grey stones strung with red,
the River Fergus ripples
with silent ghosts
Copyright 2022 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Bridge over the River Fergus
Tag Archives: William Butler Yeats
Magic Things
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” ~ William Butler Yeats
Notes: Thanks to Hanna at Hanna’s Walk for reminding me of this quote.
Moonlight Gloss
Moonlight glosses
dark waters.
Its silver light
beckons across
cold, silent space,
soothing us in our
troubled sleep. Continue reading
Cat and the Dandelion Moon
Cat went here. The moon was there.
Cat crept toward the Dandelion moon.
Cat’s paw was an asteroid, flying fast. Continue reading
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
You’ll find no green beer here
Or stories with a jeer here
about shamrock socks
or leprechaun jocks;
The Irish won’t get a smear here.
I pass along this fantastic
idea, not sarcastic,
not as a joke
about wee folk,
But with thought enthusiastic:
Storytelling is an art
that makes the Irish a part
of words unfurled
joining the world
To one growing literary chart.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: The foregoing are my limericks three, to frame my respect for my Irish heritage. The shamrock is a work in progress by my daughter and I. To celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, here are few treasures by Irish authors:
While mantling on the maiden’s cheek
Young roses kindled into thought.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
My body was like a harp and her words and gestures
were like fingers running upon the wires.
― James Joyce, Araby
Of the things which nourish the imagination,
humour is one of the most needful,
and it is dangerous to limit or destroy it.
I think of the bog as a feminine goddess-ridden ground,
rather like the territory of Ireland itself.
Friendly Fairy Tales 