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
Love is a Kite
Love is a kite.
It carries you up
to a terrifying height
until you can see
the future, the past and now.
Love is art.
Only the heart
can hold steady,
ride the wind,
dance aflame and remain the same.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: My 6 year old daughter and I spent the afternoon making Valentine art. You see mine above. My hubby asked if I planned to put it on my website, and I said no. He said, you should. So I listened, with my heart, and here it is. I hope it lifts you up, as it did me. Happy Valentine’s Day! Warmly, Brenda
Windows open
Love is in the air at Beth’s site today. Kids love with their whole hearts, and it’s reflected in their art. Come remember being a kid. Happy Valentine’s Day!
all the windows of my heart i open to the day.
– john greenleaf whittier
happy valentine’s day.
Spun Sugar Trees
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.
Still a Twig
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
Marshmallow Child
Another snow day!
Kids rush out to play.
Jump, hop and slide,
roll, tunnel and hide.
In they come, solid white,
stamp, stomp, shake,
drip, drop, gloves flop,
shiny puddles inside.
Layers off, smiles wide.
Hot chocolate and soup,
tired eyelids droop.
But food and giggles revive.
They just need to take five.
Outside boys and girls go,
carrot above, sticks below,
forming something wild,
a marshmallow child.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Another snow day, another day of sledding, careening, snowbank reigning. Winter weather makes for fun. Hope you are warm and happy, wherever you may be.
Squirrel Haven
A ladder to tiny feet,
an escape to the heavens,
a haven on high,
away from canine intrusions,
a place of nooks, crannies,
secret bolt holes and
hidden stores.
Hiding.
A treehouse, a mansion,
another dimension
betwixt earth and sky,
where small critters
can shiver out of icy winds,
escape high above snowdrifts and
listen for the quickening.
Waiting.
A trickle of ice melt,
the scritch-scritch of green shoots,
the drumming surge of resin,
drip, drops of shiny amber,
the burgeoning of buds,
a whisper of unfolding forsythia,
a symphony heard only by tiny ears.
Spring.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: This poem is my contribution for Poetry Friday, this week hosted thanks to The Miss Rumphius Effect. This photo was taken at Massachusetts Audubon site, Belmont Habitat. You can see gray sky, but not pelting rain. My son observed me taking photos from under my umbrella. He alleged that in filming Singing in the Rain, they had to dye the rain white because it was invisible otherwise. I haven’t confirmed this, but I immediately pictured Gene Kelly completely white after filming, like an angel. Or a plaster saint. I hope you’re warm and dry or at least have a good umbrella. We have our first snow day here this morning. Happy children bounding and bouncing! Warmly, Brenda
In Defense of Art
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
Gnome Grown
Sprig Gnome tends his woodland garden. Thistle shears help him prune raspberry canes. He mulches fungus shingles atop his den, waters moss, and collects dinner. Before his basket is full, a shadow darkens the glade. He ducks and dodges but all goes awry. Ida Owl grasps him in her talons, and she lowers her yellow eye.
“I’m done for!” Sprig howls. “Save me!” Will anyone hear him?
“Sprig, save it! I need your help.” Ida Owl grouches. “A splinter in my claw is driving me mad!”
“I see it.” Sprig extracts it with a yank of his thistle shears.
Ida hops side to side, flexing and gyrating. “Oh, what a relief. I must thank you properly. Hop on.”
Is she serious? Can he trust her? Sprig stows his basket. He climbs up her feathers like a ladder.
“That tickles!” Ida giggles. Then she flaps powerful wings. Sprig’s stomach bottoms out as they rise. Winds swirl and flow until Sprig worries that he’s seen his last night. He holds tight. They bank and loop. They hoot and holler. The air smells of crushed apples. He reaches toward stars as if they were snowflakes.
An owl and a gnome make the least-likely of friendships. News travels the meadow like a brush fire. A gnome is riding an owl! Unheard of! Unthinkable! Sequester Squirrel follows, swinging tree limb to ivy vine. Dentbottom Rabbit has to see it with his own rheumy eyes, and his great-granddaughter holds his arm. Dinwald Stag-King brings his large tribe to gape.
When Sprig lands, he feels as if the earth has stopped orbiting the sun. The air is too still. He waves good-bye to Ida, and follows fireflies into his den. His feet find each lump in the maple leaf carpet. His thistledown bed is squashed and untidy. He snips, clips and mixes until his forage stew bubbles and sings. The air fills with the scent of braising brined beetles. But he misses the scent of crushed apples and owl feathers.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: We’ve been enjoying a lovely thaw like spring is visiting February. It makes me wish I could fly. I hope your dreams take you on fun flights of fancy tonight. Warmly, Brenda
Vibrant all Year – WPC
Tickle Proof Sharks
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!
Holly Flower
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.
