I enjoy every
yellow thing
that blooms in
early spring.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: This ditty is in honor of writing and rewriting manuscripts galore. Plus, today, I won an award-winning book thanks to a cat named Maggie. Continue reading
This cold, blustery day, I dream
into being another spring day.
This one is mountain-flavored,
nearer to heaven than the sea,
far away from here, far from me.
A mountain meadow blooms
as far as my eye can see:
pink heads nod their approval,
as if they like what they see.
I’m atilt, upright on this slope,
keeping my feet, holding out hope.
Pollen coats my skin in gold dust
and I run as lightly as a wind gust.
I lift my arms to the sky,
I’m not a gazelle, but I can fly!
l reach the dim of the tree line,
and each leaf sings harmony with me.
Part of me dwells there, in that perfect hour
when spring is eternal: sweet, soft air and
cool breezes. Infinite beauty. Birds sing,
deer graze and rabbits nod to the grass.
The scent of wildflowers is heaven.
Heaven is in our memories.
Note: The title is from a quatrain that has been niggling at the corners of my attention all week. I decided to embrace it, celebrate it. This is the first of two posts about it. Do you know it already? It’s this one:
“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.”
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.
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
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.
Winter pale flower
held in cold-red leaves,
do you you remember summer days
in your shell-pink cloak?
Did you shiver during autumn chills,
that tinged your pink to mauve?
Harsh frosts followed that revealed
your icy pallor to Father Winter.
Do you imagine being free to
spin and drift, a pale tumbleweed,
anticipating your final dance with
the first frozen flakes?
Or do you dream only of
summer’s heat when rain
fell like a cool blessing?
You’re the star of every season,
a galaxy of order and intention,
each petal where it needs to be.
I hope to travel my seasons
with as much joy and fun,
saving my wildest dance
for my last winter.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: These oak leaf hydrangeas manage to look beautiful, no matter the season. They inspire me to remember summer, no matter how cold the day. I hope you are remembering summer or enjoying its warmth right now, depending on your relationship to the equator. Have a great week, full of magic and memories!
Thankful for summer —
fragrant with cottage roses
climbing a stone wall.
Thankful for autumn’s
brilliant multi-colored leaves
that spin, curl and fall.
Thankful for winter —
sledding and skating on mill ponds,
made smooth with ice.
Thankful for spring
when bulbs and roots create
flower paradise.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Here is a thankful poem in recognition of Thanksgiving, a time when we celebrate what the earth gives us. This is my contribution for Poetry Friday hosted this week by Miss Rumphius Effect.
Do rusty blooms taste bittersweet,
of summer gone, left incomplete?
Thick stems are braced for swirls
from wind, even hurricanes whirls.
Honey formed on shortening days
might fizz, pop and amaze.
Will a bit smeared on bread
come with warnings of danger ahead?
Perhaps tea sweetened with that nectar
would raise an unholy specter,
a white vision of winter coming,
icy, pale dreams thrumming.
I recklessly stir it into a cup,
unafraid of what might turn up.
The stillness of a perfect day
belies the storms headed this way.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Beware the garden party
where evil spells are cast
by ladies in flowered sun hats.
You might find yourself nibbling
rock cake with a pinky high,
or find your high heels sunk
into fertile, loamy ground.
But that’s not the worst, oh no!
You might find that birds
dive bomb your bonnet
or squirrels run up your sleeve.
Or wicked teens drive by
and shout “Show some ankle!”
Someone does lift a leg,
but it’s only the spaniel,
watering the hydrangea,
right below your hem.
The weather takes a sultry turn,
and you use your napkin as a fan,
only to remember too late,
the crumbs from the rock cake.
When they splatter the hostess,
just chuckle and blush —
it’s those evil spells,
none are immune.
You’ve done your part
to make the lawn into art –
now it’s time to depart.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I was inspired to write this summer poem when I researched garden party hats, because my hibiscus blooms make me think of a garden party, resplendent with lavish sun hats. The Duchess of Cambridge is helping make the fascinator popular. I had never heard of a fascinator, how out of touch, I am. I learned that it’s an artful concoction that decorates a woman’s head, designed to fascinate. The word fascinate ultimately comes from the Latin fascinum, “an evil spell.” I immediately imagined what evil spells could be woven at a Garden Party. I hope you like the results. Perhaps you have some disasters to add that have happened to you in real life or imagination.
Skipping and hopping,
from petal to leaf,
chased by beetles,
is a nectar thief!
Jack Frost’s cousin,
Chill, the Fall sprite,
arrives every October,
to the beetle’s fright.
“Stop right now,
you hairy beast!”
Stinkbugs shout
but he flees east.
He turns the nectar,
into golden art,
dabbed on leaves —
summer’s torn apart.
From nectar to mold,
black spots of blight
multiply and dismay,
as he zigzags in flight.
October’s arrived and
Autumn’s show has begun.
Protest though you may,
he will have his fun.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
To step amongst giant phlox, rudbeckia and Russian sage is to enter a suburban fairyland, a small oasis surrounded by the desert of houses, concrete and asphalt.
meadow blooms
sharp fragrance intoxicates
fingers sap-sticky
Goldfinches feast on spiky echinacea seeds, while redheaded woodpeckers knock on fence posts. Sparrows dart under eaves. Day lilies bob, and a rabbit emerges from the grassy leaves, smug and plump. The gardener is the majordomo.
crickets stir
hundreds of insects hum
spiders spin
A shady spot provides a view of an apple tree, too young to bear fruit. At its feet, the profusion of jeweled blossoms is blinding. Magic floats past in the sunbeams. Time slows to this one perfect moment.
Fairy dust gilds bees and
sparkles on flower petals.
Dragonflies hover
like hummingbirds,
held aloft by magic
or science
or faith.
Sudden breezes
bring a rainstorm
of fairy dust,
dried to pollen
by the hazy sun,
solar fast.
But even magic
cannot make summer last.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: A haibun is a Japanese form of prose alternating with poetry, often haiku. It’s often a recollection of one’s day, in present tense. A few moments in a garden, and suburbia drops away. These photos and memories are from Bronxville, New York, where I happily helped a friend celebrate his 60th birthday. Bronxville is a village of Westchester County, part of the Tri-State Area that surrounds New York City. People commute to Manhattan in half an hour. Have a magical weekend!
Seize every color
from the trees to the leaves
from the houses and the breeze.
Embrace a flower’s bold hue
and each neutral tone made,
for all of it matters, each shade.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: A Painted Lady is a Victorian house with at least three colors of paint used. Wikipedia allows Edwardian and Queen Anne houses, too. I’m lucky enough to live in a town with several bold ones. I wrote this poem after reading many September 11 posts, and remembering the day myself. If only we could all see the beauty in the rainbow of colors around us and stop hating and blaming each other. Build, preserve and celebrate rather than destroy. If words have magic, and I believe they do, then let peace increase!
Friendly Fairy Tales 