A magical memory at Goose Lake

Hi everyone,

A few days ago a mushroom patch sprouted from around the roots of our deceased maple tree.

It was more like a village.

There are scientific explanations for this phenomenon, but I knew at once that at last, after searching all these years, I was finally witnessing for myself the fabled home of They. You can imagine my joy! I went to the files at once and reread my homage to They that came out thirty years ago in a book I called THE BOY WHO COUNTED STARS.

They

I don't know their names,
But They live in the grass
And They are only two inches tall,
And nobody knows where They came from
Or why They're so terribly small. 
They slip through the clover
And hide in the leaves
So you seldom can see them at all,
And nobody knows why They live there
Near the base of the garden wall.
They dance and parade
By the light of the moon
And visit with crickets all day,
And nobody knows how They got there
Or whether They're planning to stay.
And maybe you'll meet them,
And maybe you won't,
If you come to my house to play,
"Cause everyone wants to know who They are,
But nobody knows but They.

(c) 1994 David L Harrison, from THE BOY WHO COUNTED STARS

This morning the village is gone. It has vanished as surely as Brigadoon. They are gone. I am privileged to be one of the few humans to have seen where They live, or, rather, where They lived for a few enchanted hours. Where They went, I do not know. But They were here in my back yard at Goose Lake, and I will always have that memory.

But nobody knows but They

Hi everyone,

I found another poem from the files that uses “name.” It was published in 1994 by Boyds Mills Press in a collection I called THE BOY WHO COUNTED STARS. The book didn’t sell well and I was disappointed because I liked the poems, but alas it had no theme. My editor had warned me about that, but I would have my way, and pay the price.

Thank you, Nate Papes, Springfield News-Leader, for the swell picture.

They

I don’t know their names,
but They live in the grass,
and They’re only two inches tall.
Nobody knows where They came from
or why They’re so terribly small.

They slip through the clover
and hide in the leaves,
so you seldom can see them at all.
Nobody knows why They live there
near the base of our garden wall.

They dance and parade
by the light of the moon
and visit with crickets all day.
Nobody knows how They got there,
or whether They’re planning to stay.

Maybe you’ll meet them,
and maybe you won’t,
if you come to my house to play,
‘Cause everyone wants to know who They are,
but nobody knows but They.

(c) 1994 David L Harrison, from THE BOY WHO COUNTED STARS

Champion weeds

Hi everyone,

Haven’t found time yet to write an original poem inspired by weeds, but for now I can at least offer an oldie. “Weeds” came out in 1994 in THE BOY WHO COUNTED STARS, the same book that included “A Brief Romance.” Here it is.

Weeds

Said Mrs. Towers to Mr. Reeds,

“Why do you water those wretched weeds?

Said Mrs. Reeds, “Well don’t you know

That blue-ribbon weeds need water to grow?

Said Mrs. Towers to Mr. Reeds,

“I’ll give you some blue-ribbon flower seeds

If you’ll promise to pull those weeds and make room

For lovely blue-ribbon flowers to bloom.”

Said Mr. Reeds, with a rasping wheeze,

“Flowers make me sniff and sneeze,

So I yank them up and throw them out

To give my weeds more room to sprout.
And he said with pride, “As you can see,

No one grows better weeds than me.

I’ll never waste my time on flowers,”

Said Mr. Reeds to Mrs. Towers.

And I’m sure you’ve heard that Mr. Reeds

Won ten blue ribbons for his champion weeds.

(c) 1994 David L. Harrison, all rights reserved

A visitor from the past

Hi everyone,

For no particular reason, this morning I woke up thinking about a poem I wrote more than twenty-five years ago in a book called THE BOY WHO COUNTED STARS. Among the comments to my blog and Facebook posts yesterday, someone mentioned that book so that must have triggered the memory. Anyway, for what it’s worth, here’s the poem, “A Brief Romance.” Also, for what it’s worth, I can’t get rid of the column of numbers running down the left margin, another frustration thanks to the recent overhaul by WordPress.com .

“Oh Mistress Hen,
Won’t you let me in?”
The fox asked
With a foxy grin,
But the hen said, “I’m too clever.”

“I love you so,”
He murmured low,
“Just one little squeeze,
And then I’ll go,”
But the hen just cackled, “Never!”

“Don’t make me blue,
My sweet Baboo,
I’d do anything for you,”
But the hen said, “No you wouldn’t.”

“My knees are weak,
I can scarcely speak,
I long to kiss
Your lovely beak,”
And the hen said, “I just couldn’t.”

He winked and smiled,
“My darling child,
I’ll only stay
A little while,”
And the hen said, “We really shouldn’t.”

At last the hen
Let the fox come in,
And no one knows
What happened then,
Though it only took a minute.

I can only say,
When she hopped away,
Her tummy was round
And it made her sway,
And I think the fox was in it.

(c) 1994 David L. Harrison

Read me a story

Hi everyone,

Thank you to Tim Rasinski for posting a poem of mine today on his World Read Aloud Day post. “Read Me a Story” first appeared in 1994 in THE BOY WHO COUNTED STARS and has been anthologized a couple of other times I can think of. I’m grateful to Tim for bringing it out for another curtain call.