Squirrels skitter past
On the treetop Autobahn
Catch a fuzzy glimpse
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Tag Archives: nature
Dragon Dreaming
“He had turned into a dragon while he was asleep.
Sleeping on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart,
he had become a dragon himself.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
He napped on the wealth of the world,
The heart of the wildwood beating in his ears,
But his sleep outlasted the wood itself.
Over the years, earth and twigs covered him,
Turning his sunny glade into a fairy mound.
When he woke, his scales were soft as bracket fungus,
And his hide was frayed like the bark of a fallen spruce.
All around him, houses stared down with blank eyes.
A bridge crossed a brook where children swung on bars,
Screamed and chased each other around plastic cars.
The sweet smells of red woolen sweaters, sticky candy fingers,
Grilled cheese breath and ripening juniper berries
Teased his nose, so different than leaf mold and lichen.
He remembered the beating of the wildwood heart,
Loud as thunder, steady as rain, but he could not hear it.
His greedy heart stirred. His claws churned the earth.
Clink, clink, his treasure was safe. Gold gleamed below him.
Its musical ringing soothed him. He remembered winning it,
When the forest were young, kings foolish, and no amount
Of stone or brick could hide the scent of gold from him.
His youthful memories brought dreams and in the gloaming,
He dozed again, his green eyes dimming, his breath stilling.
The woods would return one day: the seeds were there.
The day of the dragon would return with the wildwood.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Were you the kind of child that imagined dragons under the hills and fairies inside the flowers? If not, maybe it’s not too late to be that child now. What would you think about, if you were a dragon awaking in suburbia?
Party with the Late Blooms
Autumn is under way
Come party with the late blooms
Dance till Jack Frost comes
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Despite having snow flurries on Sunday, we still have blooms here and there. This poem is a haiku, with five, seven and five syllables on each line.
Halloween Ballet
Autumn fairy ballet:
Ballerinas dip and spin,
Wings extend lightly and
Long costumes twirl.
A feast for the eyes:
Fall glows in shades of
Butternut squash and pumpkin,
With touches of berry and apple.
The wind lifts the dancers
Into allegro cabrioles, then
Holds another in a graceful arabesque.
The Fae Corps de Ballet
Performs every day.
Happy Halloween! Be spooky and be safe!
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Besties
Best friends:
Together is magic.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Ogden Nashery
Itty bitty, not very pretty,
(Unless to his mama)
Stone silent, not very witty,
But the high hop creates drama;
From the woods not the city
(At least not Yokohama)
Inspires this little ditty
From one who likes to yammah.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Despite my usual inclination that a poet should never explain, for those not from New England, the “yammah” is a Bostonian pronunciation of yammer. My photograph is of a Pinetree Spurthroated Grasshopper (Melanoplus punctulatus), a rare sighting. Not only had I never seen a grasshopper like him before, my research indicated he’s rare in general. My poem is an ode to Ogden Nash, a particular favorite author of my children and I. Here is one of his poems, which I hope offering here, would not have displeased him:
The Ant
The ant has made himself illustrious
Through constant industry industrious.
So what?
Would you be calm and placid,
If you were full of formic acid?
— Ogden Nash
Bare Branches Bloom
Bare branches are stripped
By wind and rain,
Saffron leaves
Reveal:
Bloom.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: The syllable of this poem dwindle, just as the leaves fall.
Autumn Ouch!
Brrr, when the wind blows,
Burrs in the dog’s paws,
Burrs on the backside.
Little stingers clinging,
Beware of sitting
After a woodland tromp.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Journey of the Rainbow Leaf
Citrine, amber, sage, russet, claret,
Green of tree and brown of earth:
Every autumn shade gleams
Between its yellow veins.
Tiny fairies ride wind swells on it:
A magic carpet to buzz bushes and skim ponds.
Three baby hedgehogs with shivering quills
Hide beneath it, from a cold rain.
Then it’s sewn into a cape for the Harvest Queen,
She of the forest and glen,
It swirls like an autumn rainbow.
Its folds flash between dancing courtiers,
As all the fairies make merry.
Soon the bitter winds will blow.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Sycamore Lace
Crazy-quilt Sycamore tree,
One leaf, no longer perfect.
Yet the leaf shines with green,
Making oxygen for me,
And sweet sugar sap,
Flowing slowly into the tree.
The leaf scars show a beetle’s feast,
But those same imperfections
Are where the light shines through.
Note: I am often reminded of my own imperfections, my scars and my secret sins. I accept these things about myself as I accept them in the ones I love. I wrote once before about finding beauty in scars, a post called Beauty in the Broken Places. Today, Line and I were talking about imperfection and perfection being like two sides of a spinning coin, always rotating between the two.
Thistle Bristle
Round purple hedgehogs
Rise above a bed of green thistle;
Bees circle them like moons,
Dodging spines that bristle.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: This flower is Globe Thistle (Echinops ritro). The bees were too quick for me, none lingered to become famous on my blog. 🙂
A Pine Tree Wakes
When I wake from my long dreaming,
I first look up at the sky.
Far above me, magic dances in white clouds.
Mother Oak holds me fast, in her roots.
Poetry is the movement of her leaves.
Far below me, the river sings its longing for the sea.
Rivulets sink toward the secret aqueduct far below,
The dark, watery womb of all life.
Some droplets rise to adorn cloud castles.
Singing waters plunge over falls,
Scenting the embrace of Lake Ontario.
Flocks of starlings bank and turn.
Wildflowers thirst, drink the spray,
And tremble on the cliffs.
The leaves feel the passing of the season,
As the water does not. As I do not.
We are constant, the water and the pine.
I hold fast to my cliff; I sink back into my dreams.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: These photographs were taken at Letchworth State Park, where the Genesee River has carved a deep canyon in its headlong rush to join Lake Ontario, the Easternmost Great Lake, that lies between the US and Canada.
Friendly Fairy Tales 