Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 18, 2016

Posted under

Humor, Photography, Poetry

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33 Comments

Puddle Heaven

Puddle on a sidewalk reflecting trees and a chain link fence

Stamp, stomp,
puddle heaven,
fountains everywhere
when you’re seven.

Laugh and howl,
wet socks,
drippy drops everywhere,
forget clocks.

Arrive speckled
with muddy blots,
not welcome everywhere,
stomach in knots.

Will mom see past hems
dripping dark dots?
Rather than dirt everywhere,
she sees cheetah spots!

Notes: Poets find joy in puddles:

“The world is mud-luscious…
[and] puddle-wonderful”
— e.e. cummings

Since writing a haibun on puddles, I’ve wondered how cumming’s mother viewed him, arriving home. My poem’s been in its chrysalis, but finally that wondering took shape and spread wings.

Another fun poem about puddles is Puddle Splash by Roann Mendriq:

What is it about rain puddles,
that make one want to splash?
That turns us into children,
in a quick and happy flash?

Read the rest here.

Poetry Friday with kids

Big thanks to Robyn Hood Black, a wonderful poet and author, for hosting this week’s Kidlitospere Poetry Friday extravaganza.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 17, 2016

Posted under

Holiday, Humor, Photography, Poetry

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27 Comments

Three Limerick Tale of Leprechaun and Kitten

Glass plate with a stained glass shamrock

Tiny O’Toole loved a kitten.
He felt himself hard bitten.
“Ouch!” he cried.
“Open wide!”
He stuffed her in his mitten.

“Now, that’s not fitting’,”
complained the kitten.
“Let me out
or I’ll shout.
After all, I’m no Briton!”

O’Toole sipped mead,
and then he agreed:
“Come out!
No doubt
you mistook me for tweed.”

Notes: Happy St. Patrick’s Day! The art work is a stained glass plate I made with my daughter. A limerick is a light-hearted poem with the rhyming pattern AABBA. A lines are shorter than B lines. My all-time most viewed post is Leprechaun Limerick. I also wrote a set of three limericks on being Irish.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 15, 2016

Posted under

Humor, Photography, Poetry

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28 Comments

Gamine Grin

Bark ruffled into a grin

Gray rain, icy day,
can’t take my grin away.

Note: It rained all day, and I have the flu, but I can’t let it get me down. Have a magical week.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

March 8, 2016

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

37 Comments

Peace Crane Mantra

Four folded origami cranes

cares folded
their power is transformed
peace grows

Note: A mantra is a word, phrase or sound used to focus the mind during meditation or prayer. I wrote the first draft of this mantra when I read a poem by Advocatemmmohan. My family loves origami, the Japanese art of paper folding. We folded the cranes after enjoying leftover birthday cake. Happy International Women’s Day! I’m celebrating by meditating on peace, an important women’s issue.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 23, 2016

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

31 Comments

Heaven in a Wild Flower

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.”

― William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 20, 2016

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

59 Comments

Spring Dreaming

Cherry blossoms

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.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 19, 2016

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

87 Comments

Housebound

New snow,
pure and white,
softly falls and
outlines every tree limb
with its sharp contrast.
Blizzards stick to windows,
narrowing the view.
Each flake whispers,
Stay at home; stay inside.
The wildwood looks halved,
dark below but the white above
merges with the sky.
Snow settles, white as wishes,
paler than low clouds,
whiter than frozen breath,
pale as goose down
clinging to puffy coats.
The world is muffled
by the whitewash.
Sounds are muted and
traffic has ceased.
Wind whips crystals
into snow devils,
spinning like memories
of childhood past.
Thunderous snowplows
transform white into
salty mounds.
Each frozen drop
feels like summer’s tears.
We’re frozen into place,
housebound and
remembering.

Notes: Welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted thanks to Donna Smith at Mainely Write. She has posted a wonderful rhyming poem, perfectly setting out the in-between place today holds, adrift between holidays, seasons and weather. I hope you have a moment to visit her, even thought it means a jaunt out of WordPress and into the wilds of Blogspot.

I recently realized that being housebound during a snowstorm is not a thing everyone has experienced, strange as that concept seems to me — having life-long experience of blizzards and hurricanes. I thought about what being housebound during a blizzard means to me, and this poem emerged. Maybe you can share your own memories of being housebound, if it’s a thing that’s happened to you.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 9, 2016

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

35 Comments

Still a Twig

Broken tree bent in half and blocking snowy, forest path

I may be old, bent and broken,
entirely blocking your path,
but inside where it counts,
I’m still a twig, leafy and new.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 4, 2016

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

27 Comments

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

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 2, 2016

Posted under

Fairy Tale for Boys, Fairy Tale for Girls, Flash Fiction, Young Fairy Tale

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30 Comments

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.

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

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 25, 2016

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

29 Comments

Holly Flower

Six holly leaves surrounding a pink stem

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.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 24, 2016

Posted under

Humor, Photography, Poetry

Comments

34 Comments

Juniper Jewels

Blue Juniper berries

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.

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!