Windflower
opens
eye,
seeing
first
butterfly. Continue reading →
Category Archives: Poetry
Cirque de Printemps
Crocuses raise cheery salutes,
opening orange invitations to
invite us to Come One, Come All,
to spring’s circus in the meadow. Continue reading
Goodbye, Winter
Goodbye, Winter.
Ciao, deep snow.
Time to dig out
my pink maillot. Continue reading
Blessing Rain
I step out of my writing cave
into a day of misty rain, blinking.
A squirrel is digging
a hole in the dark soil. Continue reading
Old Hat
Snow is old hat.
We’re ready for a new topper,
a cold stopper: Continue reading
Coral Flowers
If I were a fish,
I’d live in a coral tower.
If I were a bird, I’d nest
above a cactus flower. Continue reading
Evade Capture
As night flees down dark paths
from the early light,
dreams scatter into
deadening fog.
The breathing air carries stories
of foreign pain
and domestic infighting
that will scream from our
headlines by noon. Bar the door. Continue reading
Mint-Lemon Spring
Trees in bud burst
open, unrehearsed,
wild mint-lemon taste. Continue reading
Snow Fish
Snow fish,
flow fish,
flying toward spring. Continue reading
Sister Blue
Brother new, sister blue, I miss you.
Both lost at age four. Pain is evermore. Continue reading
Star Swords
Gathering in the sky
are low, heavy mists:
snow clouds shaped
by Zeus and Thor. Continue reading
Lost. Missed. poem by Brenda Davis Harsham (LOST AND FOUND Poetry and Prose Series)
Here is a tear-jerker from my past. In a new house, new neighborhood and BAM! A day to remember… Have a magical rest of the weekend!
Lost. Missed.
by Brenda Davis Harsham
Break my arm
on a dare,
climbing aboard
a rusty, swing set beam.
Father freaks:
“Move your fingers!”
“NO!” word swims
in a red-faced, salty ocean.
Dad wraps arm
in a newspaper.
Blankie dries
every tear. Fingers wiggle.
That night. Sleepless.
Arm throbs. I
realize Blankie
is across town, at the ER.
Parents? “No way.”
Dare? Done.
Courage? Won.
Blankie? Bye. Lost. Missed.
AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: Me, at two, holding Blankie — lost but not forgotten.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I broke my arm around age six. I grew up in the tough love generation. My stepmother was probably happy that blankie was gone and her daughter on the way toward growing up. Not many kids had blankies in first grade. At that age, I didn’t understand how tired parents can be after a day like that one. I do now. These days, I agree…
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