Literary Arts
Literary Arts Guild
Literary Arts Guild
Literary Arts Guild
Are you a writer or poet? Why not join?
Publications
2020 Winning Poems
Poetry Contests
Collections of Poetry by Lake Sunapee Region Poets
Poetry by the John Hay Poets
previously published in the InterTown Record
SUMMER IN THE FORTIES
For a moment
Take me back to
That land of summer.
Cottages by the lake.
Bells, buzzes, thunderclaps,
Screen door slams!-slam-slam-slam.
Topless-bottomless tin cans,
Sunk in the piney forest mat,
Creating a very private golf course.
Through the open privy door,
Sun shining on the Sears Roebuck catalogue
Resting on a can of wood ashes.
Blueberries.
A cup for muffins,
Two cups gets you a pie.
Model T’s, Model B’s
May-B she’ll go,
May-be she won’t!
Dry deadfall,
Below pines grown tall in forsaken fields
In which cattle once grazed,
Make perfect instruments
To celebrate the 4th of July.
Snap-Snap-Snap-Snap-Snap-Snap!
Debra Lamson Perkins, New London, NH
INDEPENDENCE DAY
Bang!
A gunshot igniting the blackness
rises up to explode
in a rainbow of colors.
Cheers ring out while some
gasp for breath and the
fireworks spiral down.
Babies cry who need a change.
Dogs cower in the corner.
Independence Day for all?
Maybe next year.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
July Fourth
Born on the fourth of July
a day to celebrate
Our country's founding
is worth the respect
For the beginning of our
freedom loving nation
Let's proudly salute the flag
and give thanks
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
BORN OF THE FOURTH
Our Flag
Patriotism
Independence
Spirit of Freedom
Yankee Doodle Dandy
Standing Tall
Proud to be
Respectful
American
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
A JULY MIRACLE
How well I remember one night in July - out on the Illinois prairie -
A place where the eye can see forever -
Land as flat as your hand.
How well I remember that night, now etched in the years.
The 4th of July had come and gone to make room for the days that followed.
And on this night, on the western horizon, a rare moon illusion appeared.
I was enthralled by the startling size and color.
I wanted to reach out and touch its beautiful orange face.
Perhaps, this rare moon was a good omen.
For in that moment, I felt the tiny being move inside of me, and knew the moon was smiling.
It happened in the wee hours of the morning that followed -
The birth of my son.
Flo Millett, New London NH
FOURTH OF JULY 1831
Freedom
flames in fire works,
fills the night sky with song:
America, America
we sing
music
praising our land,
proud of her liberty
with God given rights guaranteed.
We see
The last
rockets explode,
drift into the harbor,
peace descending upon the crowd,
not war,
not hate.
On the steps of
the Park Street Church, Boston,
the final note lingers with hope
and joy.
Today
on July Fourth,
in 1831,
Samuel Francis Smith’s new hymn
lifts souls,
rings out
from the voices
of the children’s choir
for the first time. New words herald
bounty,
country,
our nation’s pride,
whose bounties all may share,
America, America
we sing.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
IT HAPPENED ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
As I was told many times over the years
I and must say, look back with a few tears
My parents had lived through various issues
Including WW II and the restrictions thus issued.
They progressed to a state when Dad said, remarkably,
On July 4th, to Mom, I have for you something sparkly.
My Mom argued that those weren’t allowed,
But the diamond ring replaced her worries and vowed
She was thrilled they’d (finally!) agreed to marry.
And the time frame didn’t allow them time to tarry.
So after the 4th, time flew by to October
When they wed on the 2nd with help from her brother
And her sister for sure, who stood up for her that day,
And that is the memory I have, not ‘officially’ of that day.
The 4th is, and remains to so many, a patriotic day
But I have my own memories and I’ll keep it that way!
S. J. Little, Newbury NH
FIRST BATCH
Last August seems so far away
And with it the memories of the last batch of freshly picked blueberry muffins
Now comes July
full circle
bringing with her
a new batch
of blueberries.
Plop, plop, plop is the sound in the bottom of the bucket as the first picked blueberries touch down.
At the beginning of the season ripe blueberries are few and far between, and it’s a slow process for the plopping to stop.
Once the first row has settled in to the bottom of the bucket, the berries quietly take their place and hope springs optimistically for that one cup measure.
With older eyes and wishful thinking some berries make the cut admittedly on the pink side of blue.
