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Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 22, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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48 Comments

Be Free Haibun

Golly, did I hear you say you would be free if you could?
— Gussy the Goose, Charlotte’s Web (2006)

Would you be free? What does that mean? Does it mean doing what you like, when you like, without regard to others? Don’t our families, our culture and our governments all impose restraints on us every day?

Definition of Freedom, n,
the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action.
Merriam-Webster

If being free means leaving my home behind, shirking my responsibilities, letting others carry my burdens, then I don’t think I would be free.

home and hearth
heart beats for my family
magic ties that bind

Others talk about freedom in the governmental sense, freedom from tyranny, enslavement, unjust punishments, torture, abuse, theft and many countless other miseries. We all give up certain rights to our governments, and we want some return on that investment. If we give up so many rights and a percentage of our income, then we should get some benefits: safety, security, peace, prosperity and freedom from abuses, these are some basics people want.

freedom from tyranny
safe homes in an unspoiled land
sunshine and clean water

That is a freedom I want for everyone: to have clean water, a safe home, healthy nature nearby, no one afraid to be killed for speaking one’s thoughts. I want a world like that for my children and their children. For you and your children, too. If we all have respect for each other, perhaps we can manage that.

healthy air to breathe
nature’s abundance for all
garden in sunshine

Inspired by Haibun Thinking Week #9, a film quote and photo from AnElephantCant.

References: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/freedom

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 17, 2014

Posted under

Poetry, Tales for Kids of All Ages

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28 Comments

Movie Colors Haibun

Used by permission of Managua Gunn, via the Ligo Haibun Challenge.

I watch a movie, leaving my own issues behind. I give myself up to the color, the drama, the swirling action. In it, two women fly through the air, fighting bad guys with samurai swords, disdaining the laws of physics, aerodynamics and time itself, as a year’s events seem to take place in one day. I am exhilarated, lifted along on fantasy, imagining all my problems dealt with by a few swings of a sword and a graceful leap or two. I won’t even need to brush my hair, it will stay perfectly tidy through all of my life’s conflicts. The movie ends with a resolution of sorts. I return to my life with a crash.

She is an actress on a zip line, lifted through the air by elaborate structures, designed by engineers. I have no such assistance through my life’s adventures. I rely on tissues, Wet Ones, spare clothing for the kids and fast talking to solve most of my issues. I can’t slay people who hurt my kids, hit my van or leave dog poop on my lawn. Usually life doesn’t even present me with a “good guy” or a “bad guy,” just fallible people who may or may not have achieved their potential for good that day.

on good days
my boys finger-shoot the bad guys
through the van windows

I admire the beauty in the movies, but feel sad that it is transient, and yet, somehow we expect our lives to freeze at those years when we achieve our best appearances. If only we could look as though we were 30 forever. Here I am, nearly 20 years later, left contemplating actresses at their height of beauty, and feeling glad to have my eyes treated to such pleasure. I am surprised, again, when I look at myself in the mirror. Oh, that’s right, I’m not 30 anymore.

fantasy lifts
imagination carries us high
reality sets us down

I adore the fantasy, the color, the movement, the story that has a beginning, an exciting middle and an end. All the boring days of aching feet, cleaning up messes or healing broken arms is edited out. What if I told my life’s story like that, took out all the boring days, the broken bones, the accidents and the wrinkles? Would I lose myself in those tossed away bits?

broken branch falls
spring buds will never open
seeds disburse on the wind

Inspired by the Ligo Haibun Challenge in its new location, and on its new day, Monday, with the above picture prompt. Thanks to Ese and Pirate for continuing.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 11, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry, Tales for Kids of All Ages

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38 Comments

Centered Haibun

Centered, definition: adj., emotionally healthy and calm; emotionally stable and secure.

I learned to pray as a small child by placing my hands flat together, closing my eyes and bowing my head. That ritual helped me focus, set aside distractions and center myself. In yoga, I took quickly to prayer pose, which also uses hands placed together, head bowed and attention focused.

