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.
Tag Archives: photograph
Harvest Song
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.
Autumn Honey
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
Bewitching Garden Party
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.
Sisters Sing Madrigals
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.
Open Door Haibun
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
Sundrops
Light pools, spills and
gathers in the in-between,
the place of magic bugs,
between water and air,
where all things appear
possible.
I linger half-blinded
by the sundrops
wishing for the moment
to be suspended
between the now and then
for time to stop
and my life to dissolve
there and stay forever,
brilliantly lit and possible.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: In this last week before school starts, I have been getting medical opinions on a shoulder injury and getting my car rehauled. It’s an in-between time for me and my kids, which is always magical but fraught with emotion. I hope you have a great weekend! Warmly, Brenda
Green Path
Visit the hidden places,
hear the river speak rapids,
follow paths winding into wilds.
Find bear tracks, see fish glint,
and listen for moose.
Live in harmony.
Pitch your voice’s timbre
to meld with wind,
soughing in pines,
distant thunder’s grumbles and
crows, complaining blackly.
Hear sparrows gossip.
Match your silence to
the joy of sunshine
on all growing things.
Follow the green path,
and your voice,
unheard in the wilds,
will be thick with thoughts,
sprouting like mushrooms
in the dark, fertile places.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Vermont River Wishes
Clouds framed a glaring window,
where the sun failed to shine.
Winds loosed a hailstorm of pine cones.
The icy river churned and burbled,
depositing silt onto smooth stones.
Upriver, the dam released water slowly.
The waterfall below demanded rain,
but it lay heavy in the black clouds.
A few drops spattered in the gorge,
unnoticed by waders in the flats.
The river shrugged smooth shoulders,
showing its sharp granite bones.
Children chased fish downriver,
while parents soaked tired feet,
listening for thunder and
dreading the long climb out.
Canoers beached their boats,
donned yellow lifejackets,
and floated around the rapids,
bobbing in the slow side current.
Children pointed, laughed,
and longed to be in the thick of it.
I am the children. I am the river.
I am black clouds longing for release.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: These photographs are of Quechee Gorge and Ottauquechee River, Vermont.
Forest Spirits
Forest spirits linger high and
wonder at the changing sky.
Sky blue interlaces with clouds
above summer mountains blue.
Below, dark gorges are punctuated
by sharp granite shoulders, themselves
overlaid by softening moss quilts.
The still quiet is
broken by the first raindrop,
a mouse scurries for cover,
and the Lost River roars welcome.
I lose my worries at the feet of granite giants,
feel them washed free by rain hunting
the Lost River, hidden deep underground.
Its voice emerges from caves,
behind glacial boulders and over waterfalls.
Even the forest spirits are silenced.
That powerful roar
intrigues and captivates.
In the waterfall is the full fury.
What were my worries?
They pale beside river spirits,
kinfolk to the forest spirits.
The Lost River surges,
its voice amplified by
last night’s thundershowers
coupled with today’s sprinkles.
My spirit expands.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: These photographs were taken today at the Lost River Gorge. Over 1300 steps led into and around the gorge, taking us on a hide-and-seek journey exploring the Lost River and its many secret places.
Fairy Queen’s Parasol
The white parasol twirls,
dips and bobs in the
Fairy Queen’s slender hand.
The midsummer sun
dapples her pale cheeks,
gilding her glossy curls.
Beetles play at her feet,
like infants in the grass.
Ruby Columbine drops
petals-tears the
flavor of honey nectar,
tasted beside a wild rose ruin.
Her sisters pass out starry bud cups.
The queen nods her thanks.
The sweet scent combines with
thyme and sage, making the air
alive with color and promise.
The Fairy Queen’s eyes hide
behind the tilt of lace as she
hobnobs with nabobs,
each of them drinking.
None may know
what she’s thinking.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Butterfly Twilight
Used by permission of Jessica Hagan
Vanessa dances
at dusk in the begonias
scent of lavender
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: Thanks to Jessica Hagan for letting me use her beautiful photograph of the American Lady Butterfly, Vanessa Virginiensis!
Friendly Fairy Tales 