softer
snowfall
in April
a winged angelic and feathery stillness
heralds divine music from above
the icy confection
reminds of protection
brings a sense of peace
contemplating movement
making art turn into magic while
overhead fly Canada geese
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Purple party hats prickle
Continue reading
Snow showers
bury
spring flowers
deep Continue reading
Anyone who falters to a stop,
mid breath, and
lets her words breathe,
then echo,
then die,
is a poet.
Mudiferous,
squelching ramble
beneath bare branches
and yearning buds
yields a vast harvest
in my wintry soul
of spring faith. Continue reading
I enjoy every
yellow thing
that blooms in
early spring.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: This ditty is in honor of writing and rewriting manuscripts galore. Plus, today, I won an award-winning book thanks to a cat named Maggie. Continue reading
Stamp, stomp,
puddle heaven,
fountains everywhere
when you’re seven.
Laugh and howl,
wet socks,
drippy drops everywhere,
forget clocks.
Arrive speckled
with muddy blots,
not welcome everywhere,
stomach in knots.
Will mom see past hems
dripping dark dots?
Rather than dirt everywhere,
she sees cheetah spots!
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Notes: Poets find joy in puddles:
“The world is mud-luscious…
[and] puddle-wonderful”
— e.e. cummings
Since writing a haibun on puddles, I’ve wondered how cumming’s mother viewed him, arriving home. My poem’s been in its chrysalis, but finally that wondering took shape and spread wings.
Another fun poem about puddles is Puddle Splash by Roann Mendriq:
What is it about rain puddles,
that make one want to splash?
That turns us into children,
in a quick and happy flash?
Read the rest here.
Big thanks to Robyn Hood Black, a wonderful poet and author, for hosting this week’s Kidlitospere Poetry Friday extravaganza.
Gray rain, icy day,
can’t take my grin away.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: It rained all day, and I have the flu, but I can’t let it get me down. Have a magical week.
Leaves grow on the trees –
the leaves are green!
I see green everywhere.
I like the color green.
The sun is glowing.
Children are looking at the sun –
some children lay down in the sunlight.
Sunlight,
sun bright.
by A. Harsham, age 5
Note: This post is by and for my daughter, Happy 7th Birthday! Long may she weave herself into spring like yarn art on monkey bars.
Also, help me celebrate my daughter’s special Friday with poetry for kids, courtesy of Poetry Friday. Thanks to Teacher Dance for hosting this week!
Here’s what it will seem like to me:
Birthday cake!
Birthday cake!
Bring it now
or I’ll have a cow!
I need it fast —
I might not last!
Once it’s gone,
I’m woebegone.
Presents are fun
until they’re done.
What comes next?
Now I’m vexed.
A whole ‘nother year?
I can’t wait, I fear.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
To the final berry,
trembling and silent,
life is scary.
Unchosen,
unpicked,
half-frozen.
Squirrel-missed,
bird-pecked,
sun-kissed.
Little, red and round,
when the snowdrops bloom,
I’ll plant you underground.
Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: My son was at the ER this weekend. My internal compass has been swinging left to right and back again. Upheaval, danger, chaos, progress, crisis. Spring will bring me back into the garden, and life will resume it’s course: toward magic and joy. I hope you are having a magical week. Warmly, Brenda
This cold, blustery day, I dream
into being another spring day.
This one is mountain-flavored,
nearer to heaven than the sea,
far away from here, far from me.
A mountain meadow blooms
as far as my eye can see:
pink heads nod their approval,
as if they like what they see.
I’m atilt, upright on this slope,
keeping my feet, holding out hope.
Pollen coats my skin in gold dust
and I run as lightly as a wind gust.
I lift my arms to the sky,
I’m not a gazelle, but I can fly!
l reach the dim of the tree line,
and each leaf sings harmony with me.
Part of me dwells there, in that perfect hour
when spring is eternal: sweet, soft air and
cool breezes. Infinite beauty. Birds sing,
deer graze and rabbits nod to the grass.
The scent of wildflowers is heaven.
Heaven is in our memories.
Note: The title is from a quatrain that has been niggling at the corners of my attention all week. I decided to embrace it, celebrate it. This is the first of two posts about it. Do you know it already? It’s this one:
“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.”
close dreaming eyes
fragrance of cherry blossoms
intoxicates, breathe
Note: Dreams are magic. I dreamed spring into being today as I soaked up the lemon winter sun. The park may have been wet with snowmelt and smelling of mud but I was remembering cherry blossoms.
Friendly Fairy Tales 