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August 1, 2014

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Japanese Garden Magic

Magic hides in the quiet spaces:
Weights lift in the greening.*
Tree branches and bark take shapes
In the corner of the eye;
Lights flicker like fairies dancing.
A turned head, and the magic’s gone.
An arched bridge holds infinite
Possibilities for revealing
Secrets, just over the crest.
Only children can climb it.
Invite the magic to sup jasmine tea
And nibble an almond sweet,
And soon the whole day seems a dream.

* Note: This use of “greening” is meant to refer to the process of feeling younger in a garden, feeling the years drop away and spirits lift. Greening can be defined as the return to youthful characteristics.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

June 5, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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29 Comments

Dandelion Wishes

windy days blowing
dandelion kisses high
children make wishes

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 26, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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32 Comments

Big Boots, Little Boots

my daughter’s boots
snugged beside her daddy’s,
new footsteps following

Note: Inspired by the Weekly Photo Challenge: Juxtaposition by the Daily Post.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 4, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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43 Comments

Back to the Beginning Haībun

Picture used by kind permission of Ines Williamson

In the yellow light of a new night, the cobblestones echo my thoughts back to me. “Why are you here?” Here is where I started, in a small apartment past that iron gate. The first sunshine I ever remember seeing flooded into my tiny room there on the third floor.

My friends and I played stickball and tackle-tommy in the Magic Between. That special time between school and dinner is what I miss most, that magical time when parents were busy and kids could play. I remember the Between as one big blur, like an endless summer day: my homerun, Jack’s skinned knee and when Bats broke his arm swinging over the fence instead of walking through like everyone else.

I rang in the New Year with my folks in their new place across town, but this golden gateway is where the little-me, my memory, still lives. I remember when Stefan’s snake escaped, and Mrs. Nolan came screaming down her stairs, after finding it curled under her stove.

Is home on these cobbles? Or in the window glass I looked through on a night like tonight? My sister and I wished on a star. Wishes are secret, but mine was to fly in an airplane one day, to be inside one leaving a contrail wide enough to be seen all over the city, knowing people were looking up at the roar I made. Then my sister and I realized the only star in the sky was moving, not a star at all, probably an airplane. Do wishes made on planes come true? This one did.

I came back to my hometown on an airplane, home to see my folks, so happy in their new apartment, all their things reduced and rearranged. My sister is busy with her three kids and their teenage angst, but she came to see me and our parents. I don’t think she really saw me. We barely spoke. I couldn’t think what to say to her. I wonder what her wish was, all those years ago. I know better than to ask. Now a new airplane will take me home to Boston, my other home.

home is in my heart
not here on this cobbled street
but I hear its echo

Inspired by the first Līgo Haībun Challenge of 2014, part of a picture prompt from Ese at Ese’s Voice.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 1, 2014

Posted under

Humor, Poetry

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Red Pajamas Shadorma

Little leaves
Buried in the snow,
Peeking out
Like children,
Dressed in their red pajamas,
Throwing off covers.

Note: This poem is called a Shadorma, which is a rhythmic six-line poetry form, each line having specific syllable counts of 3, 5, 3, 3, 7 and 5. It may be modern; it may be a revived older poetry form. Some attribute it to Spain, although to me it sounds Indian, for no other reason than it rhymes with Lamb Korma. No authority I found gave it a definitive origin, and I offer it to you as a beautiful form, allowing a licentious 26 syllables instead of the austere 17 permitted by haiku. It’s a heady freedom!

References:

http://risinghawkspeaks.wordpress.com/2013/12/22/noreaster/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadorma
http://www.poetrypages.com/phpBB3/viewtopic.php?t=16872
http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/shadorma-a-highly-addictive-poetic-form-from-spain
http://popularpoetryforms.blogspot.com/2013/01/shadorma.html
http://caraholman.wordpress.com/tag/shadorma-poetry/

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

December 21, 2013

Posted under

Holiday, Poetry

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Today is the Shortest Day!!

