Misty morning rain —
Abloom go fairy umbrellas.
Sprites huddle and hide —
Only a toe might show.
Mushrooms glisten.
Gilded droplets
form slowly,
roll to the center —
a pool of fairy nectar.
Deer step warily,
brown eyes dewy, and
nibble mushrooms.
Sprites tickle their chins
and spin widdershins.
So again it begins.
Abloom!
Hide and seek with the fawn
till Mama Doe gives a yawn,
and the rain is gone.
So are the mushrooms.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
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
Peaks and valleys
alternate between
hidden places and
violet cloud reaches.
The earth’s undulating
blue dragon scales
devour distance.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
wildflower heart
roots hidden in darkness
trembles toward the sun
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
fall here
landings will be softened
by cake
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Green leaves entrance,
make my feet dance
down pathways
through wildflowers
into secret glades,
surrounded by
silent sentinels:
pine, oak and spruce.
The hum of crickets
finds me where I hide
but no other person does.
In that loud silence,
full of ducks quacking,
geese honking,
bees buzzing,
and mosquitoes hunting,
one yellow leaf falls.
Even the crickets pause
in shocked wonder.
Clouds thicken and churn,
rain slashes and dashes,
the sky’s anger interconnected,
a reflection of us all.
The coming of autumn
is part of summer,
as sunset is part of day.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
The prettiest bloom,
youthful and bright,
doesn’t always
attract the bee.
Honeybees visit the
same purple petals
even after the flowers
are thin and worn.
Is it first love’s kiss?
Or is the sweetest honey
made from
wind-tossed blooms?
The bee should not
be alone in admiring
late summer’s song —
the survivor bloom.
That flower speaks to me
in poetry:
fragrance heady,
curve and wit
shining,
alluring
and grand.
Phenomenal.
A Maya Angelou of blooms.
Perhaps my petals
grow thinner each year,
But not my charms.
I have magic still.
As do you.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: These flowers are wildflowers from Vermont. Can anyone identify them? I couldn’t. Also, this poem references Maya Angelou’s fabulous poem, Phenomenal Woman. A poem that makes me sigh with joy, every time I read it. You don’t need to know where magic comes from, you just need to believe. Have a great weekend!
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
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.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
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.”
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
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.
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.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
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?
Friendly Fairy Tales 