
Each frozen drop
feels like summer’s tears.
We’re frozen into place,
housebound and
remembering.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Notes: Welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted thanks to Donna Smith at Mainely Write. She has posted a wonderful rhyming poem, perfectly setting out the in-between place today holds, adrift between holidays, seasons and weather. I hope you have a moment to visit her, even thought it means a jaunt out of WordPress and into the wilds of Blogspot.
I recently realized that being housebound during a snowstorm is not a thing everyone has experienced, strange as that concept seems to me — having life-long experience of blizzards and hurricanes. I thought about what being housebound during a blizzard means to me, and this poem emerged. Maybe you can share your own memories of being housebound, if it’s a thing that’s happened to you.
The colors of life,
of all things growing,
form a complex rainbow
in any season.
They linger as autumn
slips seamlessly into winter. Continue reading
spun sugar trees
limbs bent to the knees,
white with delight
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Notes:
This is a rhyming haiku.
It’s something to do.
Want to try one, too?
Happy Valentine’s Day and welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted thanks to Kimberley Moran at Written Reflections.
I may be old, bent and broken,
entirely blocking your path,
but inside where it counts,
I’m still a twig, leafy and new.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Some people see nature
and have to make art.
Sculpt, paint, illustrate,
immortalize and why?
To revisit that moment
to freeze it, never leave it.
We tinker, change
renew, remake, even fake.
If only time were a centrifuge,
spinning inward the best parts,
the sweetest, fleeting moments,
all together in the center
in one memory maelstrom
of magical moments.
The longest hug, the first kiss,
a safe landing from the scariest ride,
getting your first job,
the moment you finished a book that changed your life,
the scents of coffee, chocolate, pastries and tea
intertwined in your favorite cafe,
finishing your best work ever,
the night you laughed so hard you cried,
getting a parking space beside the door when you’re crazy late,
the number of stars visible on the darkest night,
and when you finally gave birth in an agony of warm liquid
only to have those new, moist eyes transfix you.
We could live there at the center
if we could fix to our walls the art of each moment.
Isn’t it worth trying?
Note: We found the first rabbit, huddled in the rain, when we visited the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The poor thing seemed to roll his eyes at us, as if our taking a picture of him while he was cold and wet was the final indignity of a long, hungry day. We found the second rabbit in a garden. I was struck by how someone had seen the crack in him, and had just tucked a scarlet dahlia behind his ear. My children were young enough to wonder why we were at a Museum at all. I told them we were there to see art, and they looked at me blankly. I told them we were looking for secret doors and hidden rooms. Everywhere we went, we looked at the angle of things and speculated which painting might conceal a secret passage. These photographs remind me of that day. Let’s remember only good things, at least today. Maybe we can even take one of them and make it into art. Have a magical day! Warmly, Brenda
If I had fins, I could swim
as sharks do, with a ripple
of my muscled back,
eyes open, never sleeping.
I’d never brush my teeth,
I’d grow new ones.
I’d smell my brothers coming
and swim the other way.
Even if they caught up,
my diamond-tooth skin
would be tickle proof.
I wouldn’t have to walk
down dark hallways,
my way would be lit
by phosphorescent fish.
I’d never have to sleep
alone in my room
with only a bear.
I’d stay on the move,
snacking between meals
whenever I choose.
Mom busses my cheek
and tucks me in.
My mouth tastes minty.
Bing-Bong, my bear,
fits into my elbow,
just right.
Sharks can’t dream
if they never sleep.
I wonder what
I’ll dream tonight.
I’ll be a shark in the sea!
I’m glad I’m me.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: For all the people who long to be sharks, may you swim in dreamland tonight. This poem is also for the kids’ literature folks at Poetry Friday. Thanks to this week’s host, Catherine, a talented teacher and poet, at Reading to the Core. Michelle Heidenrich Barnes at Today’s Little Ditty published a wonderful collection of poetry about nothing, and she even included a poem of mine that doesn’t appear on this website. If you want to submit your poem about nothing, you can visit her site for details. She enters all participants and commenters to win an autographed book, too!
Petals fall away,
leaving the leaves
to spiral inward
like a rose in
full bloom,
laced with thorns but
with a stem too woody
for easy conquest.
The strawberry center
remembers the tease of bees.
The rain drains away,
leaving a few drops to
glisten like diamonds.
Whoever says winter
has no flowers
hasn’t seen the holly
as I have.
Note: I snapped this photo a few weeks ago before the first snow. I can’t help looking for flowers even in winter. Holly has been incorporated into many belief systems over the centuries. People planted holly as protection against thunder or to ward off witchcraft. The holly flowers in spring, and its four tiny petals form a cross, making it a common symbol for Christianity. It also represents the waning light of the year from Midsummer to Midwinter in the Celtic faith. May it help your imagination flower.
Jewel-bright juniper berries
dangled like azure fairies
amidst needles unfurled,
seeking the eyes of every bird.
Berries stayed sugar sweet
until fermenting was complete.
Early spring, greedy bluejays
fell down tipsy over two days,
leaving feathers ruffled aft.
How the crows laughed.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Some birds actually eat too many fermented berries and behave badly. Once I discovered that, I just had to write a poem about it. I also ran across a hilarious video of African animals overindulging on Marula fruit. A more serious poem about juniper berries is here. Have a great week!
Even in winter,
with nary a leaf,
trees hold up the sky,
cut the wind and
frame the stars.
Tall maples sing our future,
lament our past.
First, morning pianissimo
swells to workday allegro
but quickens to andantino
after a tangerine sunset.
A mad tarantella makes
Saturdays ache with dance.
Stormy days, we hear brass
crescendo of crashing branches.
Trees measure our lives.
Each season has its movement,
winter’s pianissimo alternating
with icy crescendo:
concertos made from time,
measured into beauty,
the melody our breath,
the bass our heartbeat.
Woodwind chords are
refined by strings.
In the tree song,
we find time
and healing.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I hope you are hearing music. Have a great week!
Sky gray as grave wrappings,
day dawns with the sullens.
Sodden leaf mold mingles
with the scent of coming snow.
Silent crows are drenched and dismal,
staring into the storm’s eye.
Oak leaves, brown and wilted,
make a damp chatter, as if they gossip.
Even the dryad shivers,
lissome and fair but cold in there.
She turns a shoulder to the icy wind
and hoodwinks the honest earth
into seeing a magic eye appear
gathering the light, shedding no tear.
The luminous gaze falls on the smallest
child, hopeful of seeing the first
snowflake spiral like a fallen star.
No frown can stay down in
the presence of wonder and hope.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: A dryad is a nymph or goddess of a tree, often an oak. I make reference to a Sylvia Plath poem, On the Difficulty of Conjuring Up a Dryad, in which conjuring, Plath fails. Her “tree stays tree” no matter how she wrenches “obstinate bark and trunk/ To [her] sweet will”. Is she disappointed or triumphant when “no luminous shape/ Steps out radiant in limb, eye, lip,/ To hoodwink the honest earth which pointblank/ Spurns such fiction/ As nymphs”? She then observes that her cold vision “will have no counterfeit/ Palmed off on it.” My imagination is of a different sort than hers today. Where my eye scans, I see magic. May you have a magical day.
Friendly Fairy Tales 