In prayer pose, I hear my breathing, like the waves of the ocean, calming me. I observe the movement of my rib cage, expanding, contracting, and I consciously deepen my breathing, holding it after taking a breath in, for a few seconds of stillness. I learned to focus my intention for that class: to set aside worries, to lay down burdens, and to think only of the needs of my body for those moments.

prayer pose
thoughts echo and grow still
breathe out worries

I haven’t been to a yoga class in years, but I had inspiring teachers, who were generous enough to help me design a home practice. I still practice yoga, and I am so grateful for it.

Prayer pose lets me feel close to the divine, for in the stillness and focusing of my mind I achieve calm. I hear the voice of the universe only in quiet moments, external and internal quiet.

tree pose
branches lifted to the sky
blessed by rain

Linking to Haibun Thinking Week 8: Freestyle Week. A Haibun is prose, culminating in a haiku, often written of a moment along life’s journey.

Reference: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/centered.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 6, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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59 Comments

Origins of Thought Haibun

Cherubs by Michelangelo, Courtesy of Samui Art

Yesterday I walked gingerly over a six-inch thick sheet of ice to close my garage door. Slowly I turned back across it to my car, eager to pick up my daughter from preschool. I thought with hostility of ice, winter, and arctic temperatures, while I fumbled with my gloves, even though I did not fall.

Then I thought about thinking itself, where had those negative thoughts come from? I remembered how a fresh dusting of snow glints in the sunlight, how much fun my boys had digging snow tunnels and forts and I remembered sledding and hot chocolate. I smiled and felt immeasurably happier. I remembered my joy when the first flakes fell. I decided to view the last days of winter cheerfully. Spring is coming soon, and then winter will be a delight to look forward to again. Now where had those thoughts come from?

When I was in my teen years, my thoughts were often dark. I read horror, murder mysteries and psycho suspense with gusto, imagining death, blood and gore without flinching. I rarely gave any space to positive thoughts, except for some vague idea that my life would be better when I was on my own.

monsters within
words spilling blood
monsters without

My own life seemed cheap, all things absurd, all cultural mores without depth or meaning, all of us caught in a spider web of habits developed by people long dead. Pointless.

How did I get from there to here, where negative thoughts are automatically balanced by positive ones and my mind achieves serenity? I no longer dwell in the dark places or give voice to angst, betrayal and pain, despite treading water in it for years.

I had an epiphany. I’m not sure I should share it. Things that are too simple are often confused with the simple-minded. And yet, simple is the curve of a throat that make you catch your breath. Simple is a blue sky after a storm, the sun reflecting in all the wet places. Simple is ice in the summer or a warm hand when yours is icy.

If you are still reading, you may wonder what my epiphany was. In that case, I will tell you: I control my own thoughts. That’s it. No matter how dark, or scary or hurtful others are, they cannot control my thoughts unless I let them. I can look for beauty and good memories, and focus on those, letting the rest go. So I did, every time the negative thoughts came, I used mental muscle to shove them aside and substitute positive ones. Over time, the initial herculean effort became an easy, automatic one.

I came home from picking up my daughter, stepped onto the ice, and BAM, slammed into the trash bin, so thoughtfully provided by my city sanitation department. My first thought: that wasn’t so bad. Next thought: OWWW!!! That thought lasted longer than I like to remember, but eventually my well-trained brain found happy thoughts again: I’m so glad I didn’t break anything. At least my daughter won’t have to risk walking over it. My driving is done for the day. I can go lie down for half an hour. Spring is coming.

clouds part
rays of sunshine push through
contemplate joy

Inspired by Michelangelo, Haibun Thinking Prompt #7 and Samui Art.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 25, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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65 Comments

Fragments of the Past Haibun

Today you are you!
That is truer than true!
There is no one alive who is you-er than you!