A mental note is taken to offset the sourness of the wishfully blue berries by adding a smidgen more sugar to the batter.
Warm and wonderful memories continue in the kitchen.
My old friend’s coveted blueberry muffin recipe is pulled out of the recipe box now for the 50th year.
Thumb prints and smudges are bragging rights,
just as surely as the perfect patina on a cherished antique.
Grandchildren line up by the oven awaiting the finished product with an acute sense of how long 20 minutes can feel and yet how short 20 minutes feels when playing.
So they wait and they wait until the muffins come out of the oven.
Their eyes look sad and body language frustrated when they learn that they have to wait some more until the muffins cool off.
Finally, with cold glass of milk in hand they hungrily grab the muffins, down them in two bites, and empty the plate in seconds, just as surely as if the locusts had come through.
I wonder if they even tasted them.
Alexis Wallace, New London NH
THE PURSUIT
“all men are created equal...”
do we, or do we not agree?
do reactions and actions reflect
this declaration
in our home of the
brave, our land of the free?
let’s not digress from the matter at hand -
all men transgress throughout the land
and throughout the annals of history,
and their trespasses have tarnished
communities - blotches on our nation’s face,
some can be cleansed but others are such a
disgrace...scars that have mocked people’s
religion, relevance, race…and they exist
permanently, the sins of our fathers and forefathers
staring right back at you and me, like con-
stellations that have died but still shine bright
on the darkest of nights, and yet what should
our mission be? to stare at the stars,
to stare at the scars that have caused
such misery, to keep coming back to them
again and again and define our existence
by their imagery, or define our existence
by a tragedy? one affliction is far too many...
no act of hatred is acceptable, no unjust behavior
is permissible, and this is, and should be
true as far as each eye can see, and the majority
of us are so sorry for the horrific things that
have transpired, and if we could we would
declare “hate has expired” from now and for
all eternity, and erase it from our tapestry,
but none of us can...the transgressions
are there, and will continue to be,
for the heart of men are contrary to
“treat your neighbor as you want to be,” and
some walk around so selfishly, holding on tight
to their bigotry, or an exclusive form of progressivity,
so what, again, should our mission be?
our United States that is currently in
such a state of disunity?
“all men are created equal” you say?
these words were penned by some slave-
owning men, words and lives that were
contradictory, yet despite the tremendous
disparity between their language and their
livelihood, the essence of their declared
independence was wrought with good-
ness and irrefutable rights,
the reason why millions died for you
and for me during terrible fights, tremendous plights,
because “all men are created equal…”
do we, or do we not agree?
if so, our consistent mission should be
to respect all people with value, kindness, civility,
even if we happen to disagree with one another,
especially as we exist as sisters and brothers
of different races, colors, and creeds, for this is what
our country needs - to be the melting pot of the
brave and the free, so no youth, women, or men
will ever again reside here and be, or be treated
as a slave, so that we can continue to pave the way
for future generations, and build upon the foundation
that we all have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness, laboring through and overcoming the
madness that comes from without and sadly, within,
understanding that being different, but unified, is the
superlative place to stand tall, to begin...
Thom Smith, Andover NH
OF ORANGES AND DOLPHINS
We rode the train from
San Diego to Santa Barbara
on July 4th, some forty years
ago, between vanishing points
of orange groves on one side
and dolphins rick-racking
through surf on the other.
My young daughters had never
seen oranges on the tree
or dolphins in the wild
and kept swapping seats
side to side in wonder.
The same train still threads
through the California coastline
but the adjacent real estate
proved so much more lucrative
with rows of new homes
than of Valencia or Shasta Gold.
Besides, so many more kinds
of oranges can be imported
for all those on the beaches
where dolphins no longer
swim so close to shore.
And what happens when
there are too many of us
and not enough oranges
or dolphins?
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
QUARANTINING WITH A FLY AND GOD --July, 2020
This humdrum summer
buzzes in my face.
I ask God why
He made flies.
I didn’t catch
His answer.
I turn around
and ask the fly
Why are you here?
Why are your feelers
searching space?
Why do you flit
in ragged zigzags,
zooming through my rooms?
Shouldn’t you
fly on intent wings
about your Father’s business?
He pins me
with his thousand eyes
and asks,
And shouldn’t you?
