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February 12, 2014

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Goodbye Hope: a Monody Haībun

Last night in my email, was another writer’s bane, the let-you-down-gently words that sink in like thorns. I didn’t have high hopes, how can one in my place? I have time for writing, time for dreams, time for children-rearing, but no time for marketing.

Another so kind rejection in the mail.
How can I go on when to go on is to fail?
It’s nicely worded, not harsh at all,
And yet, it’s kind words hurt like an icy fall.
Why do I need for my words to be heard?
Why not chirp quietly on a branch like a bird?
Oh, hope, so fragile, so easily flown away,
Will you come back soon, stay for another day?

Why do any of us write? We have words inside us, needing to come out. It’s that simple. When my boys hit age three, they had to run. They ran and ran, circling me like dolphins around a boat, chirping and loving, laughing and falling. They ran because they had to, and I did not stop them. I tried to keep them safe.

Can I parent myself, the young writer? How would I do that? I know I need to write, and so I will. I will let myself write, and as I send my words into the world, I will try to keep myself safe.

Not everyone has to like what I wrote. I write for my own reasons, and I share magic and joy where I can. Even if only one person is touched, has a better day, feels the magic, then that’s enough. My work is enough. My words are enough. I will keep sending my words into the world.

As for my kind rejecter, I will smile, and I will remember that that person’s day is too long, too busy, too full to take on my words. That’s okay. She has a busy life, too, and only so many hours in it.

sycamore grows in summer
its roots leave words in the soil
the leaves read the shining sun

Note: A Monody is a lament, a dirge or an elegy for someone or something departed. A Haibun is prose, culminating in poetry, with its heart beating in the natural world. This was partly inspired by a series of recent rejections, by the weekly poetry prompt by painttheworldwithwords to write a monody and by the weekly Haībun Thinking prompt, with a freestyling example by Al.

References:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/monody.html
http://painttheworldwithwords.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/poetic-form-of-the-week-monody/

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 10, 2014

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Poetry

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I Can Fly

Sunlights slants through the trees, blinding me.
Smoke rises from the chimney carrying an acrid scent.
Wind showers me with sparkling fairy dust from the trees
Making me blink, blink, but then I feel like I can fly.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 9, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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68 Comments

Old North Wind

Blow old North wind,
Your icy breath is a knife,
Storms have twinned,
Roads bisected by slushy ruts.

Sturdy New England folk
Might be down in the mouth;
Monotonous gray skies invoke
A temptation to head South.

Forty days to the solstice.
The sun is headed this way,
Eventual defeat to cold paralysis.
So we will wait it out, come what may.

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Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 8, 2014

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Poetry

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Warm Embrace Haiku

winter sunshine
hug reaches through the trees
embraced by the universe

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 7, 2014

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Poetry

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Visitor in the Temple Haībun

The February sunshine steeps your boughs
and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
The groves were God’s first temples.
— William C. Bryant

Daily on my walks, I see miracles of beauty, hidden places that driving would never reveal. The slower I walk, with more deliberation and care, with time to look around, the more my soul lifts with the beauty casually offered to my eyes. Some combinations of shrub and tree were created with careful selection, pruning, fertilizing and skill beyond mine. I am the worshipper, visiting briefly in temples built by others.

Even my own garden has treasures I received, simply by deciding to dwell here. Some irises were planted by a previous owner. I thought they would be purple, and each year I waited for them to bloom. Their leaves never embraced a flower stem except once, overshadowed as they had become by the vigorous forsythia planted too close. One fall, I pruned back the forsythia. That next spring, the forsythia did not bloom, but the iris did: delicate and pale pink, with a creamy white interior.

not purple, unexpected
the pink of my son’s rosy cheeks
bearded iris bloomed

My neighbor, Terry, came down the driveway, waving, and calling to me. She told me she was delighted to see Reed’s irises in bloom after so many years. She asked for one, and I freely gave it. She told me about the woman who had planted them. Reed had developed brain cancer and was gone in a few months. The neighbors had come together to make the family meals while she enjoyed her last days, looking out on her garden. One neighbor came to play harp for her in the evenings. Now her garden is my garden, and her irises are in my care.