~ Dr Seuss

Used with kind permission of Ese at Ese’s Voice

We leave traces of ourselves for the future to discover, to know us from the fragments. My mother left me her diamond ring, her sewing machine, a scarf from Paris, her bible and a memory of love. Her love provided my place in the world, surrounding me with a sense of safety so deep I took it completely for granted. I had slid into place in her love with a click that still rings in my ears. I didn’t even realize what I had until it was gone, leaving its place in my heart empty, like an underground cave echoing the booming of the sea. When I lost her, my father created a new place for me in a new family, and I appreciate his doing that, but I never regained that deep sense of security or felt the click as I slid into my place.

I have tried to recreate that security for my family. For my kids, my man and myself. I hope they take their love and safety for granted, because then I know I’m succeeding. In my turn, I will leave my mother’s diamond and her sewing machine, with which I sewed their baby blankets. Perhaps I will leave some other fragments which are mine alone, not least my love. I am me, and she is me. Perhaps my words will linger.

one or two jewels
our connection to the past
left for the future

Inspired by Haibun Thinking Week 6, the Seuss prompt in honor of his upcoming birthday and Ese’s Voice’s haibun picture prompt.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 18, 2014

Posted under

Holiday, Poetry

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36 Comments

Vacation Dreaming Haibun

Used with kind permission of Arthur Browne via Haibun Thinking

When I know a vacation is coming, I build castles in the sky of what amazing adventures are coming. Being a perfectionist, I imagine how it could be perfect, and work toward making it so, and worry about all the things that could go wrong.

My daughter was puking up her guts, going through copious bedding as the waves came, and then seemed to abate, and then returned, all through a very long night. The next day, Friday, was the last day of school before vacation week, and my older son tossed his cookies at school (yes, another vomiting euphemism).

Meanwhile, my laptop’s hard drive’s ever increasing crashing turned out to be its death throes. All weekend, I rotated the laundry and worked toward getting a new hard drive, integration of a new operating system and retrieval of all my work.

Still, I found time to continue dreaming of palm trees, blue skies, warm breezes and perfect, lazy vacation days. A snowstorm came through, dumping six inches. My kids were puking, the snow was falling, and my laptop was in the shop. And yes, I continued to aspire to the perfect vacation, especially while shoveling or driving to the apple store.

hope does not tire
dreams never leave
vacation, will come

Miraculously, vacation did arrive, a few days late. Saturday: endless snow, struggling with data retrieval, fighting off my own fever, preparing lots of invalid food. Sunday: on the phone with apple support for hours, successfully retrieved my data despite the backup partially failing, then ran a new backup for 12 hours. Monday: packing frantically, departing for the airport, long pacing at Newark Airport waiting for our connecting flight, getting in very late, exhausted kids and parents.

Here it is Tuesday, and we have lounged by the pool, seen lizards on palm trees, and drank champagne (ok, not the kids). We managed to get here in time for the best weather all week.

dreams blossom
green fronds unfold in sun
paradise found

Inspired by the Haibun Thinking prompt and the photograph above by Arthur Browne.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 16, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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46 Comments

Music in the Soul Haibun

Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.
— Lao Tzu

When my oldest was an active, playful 18 month old, he asked: “Can I play violin?” That was one of his first full sentences.

We did not have a violin or piano in our home. I wondered how he knew what a violin was. I asked around, and other moms told me that children as young as three study violin. No one else I spoke to had a child asking to play an instrument.

During that time, we moved and I had our second son. When my oldest was three, I met a woman in my yoga class who was beginning a new group of 3- and 4-year old violin students in the fall. I asked her if I should take seriously his request despite his young age, and she said yes, of course.

I remember sitting outside in the sunshine on my deck, when I told my three-year old son that I was going to take him to see a lesson if he still wanted to learn. He said: “Mom, I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you lately.” I was silenced.

My eldest sat calmly on my lap for 45 minutes listening to a chaotic double lesson with two siblings just back from a summer music camp in Colorado. He said not a word and barely moved, which was not his normal behavior at all. Eventually the teacher turned to me, and she said: “I forgot you were here, he was so quiet. That’s a very long time for a child his age, you don’t need to stay to the end.”