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
SPARKLERS
SPARKLERS
I want to keep words alive
Alive is a big responsibility
Responsibility scolds me into giving up time
Time trickles, slow, slow, quick, quick dancing along to its own rhythm
Rhythm is contagious and keeps us moving in unison
In unison we stumble along our path
Path through secondary woods once cleared
Cleared for takeoff, for return to work, cleared to resume the everyday
Everyday becomes the next day before we notice much
Much might become too much.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
THOUGHTS ON JULY 4, 2020
Each of my ancestors on my tongue
In my heart
Under my skin
What did they know that invaded my DNA?
Which ancestor dared to speak up?
Who remained silent?
Who led?
Who followed?
I feel them lobby for expression
As I ponder how I will respond.
What am I willing to risk?
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
IT HAPPENED ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
Could’ve happened any day
Didn’t but it could’ve
Could’ve happened on the fourth of October
But no, it didn’t happen in the fall
With smells of burning piles of leaves
Encroaching winter creeping up behind them
Consuming yellow birch and maple reds
Could’ve been on the fourth of January
But no, it didn’t happen in the winter
With cotton tufts upon the trees
Twinkling fairies right above them
Sparkling in the icy moonlit night
Could’ve happened any day
Didn’t but it could’ve
Could’ve been on the fourth of April
But no, it didn’t happen in the spring
With new life peeking out with hope
Blooming nature all around them
Basking in the warming season’s light
Could have happened any day
Didn’t but it could’ve
It happened on the fourth of July
Yes, it happened in the summer
With cookout smells and children’s laughs
Sparkling fireworks in all the skies above them
Falling for each other on a sultry summer’s night
Yes, that’s the “fourth” they really met
Falling in love with each other then
And then forever
It happened on the fourth of July
It could’ve happened any day
Didn’t but it could’ve
By Catherine A. Feeney, Durham NH
A CHILD’S LONELINESS
Go away, virus!
You are making me lonely
With my school closed.
I don’t see my friends anymore.
Sometimes, my mom lets me ride
my bike to the school yard.
It’s always empty.
The silence is broken only by a
Lonely dog’s bark - begging me to play.
I long to fly my birthday kite,
Though it’s no fun without the other kids.
Go away, virus!
I’m lonely with school closed.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
TRUANT
Nellie said fairies were real, they hide in the woods
under toadstools and leave little trinkets.
When I found a tiny silver bell in the ferns
it was the beginning of my fairy dust world.
The bookmobile stopped at our road every Tuesday.
With stories of fantastical journeys unending.
I helped Karana fashion spears and build a canoe
while stranded on the Island of Blue Dolphins.
I sailed with Heyerdahl on the balsa raft Kon Tiki
and cheered when we reached Polynesia.
Avoiding my chores, a truant gone missing.
Who cared about dishes, they could wait?
I travelled land and sea with the Great Alexander
and the Silk Road with Marco Polo to meet Kublai Khan.
Their journeys and conquests were famed, often brutal.
But, so were the stories in the Sunday Times.
Civil unrest led to atrocities, and wars were imminent.
Life Magazine splashed photos of Eichmann, the Nazi.
The environment was fragile, and the seas polluted.
Appalled, I hoped we were better than this.
If not someone then no one rises up to protest
we hide under our covers and acquiesce.
It’s so easy to live in a fairy dust bubble
and just dream of a future exploration.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
ADAPTIVE SPECIES
A week ago there was
snow on the mountain
enough for one more run
if we were inclined to climb.
But a few 90 degree days
and it’s a whole new season.
In just hours, it seems
the leaves are out and about
waving and jostling as if
they’d been there right along
instead of snoozing all through
winter which is but a shadow
as we trade turtle necks for
tee shirts, skip the socks and find
our sandals. Ready to head
for the beach, any beach,
and expose as much
of ourselves as possible
to the elements.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
A DAY IN JUNE
At Kezar a light breeze by chance
A young robin walks across the road
The tree leaves begin to dance
A great blue heron in still stance
Waiting for a fish in silent mode
At Kezar a light breeze by chance
Wild pink roses observed in a glance
In the grass hides a small toad
The trees’ leaves begin to dance
A loon’s call echoes perchance
A turtle peers by a rock, his abode
At Kezar a light breeze by chance
This perfect day lulls me into a trance
To it I should compose a stately ode
The trees’ leaves begin to dance
With nature I have a lasting romance
Which will never completely erode
At Kezar a light breeze by chance
The trees’ leaves begin to dance
Natalie Davis, New London NH
JUNE DELINQUENCY
Maeve and J agreed, Thursday’s the day.
