Poems of my journey

Hi everyone,

R.I.P., CONNECTING DOTS, published by Boyds Mills Press, 2004.


As starry hours slowly sweep
We turn together in our sleep.
Sometimes I wake and watch her there
In rumpled sheets and tangled hair
Pillow tucked beneath her head
Breathing near me on the bed —
A quiet every-night event —
Then drift away again, content.

Outside in dimly shadowed light
Voices thrum away the night
And as they sing their ancient themes
We mingle in each other’s dreams.
Time moves softly, slow and deep,
We turn together in our sleep
Until the morning comes and then
She wakes and life begins again.

(c) by David L. Harrison, all rights reserved.


Girls from my past

Hi everyone,

I haven’t tackled my Word of the Month poem yet but here’s one from the past. It was published in CONNECTING DOTS, (Boyds Mills, 2004).

I’m 13. Suddenly we’re talking about girls. I know some kids who have gone on dates. We have more questions than answers.


Something happened over summer —
girls are looking different now.
Hard to say exactly how,
but other guys have noticed too.
Seems like all we ever do
is sneak a look at girls.

Makeup maybe? Clothes? Perfume?
How they walk across the room?
Can’t explain, I only know
(haven’t told another soul)
I think I’m liking girls.

Early memories

Hi everyone,

I just finished responding to questions for an upcoming interview, including one about a favorite memory. I value memories, especially those earliest ones. I can think of four glimpses of me when I was three.

In one case I was playing in the basement. My parents kept a (wait for it . . . ) turtle down there. (Is there any wonder that I goo foff with turtles today?) Anyway I was sliding it across the concrete floor until my mother realized what I was doing and came to the poor creature’s rescue. Later in my life I wrote the book, CONNECTING DOTS, which was all memory-based, and I included a poem about that poor creature in our basement that suffered at my childish hands. Thanks, Wendy Murray, for being such a sensitive editor for that highly personal collection. Some of you may have read the poem but here it is.

by David L. Harrison

I remember the turtle
beneath the basement stair.
I see him sleeping there.

Maybe he’s dreaming of clover,
shade beside a tree,
days when he was free.

When he awakes he lurches,
searches through the gloom
around across the room,
scratches at the stones..
Methodically he crawls,
scrapes against the walls.

The walls mark his prison,
but even if he knows,
on and on he goes.

I remember the turtle –
when I was only three –
whose courage was lost on me.

© Boyds Mills Press, 2004.
By permission of the author.

Anyone else have an early memory to share? Have you drawn from it the inspiration for a poem or story?

Thinking back . . .

Hi everyone,

Jeff’s plane was weather delayed so now both he and Robin arrive today. Been thinking about them, waxing nostalgic. Here’s a poem from CONNECTING DOTS about the time in our back yard in Kansas City when I was struggling to erect a new swing set and had more help than I needed. I think I posted this some time ago but here it is again.

David L. Harrison

The three-headed creature
huddles together in the yard.

In the space between the big head
and the instructions on the grass,
the helper heads bob in and out.

The three-headed creature sings to itself
two simple songs at once.

When are we going to get to swing?
Stop playing with the screwdriver.

When are we going to get to swing?
Where did you drop the washers?

When are we going to get to swing?
Let’s look for Section C.

When are we going to get to swing?
Why don’t you play with Mommy?


Hi everyone,

When I wrote the poems for THE ALLIGATOR IN THE CLOSET, one — “Death of a Wasp” — struck my editor, Wendy Murray, as just the right voice for another collection. The poem made her teary and she wondered if I could create a whole book of poems that struck with the same force.

Eventually this led to the book, CONNECTING DOTS, an autobiographical collection beginning with my early memories from age 3 through my age at the time the book was completed at 65. The opening poem is about our dog, an English Bulldog named Jigs.

I was four years old and playing in the back yard. Jigs was napping on the top step into the back porch. I needed to go to the bathroom rather urgently and went dashing up the steps. Jigs stood up but wasn’t inclined to move. Here’s the poem.


Jigs stands on the top step,
blocking my way inside,
feet planted,
back sagging like
he’s holding up the world.

“Move, Jigs.”
I push him hard.

gurgling deep down,
his wet mouth opens.

I shove his shoulder.
“Move!” I say.

Pug nose wrinkling,
mouth moves,


He jumps off
with a rude noise
for the quieter shade
of the yard.

I stare in shock
at what he’s done,
feel the pain begin
like fear.

Holding my thumb,
I run in, screaming
my disbelief.