Last year, I moved all those irises away from the forsythia and into the sun. My neighbor, Terry, came by again: her iris had not survived. I told her I would give her another one day, once they had recovered from transplanting. One spring soon, I hope to see that pale pink flower again. I will care for them here, in my outdoor temple. As I tend the memories of my own mother.

mourning in shade
thick green bud rises in the sun
time to bloom again

Added by request, an old iris painting of mine, purple like the ones I carried at my wedding:

Iris 1 Painting by Brenda Davis Harsham

Inspired by the Līgo Haībun Challenge Prompt: Temple.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 7, 2014

Posted under

Humor, Photography, Poetry

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Captured for the First Time!

Used with Kind Permission of Tracy at Wanderlust

Never before photographed in the wild!
The elusive, secretive Ice Snails —

Ice Snails clinging
Before the big race
Little hearts singing
Hoping for speed and grace.

Cloaking devices active —
Only frost fairies see snails —
Rainbow refractive.
Snails leave glistening trails.

One will finish first,
Blest by the Frost Queen,
Putting on speed in a burst,
Winning rights to preen.

Fairies celebrate with hot cider,
Made from Autumn’s windfalls,
Berry tart and mushroom slider —
Feasting and fun within Fairy halls.

No wild life were harming in the making of this post. 😉

Inspired by Tracy’s Ice photographs at Wanderlust. Check them out, they are awesome!

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 5, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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60 Comments

The Heart of a Garden Haibun

Used with permission of Sally – My Beautiful Things

I always leave part of my heart in my garden as the yellow leaves drift slowly down, followed by the snow. My summer heart hibernates there, with the bulbs and the frogs, below the frost line. I don’t have the heart to clear all the leaves away, it’s too like wiping the tears of the tree.

I prefer to leave them where they fall in the flower beds, fertilizer and insulation against the winter’s fury. On the grass, I rake them all into a big pile, and let the kids jump in. We toss up the leaves in fistfuls, and they fall in our hair. We make leaf angels, before we bag them all.

My summer heart is there still in my garden, slumbering, under the snow forts, the snowmen and beyond the snow angel farms. Wrapped closely with leaves, dreaming of sunshine and warm days.

first green shoots
split the soil apart
my heart leaps out

Inspired by the Tuesday Haibun Thinking: Week 3.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 5, 2014

Posted under

Holiday, Poetry

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Ode to a Snowday

Oh the excitement! A storm is coming,
Weather forecasters are so seldom wrong,
Rumors are flying, and nerves are humming.
Even teachers smile at the hopeful throng.

Internet weather searches are many
The night before a major storm comes through.
A young child’s face shines like a new penny.
Even parents hope, at least one or two.

The first flakes fall unnoticed in the dark,
Stars hidden by clouds, snowflake stars falling,
Lightly, but thickly, on tree, road and park.
Schools are closed only after some stalling.

Parents and kids sleep in past the gray dawn.
Parents sleep longest, quiet kids watch cartoons.
Mom comes down to breakfast with a yawn,
Dad flips pancakes. Kids eat peaches with spoons.

Weather is perfect, just below freezing.
Snow is heavy, wet, perfect for packing.
We play outside all day without sneezing.
Children roll giant snowballs for stacking.

Seedpods make spiky eyes and twigs form arms,
Meanwhile, two boys sling snowballs from sled forts,
Pink-covered smallest makes snow angels farms,
And we sled until we’re soaked to the shorts.

Dry clothes and cocoa with marshmallows untold,
Help finish shoveling, board games to play,
As the plows finally clear our back road.
Oak leaves dangle forlornly with snow’s weight.

Tired children fall into their warm beds.
Coats drip dry by radiators, thumping,
Parents mop up water and shake their heads,
Pray for sunshine before tired slumping.

Inspired by Painttheworldwithwords weekly poetry prompt, and her helpful post defining an ode, with links to, among other great odes, Keats’ Ode to a Grecian Urn, Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind, and Creeley’s America.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 3, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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Weather Witch

Tempers ran high when the snow started to fall.
Frog would not come out of his palace at all.
Orla Fairy drank cup after cup of tea.
Jake the Forest Snip, belligerent was he.