I slammed the door and hid in the closet,
Found dad’s shillelagh, mom was on her way.
In McCarty’s barn weapon I did deposit.
Old McCarty croaked, his wife was deaf.
Soon Maeve joined me in our quiet lair.
Sounds told of rattled kitchen gear.
Talk we did softly. Noticed Maeve quite fair.
Of course we rolled in the hay with joy.
The chaff clung tenaciously to homespun.
When we left the shillelagh was forgotten
We swore to go to prom together, not done.
Dan H, Allen, New London NH
WHY YOU CAN’T WIN THE HOOKY GAME
Even on that rare June day
we friends stayed school-bound anyway
tied to our desks. Sure, we missed sun
when other kids cut school for fun.
We missed the surf, the sandy beach
we missed sun-tanning rosy peach,
or shading under broad-brimmed hat.
We missed the Yanks, the Automat
or Schrafft’s for lunch. We missed
the Dorsey band, or being kissed
by that cute guy beside the pool.
If we’d been asked, “Girls, why no school?”
wide-eyed we’d lie and sweetly say:
“Big Teachers’ Conference today.”
We’d cut school once, a snowy morning—
our bold adventure died a-borning:
Amid popovers and jam
we whooped at being on the lam--
Then, just when all was going fine
Attendance Lady’s on the line
directing us, voice terse and cool:
“Fun’s over, girls. Now get to school.”
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
LIVES INTERTWINED for Joe and Mr. Nolan
He knew I had more on my mind
than skipping class on balmy June days
with my boyfriend, red Chevy convertible,
top down, the passing landscapes
and wind in our hair the only education
we cared about besides the knowledge
unfolding as we explored each other’s bodies.
He said I could write. The first person to read
my work out loud, he told me I reigned as poetess,
and would one day sign a book to him, one day soon.
Before Mr. Nolan died, I signed six books thanking him.
Before Joe died I gave birth to two of his children,
thankful for him for gifting them to me.
Running in equal competition with my raging
hormones, Mr. Nolan made me feel exceptional,
not by tender endearments whispered
in my ear, like those from the boy I loved,
but by public proclamations and praise
and holding my mind, my words, in high esteem.
I loved them both: interwove desire and intellect,
boy and man pushing my boundaries
into unexplored territory, until yielding to both,
a distinctive woman and writer emerged, both
passions plaited into a long distinctive braid.
My two lives intertwined because of the love
of those two men whose influence still lingers
in my lines.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
GRIEF
The sky knows grief in layers
Black cloud fingers weep.
Puffy shapes turn gray in tendrils
Near the comfort of earth.
The louden wool coat she wore
fades into memory.
No more smell of yeast bread baking.
Clutter of bakery boxes with pastry
too sweet to console me.
Aunts and uncles whisper in the kitchen,
pouring bourbon into orange juice.
The picture window emits
A dull silver glow from the Philco screen.
No competition
for the neighbors colored lights.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
EVENING PSALM
Released from doing, thinking, grasping
Evening invites me to listen.
Drift in rhythm with the breeze
“Not now, not now!” I shout,
As tasks marshal my thoughts
Competing for the start line.
Hope’s dark face brings tears.
Hints at a deeper truth.
Scattered seeds
that awaken in spring.
Rhythm of your footsteps
Bells that chime the hour
Light pricking the horizon
Scent of rich black tea
Sweetness of laughter
A soothing voice
With a warm hand to hold.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, new London NH
EIGHT HOURS OF BLISS=TEN DAYS OF SADNESS --for Cal C. Cole III, my first kiss
The vice principle of our blue & white high-school, was not
always the tomato-faced-screaming-man everyone claimed.
He offered me coffee each morning of my three day
in-school suspension; asked if I take cream and sugar,
“black” I said, please—black, to match my sadness.
I think he liked my company, talking and sharing a laugh
through the partition, while I hid writing my boyfriend
love-letters between classwork; no mailing address to send-to.
Black, to match my sadness…I was further forbidden to see
Cal for ten days; his penalty out-of-school, as he dubbed
a more daring, colorful, history of “misbehaviors” than I.
My parents forbade our phone-calls, and he, half-an-hour east.