Susan Cooper is a truly great children’s literature writer. She wrote many magical books, including the fantastic five book series, the Dark is Rising. She also has out a new book, Ghost Hawk, set in New England! Woo-hoo! We’ve bought a copy for one of my kids for Christmas (mum’s the word) and I can’t wait to read it myself!!

Here is an excerpt from her book: The Magic Maker, a Portrait of Jack Langstaff, Creator of the Revels, followed by a video of her reading the same poem:

The Shortest Day
by Susan Cooper

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
Continue reading →

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

December 19, 2013

Posted under

Humor, Poetry, Tales for Kids of All Ages

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60 Comments

‘Tis the Season Haībun

There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.
— Erma Bombeck

When I was a child, I hated suspense, and all my energy went into solving mysteries quickly. I generally figured out who did what where in the game Clue, where the flag was in Stratego and what I was getting for Christmas. Continue reading →

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

December 14, 2013

Posted under

Poetry

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Tree of Life Haībun

Used with permission of Managua Gunn

I dream here in this place of ancient magic, listening to the humming telephone wires. Oil wells beat like a thousand hearts. My roots stretch beneath the hill, into the frozen past. The dry desert sands cannot warm the hidden place where the Garden of Eden still flourishes, hidden from man these many thousand years. I was blown to this hill as a seed, more than 400 years ago.

mother lost in time
father wind threw me from her
alone in this place

A child fell, cutting his knee on a pottery shard. His blood watered the sand, pushing me into the soil. In his brief pain, he called to Enki, the Water God, who granted a year of beating rain. Was I blessed by Enki to outlive my kin or cursed to burn in the sun, gaped at by tourists?

Shajarat-al-Hayat
symbol of forgotten time
outliving all loves

Inspired by the weekly Haībun challenge.
References:
http://www.worldtoptop.com/mysterious-tree-of-life-bahrain/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tree_of_Life,_Bahrain
http://www.bahrain.com/en/vp/things-to-do/top-ten-sights/Pages/Tree-of-Life.aspx#.UqvbGyihDzI

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

November 11, 2013

Posted under

Fairy Tale for Boys, Tales for Kids of All Ages, Young Fairy Tale

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Published Fairy Tale, Part 2

On October 22, Friendly Fairy Tales announced the publication of a new, previously-unpublished story, The Day the Dragon Flew up the Chimney, on The Paperbook Collective October 2013 Issue 3.

Click to read Part 1. As promised, here is the Final Part:

Henry decided he’d better keep an eye on the dragon, so he followed it closely. The dragon was flitting from chair leg to chair leg. He would hop up onto chair arms or tables and eat the food right off people’s plates and drink the tea right out of people’s cups. Everyone was so busy talking that no one noticed a thing.

Then the miller’s wife reached for one of her cookies, only to find that it had disappeared. “That’s odd,” she said.

“Miss Miller, Ma’am,” said Henry. “A dragon has eaten your cookies.” Meanwhile the dragon had moved on to Phileas Farmer’s plate.

“Henry!” scolded his mother. “Stop telling fibs and don’t filch people’s cookies. Now for the last time, go and play. Honestly.”

“But Mama,” protested Henry. Sadly, his mother just shook her head at him and waggled her finger. If his mother wouldn’t believe him, who would? Henry watched as the tiny dragon plundered the room of its teacakes, its cookies, its biscuits and its tea with cream. A hum of conversation arose as more and more villagers were puzzled to discover empty plates and cups. Henry wondered how such a tiny dragon could eat so much.

Then the dragon had the temerity to steal from his father’s plate, and that was more than Henry could bear. “Daddy, Daddy,” cried Henry. “The dragon is stealing your biscuits!” The whole room stopped to stare at Henry. Henry’s father seemed very embarrassed.

“Henry, I told you not to fib!” cried his mother, standing up.

“But I’m not!” Henry replied.

