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August 18, 2015

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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.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 16, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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27 Comments

Vermont Twilight

Fairies dance and twinkle,
mixing with fireflies.
Lilac skies reach toward
lavender lakes.
Goldenrod nods
farewell to the sun.
Mountains darken
and trees disappear in
the dimming light.
Still the dragonflies hum.
Children seek the first star,
the first wish.
They believe in magic.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 13, 2015

Posted under

Fairy Tale for Boys, Fairy Tale for Girls, Photography, Poetry, Tales for Kids of All Ages, Young Fairy Tale

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22 Comments

Stone Turtle

Bear stopped for raspberries at Kent Pond.
Turtle basked nearby.
“You look delicious,” Bear sniffed. “Yum!”
His claws swept out.
Turtle disappeared, and his shell bounced.
It rolled like a stone.
Bear knew that stones hurt his teeth.
He lumbered away.
Turtle poked out his head, grinning.
“Works every time.”

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 11, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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39 Comments

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.

Quechee Gorge and Dam
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.

Note: These photographs are of Quechee Gorge and Ottauquechee River, Vermont.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 10, 2015

Posted under

Poetry

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44 Comments

Ghostly Echoes

Footsteps echo like ghosts.
Dust clogs the air, and
breezes rattle webs then
spin brown leaves
into dry devils.
Sentry swallows
dive from eaves,
startling us into
thumping dance steps:
one forward and two back.
A tiny beak chirps
from a mud cup.
The mother snaps
mosquitoes from midair,
hovering by the nest
like a tiny dragon,
eyes aflame with purpose.
We pace forward cautiously,
no longer sure of our primacy.
We emerge in sunshine,
glad to walk quietly.

Note: We may build the bridge, but the folk who live there own it. Do you ever feel the past hanging heavily over a place?

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 9, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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20 Comments

Dragons in Trees

Find dragons in trees, fairies in running brooks,
Dwarves in stones and magic in everything.

— Brenda Davis Harsham

Note: My quote is a baldfaced repurposing of an older quote: “Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,/ Sermons in stones, and good in everything.” Can you guess who it is? William Shakespeare from As You Like It. It reminds me of C.S. Lewis, though.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 8, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

25 Comments

Mountain Cloudburst

Tears fall from dark clouds,
spit spatter splash!
Thunder rip roars!
Wipers swish swash!
Fog swirls on the mountainside
then descends like ghostly legions.
Blue mountains disappear
behind a blurry sky.
Whoosh,
the car emerges
into sunshine.
Only the leaves prove
the rain danced.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 7, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

32 Comments

Raspberry Magic

sugar sweet fragrance
berries form beside blooms
even bears hunger

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 6, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

21 Comments

White Mountain Sunset

Hungry plants stretch
toward the dwindling light
along Kancamagus Highway,
a tongue-tying, twisting
New Hampshire byway.
The setting sun gilds
wildflower meadows.
The air is crisp and cold.
Birds and squirrels nest;
mosquitoes buzz and
dodge dragonflies.
Beetles scurry for rocks
and porcupines waddle
through ferns, quills tucked.
A stork pauses in the shallow river
alongside the cars, eying the current.
The water is aflame with sunset,
in shades of rose, umber and carmine.
Pine scent intermingles with
blooming goldenrod and early asters.
Blue mountains fade to gray.
Tomorrow is another day.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

August 2, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

67 Comments

Dappled Glade

Light moves and
shadows turn cartwheels
in a dappled glade.
A shadow might be
anything,
squirrel, gopher,
dog, deer or sprite.
Or the absence of
someone dear.
A dappled glade
can contain
anything at all,
or everything.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

July 30, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

50 Comments

Fairy Tale Flowers

Seeds sown wide
scatter color to the wind.
July is hothouse
blooms and wildflowers:
Coreopsis gold,
Cosmos pink and purple,
Day lilies and moonflowers.
Bees, flown off their knees,
crumble dust to honey.
On that perfumed air,
dreams ride Scotch Broom,
trip on witch hobble
and snatch blueberries.
Bee balm bursts into fireworks.
Dragons doze in glades,
and little boys whistle up storms.
Thunder rides stallions
behind black clouds.
Summer is a fairy tale,
wild and free.

This post is part of Poetry Friday, this week hosted thanks to Keri Recommends.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

July 29, 2015

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

40 Comments

Covered Bridge

River rambles and curves,
shallow then deep,
rocky or smooth,
changeable as the weather.
Under the bridge are dark places,
deep pools with hidden depths.
The biggest fish hide there.
Aquatic plants sway
in the current, roots unseen.
The burbling water
covers whispers made, but
sounds echo above,
in the dim covered bridge,
where magic dwells.
Gossamer webs hold fast
lingering traces of lovers past.
Children, clapping hands
and believing in fairies,
once danced here.
Their shadows remain
sweetening the breezes.