Our day together, away from the stench of school-spirit,
was worth the risk. To-this-day, the pungent ocean-breeze
rolls through his unforgettable-car windows as we escape.
Our elbow-length hair waves like banners of victory while
Metallica cranks from the speakers, and Cal’s guitar-hands
maneuver the wheel, the stick-shift, and my left knee.
I, at fourteen-years, he at sixteen—going-on thirty.
What if we had kept going?
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
SKIPPING SCHOOL
After the War Dad wanted to go fishing
So we did
No school that day, Hurray
Then when he was transferred
to another base
I always skipped school
No wonder my grades were so bad.
Thirteen schools in 12 years
What did I learn?
The World
Loa Winter, Newbury NH
.jpg/:/rs=w:400,cg:true,m)
A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
We hear the bells—the somber tones of Covid-19—
A reality of our time.
Yet in the dark shadows, I see the soft yellow faces
Of spring flowers in bloom.
All is not lost.
Our once busy roads are less traveled.
We are breathing cleaner air.
Isn’t this what Earth Day is about?
Blankets of spring greenery warm mountain fields.
Forsythia bushes of brilliant color dot our countryside.
If you listen—you, too, may hear the distant church chimes.
They remind me of none other than Beethoven,
Who in his own Covid-19, that of deafness,
Composed his magnificent ninth symphony,
The third movement entitled “Ode to Joy.”
You and I are driven by a need to create—
The need to be master of our soul—
Our own “Ode to Joy” in this uncertain time.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
BLESSINGS
You read this book. Wow, that’s great.
I’m jealous.
I have not read in probably two months.
Can’t remember.
My paint table got destroyed one morning at breakfast.
That was the end of my artistic self.
They were just exuberant, that’s how kids are.
Maybe, some time, in 2021.
That’s a rat hole, a slippery slide, not going there. But…
This is about blessings. Yes,
it’s the kids, the kids and their parents.
They are anxious, they are worried. But they are here, it’s a blessing.
They are our future, Remember, remember.
As the dishwasher runs the third time of the day.
Forget the humming of the washing machine, a continuous hum.
You watch movies, really?
I watch Rachel and crash at nine.
I escape outside sometimes walking a trail nearby.
Refreshed and ready to continue the watch.
Did I hear you watched movies? Really?
When was that? We have zoom.
But, I have the kids.
I have their parents.
It’s a blessing.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
Panku on Pandemic
Outside the spring
Tulips and Daffodils
Can crowd together
The way we used to
Birds sing same songs
Do they know?
What’s different?
Is water and air the same?
We learn and adapt
To new normal
Carefully stepping out
Into the changed world
We wait for the mail
We wait for the sun
We wait for the call
We wait for the release
Housework undone
Escape to book
The film, the art, the garden
The love to hold
No need to travel
Happy at home
Unfinished business
Time at last
Above the mask
The eyes question
They show fear and pain
The loneliness of isolation
Caregivers are our heroes
Teaching us their education
Sacrifices, humor, stamina,
Focus on unselfish dedication
Each day our daily prayers
For the less fortunate
Make us now aware
Of our priorities
Neighbors
Finding each other again
Dependent, Tolerant, Connect
Making Amends.
Gratitude
For community and family
This state, this country
This faith
Loa Winter, Newbury NH
REFLECTION IN THE TIME OF COVID-19
My table once for two, now set for one.
Some have no table.
Savory abundance on my plate,
lush salad bowl, full water glass.
Some have no food.
My ticking clock, its measured hours,
my home holds me in warm arms.
Some homes are tents under a bridge.
I leave my book to get the phone—
A note, quick images across wide screens—
from my chair I scan the world.
For some, no face, no voice, just staring walls.
So much is here:
Sun lighting windows as I wake,
the open door, a rising day.
Some are no longer here.
Some will not wake
nor rise again to any day.
Joan T. Doran, New London, NH
THE SCOURGE
Here I sit
In the comfort of my living room
Down a quiet dirt road
In the beauty of New Hampshire
Before me is a rambling TV
Up-to-date news on the scourge
Of the century
As it decimates our country
Medical workers, seniors
Lives and more lives
As supplies and time run short
I listen without fear
Before me inches away
A clear Lucite-type shield
Imaginary though it may be
Is my protective gear
Keeping me calm and cool
Not allowing the dread
To panic my mind
While thousands die
Irritating TV ads
Bring normalcy
To the pandemic
Engulfing our earth
I give thanks for my good life
My wonderful family
And say a quiet prayer
That the dreaded virus
Will soon cease
Its massive mayhem.