“Then where is the dragon,” asked the mayor with one last laugh. Henry pointed at the hearth where the dragon perched, fickety-mickety finishing up the last chocolate from the plate of Mrs. Farmer. The fire had died down a little, but he was still clearly visible against the glow.

When the dragon noticed everyone staring at him, he gulped down the cookie and flew straight up the chimney.

Everyone gave a gasp, and the mayor and several aldermen raced over to try to look up the chimney. No one could see anything for the fire and the smoke.

Henry’s mother and father came and gave him hugs and apologized for doubting him. The villagers all patted his shoulders and told him how brave he had been. He was the village hero thereafter. And when Henry grew up, they elected him mayor. To this day they tell stories of the day the dragon flew up the chimney.

THE END

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

November 5, 2013

Posted under

Poetry

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37 Comments

Namibia HaĪbun

Himba Tribal Woman, Namibia, Africa
Photo by Dr Agnieszka Wojtecka, Gdansk, Poland

I was born in Namibia in the heat of the summer sun, outside a homestead beside the Kunene River, many miles from the Skeleton Coast. Mukuru blessed my beloved Namibia with music, dancing and poetry.

homestead in grasslands

waters flow like gold blessings

river meeting sand

My young mother glistened with the traditional red ochre called otjize, which she made from the Omuzumba shrub in the way her mothers and sisters have done since a time beyond memory. Grandfather, the headman, tended the okuruwo, the sacred fire, feeding it Mopane branches. He had not let the fire die for sixty years. Over the fire, he spoke to his ancestors. Nearby, his daughter sat quietly, her braids shading her face, listening to music ripple like heat waves. His music drew my spirit down, and I sang my song to her, her braids sliding along her neck as she lifted her face to the sky.

red braids, shining face

your magic called me to earth

my song filled your ears

Sitting in stillness beside the Mopane in the meagre shade, she first heard my song. Her face shone with the light of the powerful desert sun. She listened carefully, and with her natural musical talent she quickly learned my song. I returned to my long dreaming, but she continued to sing my song. She called my spirit from the dreaming land back to the earth. The women welcomed me on the day of my birth, singing my song through the long hours of her labor.

first gasp of hot air

I cried from surprise, alone

watery world gone

You nourished my spirit, Mother of my earthly body. When I was sad, my mother sang my song, and my spirit remembered the dream land. I joined my song to the songs of the villagers and those of my sisters and brothers. I learned to tend the cattle among the men, but I thought often of my mother. When a lion came for the cattle, it scared me. I held my fear tight until my mother and the villagers sang my song, and my spirit soared high again. In dry years, the cattle grew thin in the high reaches, but the river sustained us like my mother sustained me. Always the cattle could find grass by the Kunene.

water is precious

waters draw grassland from sand

liquid sky, god’s gift

Written for the weekly Ligo Haibun challenge (making Fridays more beautiful for us all).

Articles used in writing the story:

http://theperfectbirth.wordpress.com/2013/04/22/the-himba-namibia-the-birth-song/

http://birthpsychology.com/free-article/very-early-parenting-african-model-childs-song

http://www.newafricanfrontiers.com/namibia/country-info/people-of-namibia

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Himba_people

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/0401/feature2/index.html?fs=www7.nationalgeographic.com

http://www.beforethey.com/tribe/himba

Click to access himba_info.pdf

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

October 31, 2013

Posted under

Holiday, Poetry

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16 Comments

For Caregivers on Halloween: Grandmother Tree

Young maples trees blossom with hectic autumn color
Where they shelter under the high arching limbs
Of the deep-rooted grandmother tree.

Lovely, steady grandmother tree, slow to change,
Thick bark insulates and shields her from the cold,
Only showing golden and claret touches high up.

One by one, her bright leaves sigh and let go,
Lightly drifting down to caress her young for a moment.
Finally on the earth, their leaves mingle and embrace.

This Halloween, be like the grandmother tree.
Gather the rain, slow the wind, your roots entwined.
Let your children bloom and thrive, safe in your care.