My son climbed down, walked up to the teacher and said: “That was the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.” He had never heard live violin music before.

intense green eyes
unwavering on the strings
hearing with his whole being

My husband I had never studied music. Nine years after deciding to honor my young son’s wishes, my oldest and youngest play violin, my second son plays cello and drums, and all three play piano. My husband and I have learned some violin and piano as adults. In our house, we have three violins, a cello, a digital piano, a Yamaha piano, a marimba, a saxophone, a trumpet, an acoustic guitar, a sanza, a variety of drums, a cymbal. We have all played music together in several concerts.

The kids now see music as part of our lives. They are talented singers, in chorus and musicals, in addition to playing in orchestras. All three of my children make up their own songs and improvise by preference. Music has become part of the fabric of our souls. Perhaps it always was.

steel strings ring
my soul expands with each note
vibrating

Inspired by the Weekly Ligo Haibun Challenge prompt, this one providing the quote at the top.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 12, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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100 Comments

Goodbye Hope: a Monody Haībun

Last night in my email, was another writer’s bane, the let-you-down-gently words that sink in like thorns. I didn’t have high hopes, how can one in my place? I have time for writing, time for dreams, time for children-rearing, but no time for marketing.

Another so kind rejection in the mail.
How can I go on when to go on is to fail?
It’s nicely worded, not harsh at all,
And yet, it’s kind words hurt like an icy fall.
Why do I need for my words to be heard?
Why not chirp quietly on a branch like a bird?
Oh, hope, so fragile, so easily flown away,
Will you come back soon, stay for another day?

Why do any of us write? We have words inside us, needing to come out. It’s that simple. When my boys hit age three, they had to run. They ran and ran, circling me like dolphins around a boat, chirping and loving, laughing and falling. They ran because they had to, and I did not stop them. I tried to keep them safe.

Can I parent myself, the young writer? How would I do that? I know I need to write, and so I will. I will let myself write, and as I send my words into the world, I will try to keep myself safe.

Not everyone has to like what I wrote. I write for my own reasons, and I share magic and joy where I can. Even if only one person is touched, has a better day, feels the magic, then that’s enough. My work is enough. My words are enough. I will keep sending my words into the world.

As for my kind rejecter, I will smile, and I will remember that that person’s day is too long, too busy, too full to take on my words. That’s okay. She has a busy life, too, and only so many hours in it.

sycamore grows in summer
its roots leave words in the soil
the leaves read the shining sun

Note: A Monody is a lament, a dirge or an elegy for someone or something departed. A Haibun is prose, culminating in poetry, with its heart beating in the natural world. This was partly inspired by a series of recent rejections, by the weekly poetry prompt by painttheworldwithwords to write a monody and by the weekly Haībun Thinking prompt, with a freestyling example by Al.

References:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/monody.html
http://painttheworldwithwords.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/poetic-form-of-the-week-monody/

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 7, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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41 Comments

Visitor in the Temple Haībun

The February sunshine steeps your boughs
and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
The groves were God’s first temples.
— William C. Bryant

Daily on my walks, I see miracles of beauty, hidden places that driving would never reveal. The slower I walk, with more deliberation and care, with time to look around, the more my soul lifts with the beauty casually offered to my eyes. Some combinations of shrub and tree were created with careful selection, pruning, fertilizing and skill beyond mine. I am the worshipper, visiting briefly in temples built by others.

Even my own garden has treasures I received, simply by deciding to dwell here. Some irises were planted by a previous owner. I thought they would be purple, and each year I waited for them to bloom. Their leaves never embraced a flower stem except once, overshadowed as they had become by the vigorous forsythia planted too close. One fall, I pruned back the forsythia. That next spring, the forsythia did not bloom, but the iris did: delicate and pale pink, with a creamy white interior.

not purple, unexpected
the pink of my son’s rosy cheeks
bearded iris bloomed

My neighbor, Terry, came down the driveway, waving, and calling to me. She told me she was delighted to see Reed’s irises in bloom after so many years. She asked for one, and I freely gave it. She told me about the woman who had planted them. Reed had developed brain cancer and was gone in a few months. The neighbors had come together to make the family meals while she enjoyed her last days, looking out on her garden. One neighbor came to play harp for her in the evenings. Now her garden is my garden, and her irises are in my care.