Anne Sarkisian, New London NH
RAMONA CORONA
My name is Ramona Corona
I have a very nasty persona
I’m a virus on a crusade
Needing sickly folks to invade
I choose the weak and infirm
Their lives are already short-term
I love it when you’re sick
It makes my job mighty quick
I control sickness in your body
I can be devastatingly naughty
Many symptoms can accrue
There is no easy avenue
I can travel faster than you
You’ll be lucky if you pull through
I have an intensely serious crew
It’s deadly sickness we pursue
You can’t see me, but I’m there
Spreading maliciousness everywhere
Just one thing might help you
A healthy immune system may pull you through!
Anne Sarkisian, New London NH
LOVE IN THE TIME OF CORONAVIRUS
Love is not deterred by gloves or masks
nor does it abide quarantines well or suffer
foolish presidential pronouncements gladly.
Love is the bag of oranges, spinach and
sweet potatoes brought to the door by a neighbor
and the unexpected home-bound video from
a mom I barely know and her three kids
sliding down their stairs on a piece of cardboard,
the brief note from someone who cares.
It’s realizing that time is now measured
altogether differently, as I follow the sun, moving
through my home to sit in the warm spots where
I write, sew and read. As if this were all new.
Which it is.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
LESSONS LEARNED AND/OR OBSERVATIONS:
So the pandemic is nasty and spreading fast
I’d like to believe the worse is almost past
My personal restructuring of my daily routine
Wasn’t as bad as those many people still working, I mean
I’m retired and generally decide my days
But no question things changed as we adjusted our ways.
First and foremost for me and - it’s petty and wrong.
But my hair has grown and is now too long!
Worse than the length is the fact the my roots
Are so obvious now - definitely needing a boost
Whether my discreet stylist or Miss Clairol not sure who’ll it be
But something needs to happen, yessiree!
What else changed as we complied to stay home and apart
Is that my ‘To-Do’ has list shrunk which should warm my heart
Things I kept low on the priority list to get done
Are now completed and I’m running out of fun!
Spring cleaning is way ahead of schedule you see,
Some items have been listed for an eternity!
Sure, the windows got washed both inside and out -
A no-brainer considering, but what about
The bath vent fan light where a dead bug lay on the ledge?
Even I will agree that cleaning it was over the edge!
Baking a storm and sharing glove-packed goodies around
To friends and neighbors kept me busy and mentally sound
But, hey, there’s only so much you can do to stay busy
Isolation, it seems, is certainly driving us all dizzy.
Silver lining for me was the concern shown by so many each day
For others at home or working to help all us carry on in our way.
Yes, it is and was very scary but I tried to laugh and stay upbeat
Because too much worry just seemed to let the virus defeat
Our instinctual resolve to come together, find a cure,
Helping each other along the way is the answer I’m sure.
So together we move forward providing aid along the way
That’s how we’ll get through this and win the day.
Sandra Little, Newbury NH
GRATEFUL SIMPLE MOMENTS DURING QUARANTINE
Waking up in my own bed not sequestered
in a foreign land, I savor the first sip
of coffee, dark and rich like the moist
hillside in my backyard where I watch
dozens of robins plucking worms
from the warming earth. We breakfast
together, yet alone, my husband and I,
with the robins, two of whom weave
a nest atop the dogwood wreath
at our front door, building upon previous
years of nesting materials. We like
to believe the same pair returns yearly.
Outdoors, hope is coming alive despite
the alarming spread of a virulent virus.
The green leaves of the daffodils planted
along our rock wall are stretching
their necks to greet the gift of sunshine
and lengthening days. A still sleepy bear
ambles down across our property,
probably after the bird seeded feeders
we have brought in after a long winter.
As we savor these quieted days, lifted
by nature, the fruit of the vine takes
the edge off the daily news. We enjoy
a good cabernet with dinner then nestle
in our den to watch old carefree movies.
After a hibernating sleep, we will feast
again with the robins in the morning,
enjoying our dark, rich black elixir.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall…”
- -Robert Frost, from, “Mending Wall”
Why notuse an aged idiom to describe these days?
Ever since leaving my job, I’ve become human again.
Where was I bound-for, had I continued to stay?