Down the slippery village road he stalked.
Approaching all the closed doors: Bang! bang! he knocked.
A Siberian tiger paced and snarled,
Snow piled onto his fur, nails old and gnarled.

Forest Snip banged on the Weather Witch’s door,
Calling out, “What are you thinking, you great bore!”
“You tell her,” said the old tiger with a grin.
“Stop your banging!” came a shrill voice from within.

Out with demands came a magnificent mouse:
“Stop making a racket in front of my house!”
“We all talked and decided, it would be spring!”
Jake the Forest Snip’s words had a rousing ring.

Fairy Orla put down her tea, now resigned.
Outside, she said: “Mags, an accord was designed.”
“Don’t you dare call me Mags,” the Weather Witch grumped.
“But why did you change your mind? We are all stumped,”

Fairy Orla inquired. “Dear, we all see snow.”
“Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, you know!
How can I ignore that?” asked the Weather Witch.
The tiger’s black and white striped fur gave a twitch.

He growled: “Don’t tell me we have to wait six weeks!”
Fairy Orla sadly brushed snow from her cheeks.
“All this cold for a Pennsylvania rodent?”
Fairy Orla snapped, ending quite despondent.

The witch scratched her mouse whiskers with tiny nails.
“There might be a way, but if done wrong it fails.
Gather some helleborus, ginger root, moss,
Shrew coat clippings, raven feathers, grassy floss,”

The Witch listed, hugging her pink coat tightly.
“Gather all that, my friends, gather it sprightly.
A brew will I prepare that will end this storm,”
Gravely she spoke, looking at snowflakes, forlorn.

All but the ginger root came quickly to hand.
Not one could be found on fairy village land.
They bartered for roots with five passing tinkers,
But Forest Snip lost them dicing with drinkers.

Now all were snarling at Jake the Forest Snip.
He left to go south on an extended trip.
More and more snowflakes drifted quietly down.
“Each thing has its time,” quoth the mouse with a frown.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 3, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry, Tales for Kids of All Ages

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Beauty in the Broken Places

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

— Leonard Cohen, Anthem
Read remaining lyrics here.

The broken parts have the deepest beauty.
A road is just a road until you stop and see a turtle hiding.
The crack in perfection is where new life takes root.
Magic is in how you look at things.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 31, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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Snowball Battles Haībun

Words held back are like snowballs unthrown. Turned around, patted, added to, growing in size and coldness until, blam! Released, they slam into the target.

pile of snowballs waits
giggling from behind the fort
duck, one is coming

After getting nailed by a young son, my laughter starts while I form my own snowball and launch a counterattack. Usually my son is running for cover, dodging and weaving.

both combatants
howling with laughter
ducking and throwing

In snowball fights, people have their weak points, and the battle is over once someone gets snow in their eyes or down their neck. Or someone breaks a window. Yes, tempers can flare, even in a snowball fight, and things can get out of hand. Any kind of battle can wound.

When people start flinging words, sometimes a stray comment lodges in the memory, suppurating and infecting until the thorn is drawn.

My dad always liked to tease. One of his favorite ways to deal with complaints was to make a fist, thumb up, then circle his thumb on the closed index finger. “Do you know what this is?” he would ask. The first time, I said “No.”

“It’s the tiniest record player in the world, playing: My Heart Bleeds for You.” And then he would laugh. I still smile at the memory. He had an infectious laugh. For a long time, though, the memory of that tiny record player and my father’s laugh did sting. Looking back, I realize he was teaching me to solve my own problems. I learned not to bring him my problems. By and large, that was good training for life.

I have learned to draw the thorns from my memory. Raising my own kids has helped me understand my parents. Leaving in the thorns is like leaving the ice down your neck after a snowball fight. Uncomfortable in the extreme.

pulling out old thorns
bitter thoughts wedged in deeply
best with compassion

Inspired by the Friday Haībun prompt by Ese and Ye Pirate. This week, they used two of my photographs as prompts. I chose the one above, entitled: The Arsenal.