Last year, I moved all those irises away from the forsythia and into the sun. My neighbor, Terry, came by again: her iris had not survived. I told her I would give her another one day, once they had recovered from transplanting. One spring soon, I hope to see that pale pink flower again. I will care for them here, in my outdoor temple. As I tend the memories of my own mother.

mourning in shade
thick green bud rises in the sun
time to bloom again

Added by request, an old iris painting of mine, purple like the ones I carried at my wedding:

Iris 1 Painting by Brenda Davis Harsham

Inspired by the Līgo Haībun Challenge Prompt: Temple.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 5, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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60 Comments

The Heart of a Garden Haibun

Used with permission of Sally – My Beautiful Things

I always leave part of my heart in my garden as the yellow leaves drift slowly down, followed by the snow. My summer heart hibernates there, with the bulbs and the frogs, below the frost line. I don’t have the heart to clear all the leaves away, it’s too like wiping the tears of the tree.

I prefer to leave them where they fall in the flower beds, fertilizer and insulation against the winter’s fury. On the grass, I rake them all into a big pile, and let the kids jump in. We toss up the leaves in fistfuls, and they fall in our hair. We make leaf angels, before we bag them all.

My summer heart is there still in my garden, slumbering, under the snow forts, the snowmen and beyond the snow angel farms. Wrapped closely with leaves, dreaming of sunshine and warm days.

first green shoots
split the soil apart
my heart leaps out

Inspired by the Tuesday Haibun Thinking: Week 3.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 31, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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31 Comments

Snowball Battles Haībun

Words held back are like snowballs unthrown. Turned around, patted, added to, growing in size and coldness until, blam! Released, they slam into the target.

pile of snowballs waits
giggling from behind the fort
duck, one is coming

After getting nailed by a young son, my laughter starts while I form my own snowball and launch a counterattack. Usually my son is running for cover, dodging and weaving.

both combatants
howling with laughter
ducking and throwing

In snowball fights, people have their weak points, and the battle is over once someone gets snow in their eyes or down their neck. Or someone breaks a window. Yes, tempers can flare, even in a snowball fight, and things can get out of hand. Any kind of battle can wound.

When people start flinging words, sometimes a stray comment lodges in the memory, suppurating and infecting until the thorn is drawn.

My dad always liked to tease. One of his favorite ways to deal with complaints was to make a fist, thumb up, then circle his thumb on the closed index finger. “Do you know what this is?” he would ask. The first time, I said “No.”

“It’s the tiniest record player in the world, playing: My Heart Bleeds for You.” And then he would laugh. I still smile at the memory. He had an infectious laugh. For a long time, though, the memory of that tiny record player and my father’s laugh did sting. Looking back, I realize he was teaching me to solve my own problems. I learned not to bring him my problems. By and large, that was good training for life.

I have learned to draw the thorns from my memory. Raising my own kids has helped me understand my parents. Leaving in the thorns is like leaving the ice down your neck after a snowball fight. Uncomfortable in the extreme.

pulling out old thorns
bitter thoughts wedged in deeply
best with compassion

Inspired by the Friday Haībun prompt by Ese and Ye Pirate. This week, they used two of my photographs as prompts. I chose the one above, entitled: The Arsenal.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 29, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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39 Comments

Storms Gather Haibun

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
Robert Burns

Storms gather, and the air feels heavy. The first few rain drops are huge monsters, icy with winter indifference, a mixed bag of snow, sleet, hail and rain. The sidewalks have black ice. With the rain, they are slick, and I have fallen twice. I’m at least a mile from home. The rain stops again, the universe holds its breath, and the sun struggles through the layers of cloud.

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