Why do we sacrifice ourselves for money or
the money of others? If there were a special MRI,
that can detect a person’s spirit, mine was coal.
What grows well in burned-out wood, I can’t recall.
These days, I eat better, sleep better, laugh, and smile.
While millions of people are masking themselves,
Keeping walls—I am finally seeing myself again.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
POOR LITTLE POEM
Poor Little Poem
standing perfectly at attention
proudly prepared to parade past the judges
when,
Suddenly!
Your Author
bends down and fixes You,
changing a word
here and there
like a Mother
who spits on her fingers and
rubs jelly off your cheeks,
now satisfied,
saying,
"There. That's better."
Alexis Wallace, New London NH
RUNNING FROM CORONA
Leaving The One Desire Church just north of Oatmeal, TX,
to Parachute in Colorado and the Grand Valley United
Methodist Church (open heart, open minds, open doors)
into Pie Town, NM and the Pie Town Baptist church where
pastor Alan Bell claims, we're a small church with a big heart.
(I started my trip by taking a Bath in NH, relieving myself
in Mashpee, MA, meetng a Mystic in Conn who directed me
to Two Egg, FL and the New Hope Missionary Baptist Church
where Rev. L. V. Farmer sent me to Scratch Ankle, AL where
everyone loves the pastor of the Franklin Church of God
whose sign directed me to Waterproof, LA and the Waterproof
Church of God right aside the Mississippi River). Now up to the
Four Corners and to the Paiute country in Shivwits, UT and then
on to my final destination (miles from churches, stores
and humanity), Beer Bottle Crossing by the Little Weiser River in Idaho.
Robert Manchester, Concord NH
SWEETNESS
The sweetness of maple syrup
Lies in the sap of the maple tree
Hidden in the cold of winter
As it awaits the dawn of spring.
The sap boils in the sugar house.
It’s sweetness grows as in a mother’s love for her child.
I feel the sweet kindness of a neighbor’s gift
And treasure the beautiful night sky filled with stars.
A walk in my garden of Easter tulips
Reminds me of life’s sweetest moments
And the precious sweetness found only in heaven.
Florence Wiltshire Millett - New London
MAPLE SYRUP
Our first Christmas together was bitter cold,
with no money for oil,
and scant wood to burn.
We awoke to a cold stove and little cheer.
Still, we laughed at the frozen water in the dog's bowl,
and then set about building a small fire.
We placed the card table close by
to eke out what little heat there was,
and prepared a special breakfast
of pancakes, with real maple syrup,
strawberries and whipped cream,
and a bottle of cheap champagne.
There were no presents to give,
only the promise of the future,
to which we toasted as only the young can,
with absolute belief and certainty.
In retrospect, I can say that my life
has had its fill of triumphs and tragedies.
Through it all the tradition continues.
The hearth and home are warmer,
the champagne more expensive,
and the meals richer.
But looking back to that first cold Christmas morn,
none have ever been sweeter.
Peter Bradley, Chester VT
MAPLE SYRUP ON SNOW
~for Adam M. and family
Smiles on the tongue slip down-throat,
candied in the multi-grades of amber.
From tree blood, through lines-run
into buckets or barrels—saved
for the hours of the boiling-down.
All in the name of sweet Spring,
life renewing—all for a “labor of love.”
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH
NECTAR OF THE GODS
Some say Wine
Some say Beer
Could be Brandy
How about simply
SAP
From a deciduous tree
This special treasure
Maple Syrup
Enjoy
W. D. Tighe, New London, NH
WATERMAN’S SUGAR ORCHARD
Prospero, Shakespeare, Mad Dog,
all sugar maples named and sap measured.
Flat slats marked in quarts;
different slats for two sizes of hung buckets.
Records for nearly thirty years.
Yearly product averaged in teens of gallons.
Mad Dog the outstanding bleeder.
Sweet history, indeed.
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
VILLANELLE, VIRUS, MAPLE SUGARING AND MOTHER EARTH
March 29, 2020
Look now to the sacred womb of nature.
Honor mother earth’s divine feminine:
soft white snow piles accenting pine’s verdure.
In this time of seclusion, adventure
beckons in our yards with maple resin.
Look now to the sacred womb of nature
where March’s sweet sap will soon transfigure
our morning breakfasts while we sit gazin’.
Soft white snow piles, accenting pine’s verdure,
whisper psalms of peace and capture
the season of spring slowly creeping in.
