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
Tag Archives: nature
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
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.
Juniper Jewels
Jewel-bright juniper berries
dangled like azure fairies
amidst needles unfurled,
seeking the eyes of every bird.
Berries stayed sugar sweet
until fermenting was complete.
Early spring, greedy bluejays
fell down tipsy over two days,
leaving feathers ruffled aft.
How the crows laughed.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Some birds actually eat too many fermented berries and behave badly. Once I discovered that, I just had to write a poem about it. I also ran across a hilarious video of African animals overindulging on Marula fruit. A more serious poem about juniper berries is here. Have a great week!
Tree Song
Even in winter,
with nary a leaf,
trees hold up the sky,
cut the wind and
frame the stars.
Tall maples sing our future,
lament our past.
First, morning pianissimo
swells to workday allegro
but quickens to andantino
after a tangerine sunset.
A mad tarantella makes
Saturdays ache with dance.
Stormy days, we hear brass
crescendo of crashing branches.
Trees measure our lives.
Each season has its movement,
winter’s pianissimo alternating
with icy crescendo:
concertos made from time,
measured into beauty,
the melody our breath,
the bass our heartbeat.
Woodwind chords are
refined by strings.
In the tree song,
we find time
and healing.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I hope you are hearing music. Have a great week!
Connection
Connection,
reconnection,
lines entwined, aligned.
Squirrels use superhighways, and
information zips sideways.
Talk is the tendency when
winter’s in ascendancy.
Messages zing with arctic air.
Yet, summer’s there
in buds drowsing,
a promise of carousing
when summer’s scent
will rise from each branch, bent
from the memory of
winter’s icy love.
Seasons circle and dance,
hypnotic with romance.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Are you finding the magic in the season? It’s harder in the winter doldrums, but keep your spirits up, the days are getting longer already! Cast your eyes on a Scottish stone circle formed from the earth’s oldest rock, and you’ll see winter romance, indeed, thanks to Seonaid at breathofgreenair.
Gray Magic
Tinge of gray
on evergreen,
sparkly spray,
icy and clean,
fairy frost,
silver dance.
Summer’s lost
in hoary trance.
Winter sleep
casts its spell.
Blankets deep,
warm us well.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Notes:
Cold has tinged New England with silver. It’s the time of year to burrow under blankets or duvet. I hope you’re warm and cozy. My favorite thing to do this time of year is sleep late. What’s yours?
Happy Poetry Friday to all kid litters! Thanks to Tabatha Yeatts for hosting this week at the Opposite of Indifference. Thanks for reminding us that the “opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference.” ~ Elie Wiesel
Penguin Patter
January Jones met Mavis Jingle, and they nibbled salt herring. “My dear,” Mavis chirped, and January nodded. “Did you see Babseal out-swim Ozbrrr Orca?”
“I never did,” January exclaimed. “Tell all!”
“He did ten loop-de-loops, twenty corkscrews, forty hairpin turns then dropped like chum into an ice cave. Ozbrrr was so exhausted, he headed north with a terrible case of tail droop.”
“I would have loved to see that!” January sighed. “I saw Babseal out-swim a polar bear, an ice storm and an Antarctic ice crusher.”
“No you did not!”
“Indeed, I did, Ms. Mavis Know-it-all! Now I won’t tell you about it.”
“Oh, please, do tell. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
January nodded, looking most pleased. “Well, I would tell you, but I did make it up.” Then he dove into the water and swam away.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Let tall tales commence in the new year. If you have some flash fiction you’d like to link up to me, please feel free. You can even copy my picture (just credit me) and try your own hand at writing some Penguin Patter. We can call it the Penguin Patter Prompt, maximum word count of 150. Anyone game? 🙂 Cheers, Brenda
Fish Grin
Blue fish grins.
His scales gleam with
labyrinthine markings.
Perhaps lady fish
get lost, tracing their
path through the bends.
His charm bewilders
and intrigues, and we stare
at each other through
the ocean tank glass.
Close, but not connecting.
Near, but breathing
different elements.
Each puzzled by the other.
His liquid gaze and citrine eye
as mysterious and fleeting
as a golden leaf on a tree.
What does the leaf remember,
hanging there for one last day?
What does the fish see?
A swish of his tail and
he’s gone. A cypher,
a code of the universe,
a mystery to contemplate.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I’m surrounded by swirls of wrapping paper, twinkling lights and the smell of brownies. I’m planning to make brownie Christmas tree cookies. If they turn out well, I’ll put up a picture. And my husband just bought girl scout cookies. I hope you’re having a wonderful weekend!
Riddle Me
I fly, I glide,
my worries hide.
I rise, I dive,
I feel alive!
I eat, I sleep,
I scout the deep.
Who am I?
I’m not dry!
For 80 years
I’ve shed no tears.
I eat squid —
I would not kid.
I’m a turtle,
Yes, I’m Myrtle.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I took this photo on a recent visit to the New England Aquarium. Myrtle is a Green Sea Turtle who’s lived at the aquarium since 1970. She’s about 80 years old and 500 pounds! In addition to squid, she eats lettuce and cabbage and is particularly fond of brussels sprouts. She can have mine!
Friendly Fairy Tales 