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February 19, 2016

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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!

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 5, 2016

Posted under

Photography

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27 Comments

Circles

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.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

December 14, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

18 Comments

Autumn Flower

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.

Dry Hydrangea on Ice

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!

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

December 4, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

50 Comments

Sunset Bloom

Red-Orange Pear leaf with golden leaves in background

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.

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!!

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

November 30, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

32 Comments

Trees and Memories

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.

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?

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

November 19, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

68 Comments

Season of Thanks

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.

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.