Ball pits, portholes and memories. These are from 2005 when the Tall Ships visited Boston. I joined in this week when I noticed a cool photo by a new friend, a series of great photos by an old friend, and visited the prompt.
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!
Autumn sunset
blooms amber,
glows blood orange,
and lingers
in sky and treetop.
Wild dogwood berries
mix with acorns
and crabapples.
They snap underfoot
and perfume the air.
Everywhere color
fades to darkness.
No! Linger longer,
color wake and sky glow,
cast this fairy spell,
make sunset lengthen
until dark night
is the longest
of the year.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Winter’s coming, but we’ve had a long, delicious fall with a universe of color. I meant this post for this morning, but life intervened, and my kids needed me. Plus, I have a plain old ordinary run of the mill horrible cold. So I’m late posting, but I want to dedicate this post to MM and BB, who’ve had a hard week, but still find time for beauty, magic, love and Oklahoma sunsets. Also, it may be too late, but this is also my post for Poetry Friday, this week hosted thanks to Buffy Silverman at Buffy’s Blog. Hope everyone has a great weekend!!
Here in the woods,
the light doesn’t quite shine.
In the deeper quiet, I
hear only the wind and
the laughter of leaves.
The sunshine is distant.
Here in the twilight,
I can think my thoughts,
without its brightness,
blinding my eyes.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: This poem is part of a longer poem. Is there a place where you can be yourself? Where you can be free, use your outdoor voice, sing or dance or remember?
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.
flight
one perfect moment
remembered
fingers curled in longing
to relive one’s height
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Do you have one time in your life you would relive if you could?
Note: My surgery has allowed others in the family to be the hero of their story. Here my oldest is giving a ride to my youngest. If you have a tender moment, please link to Cee’s Photo A Week Challenge: Tender Moments.
No cellophane or styrofoam
enclose vegetables that
ripen with deep roots in loam.
But tomatoes need attention
from sunshine and gardener —
saving seeds is an obsession.
A good soaking for the seed
then planting in warm soil —
water, fertilize, stake and weed.
Year after year, they grow
Are they fruit or vegetable?
They’re silent. They don’t know.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I harvested the last of my tomatoes before the recent frost. They were a poor crop this year. Free roaming turkeys ate most of my garden. Ten roost in the maple outside my bedroom window, nearly invisible, except when coming or going.
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.
young sisters, grow
sing madrigals to summer
dance all the day
turn toward the starlight
chins tucked into dreaming
wayward thistledown
spirals one way then the next
chased by bluejays
more voices join madrigals
sisters betwixt and between
too close, bash heads
dreams shaken by storm wind
madrigals fade
one summer lasts a lifetime
starlight lasts even longer
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: This poem is arranged into three tankas. A madrigal is a either a medieval poem or a song without instruments in two or more parts. I like to think madrigals sung by flowers would be both poem and song. May your week be lightened by flower song.
When one door closes, another opens;
but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door
that we do not see the one which has opened for us.
I’m attending a Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators conference in a few days. I’ve written three children’s books, and SCBWI is an invaluable resource for improving craft and making connections.
molding words like clay
making characters breathe,
dream
When I say I’m writing books, the first question anyone asks me is have I been published. Yes, I’ve been published in the past and recently in on-line zines and on my blog, but their questions really mean has any publishing company paid money to publish my work. Not yet. I’m looking for an agent. Most editors want agented submissions. Agents have become the first gatekeepers. To get through that gate is my immediate goal.
hands on the gate
splintery wood is rough
words can smooth
I wrote “Author” for the first time as my occupation recently. I learned the poet Emily Dickinson was rejected for publication during her lifetime. She was never published until after her death. Was she an author? I would say yes. If she was an author during her life, then I am, too.
To quote Maya Angelou: “Success is liking yourself, liking what you do, and liking how you do it.” I am already successful because I love writing novels.
This is a new career for me, and publication will take time. I’m on the path, I have passed through the first door — I believe in myself. Next, I hope to pass through the gate.
words soar like birds
song echoes over lake water
feathers fall, they float
I know many bloggers are on the path with me, and I want to thank all of you for your feedback and your support. My shoulder surgery is a few days after the conference. This may be my last post for a while, as I won’t be able to lift my laptop until my arm is useful again. I will miss all of you in the meantime. Keep writing! XOXO, Brenda
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
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