Look now to the sacred womb of nature
her art, power and presence assure
us short winter days will soon lengthen.
Soft white snow piles, accenting pine’s verdure,
will make room for daffodils to capture
the sun’s warming rays. Just imagine!
Look now to the sacred womb of nature,
soft white snow piles accenting pine’s verdure.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE
Greeted each morning
By pink cascading begonias
Fed by the warmth of the sun
Bathing the sunroom
Remnants of winter snow
Slowly melting
As the day warms
And the piles dwindle
Spring is in the air
As tulips and daffodils
Burst through the earth
Nourished by the sun
For these simple pleasures
Much sweeter than
Maple syrup crystals
I am most grateful.
Anne Sarkisian, New London NH
A FEW WORDS ABOUT MAPLE SYRUP
It takes forty gallon buckets of sap
to make one gallon of maple syrup
the lesson is in the boiling down
distilling the good to the best
watching, tasting and stirring. Waiting
for the perfect shade of amber
stoking the fire evenly with dry wood
and spilling a bit on snow to see If it’s ready.
We might give the same attention
to our words, take the time to condense them
forty to one, with care, until they are clear,
ordered, say exactly what we mean.
It requires 15,000 crocus flowers, after all,
to make one kilo of saffron spice
one and a half cups of rose petals
for one teaspoon of perfume.
And finally, how many words does you need
to say, “I love you?”
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
SUGARING OFF
The scent of maple
draws us to the sugar shack
the way it draws
the black bears from their dens.
We linger there outside the door
to dip a finger where the sap runs
from the sugarbush in lines
before it flows inside.
Surprised it tastes like water,
hardly sweet at all,
we wonder who was first
to boil it down.
He must have felt surprise
when warming sun and melting snow
drawn up through the awakening trees
simmered down into foretaste of heaven,
when all he started with
were just the simple things of earth.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
TAPPING
the maple turned his tired head
for months the snow had been his bed
and now sharp pains were in his knees
not long before he’d grow his leaves
he bent down in the wind and rain
to see a farmer cause his pain
“Why are you tapping me awake?”
“My daughter likes a sweet pancake.”
Thom Smith, Andover NH
FROZEN MOMENT IN TIME
Hear the prescient thunder, as we sit upon our dock
Watch the weather changing, our fingers interlocked
Feel the lake’s embracing grace, in thundering refrain
Breathe with full assurance, after thunder follows rain
Catherine A. Feeney, Durham NH
ANOTHER WINTER DAY
Another winter day
And nothing to do.
Who’s that calling?
Maybe it’s Drew.
Raining down there?
Snowing up here.
It is rather pretty…
Oh, not so in the city?
Well, I’m not sure
How I’ll spend the day.
Skiing, skating, hiking, or iceboating….
Can’t really say.
Perhaps snowmobiling
Or get out the snowshoes…
You’re watching tv
To see who will lose?
Well, it’s just another winter day
And nothing to do.
Thank you for calling
Nice talking with you.
Al Peterson, Sunapee NH
ONCE WE WERE ALL BRUNETTES
Once, in that snapshot,
we were all brunettes.
Seated at a white clothed table,
with fragrant bowls of pink peonies
posing with us, we huddled together
for the unknown waiter/photographer.
I am wearing a poetic floral dress,
my baby sister is in business black,
and the middle sister wears a modest
teacherly white blouse. We have vowed
to meet for dinner frequently but we will fail.
All we have left of three connected sisters
is this photo freezing us in time.
Moving, careers, marriage, divorce,
illness, families, problems of the sister
now deemed the other sibling,
left only two still huddling close,
raising the other’s daughter.
A wide unbreachable chasm
split open and grew monumentally.
Now, baby sister is blonde and successful.
I keep my white hair dyed brunette,
still immersing myself in poetic lines.
The other sister has gone gray,
a fact we only know because we
invited her to her daughter’s wedding
and tried, but failed, once again
to huddle close.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
FROZEN IN TIME
Machu Picchu
In the Danish Bogs
Imbedded in Amber
Egyptian Mummies
HMS Mary Rose
Warship Vasa
RMS Titanic
Caves of Altamira
The Woolly Mammoth
The Iceman of Switzerland
The North & South Poles
All frozen in time
W.D.Tighe, New London NH
WINDOW PLAY
I see the curtains part
In the neighbor’s window.
They let me in on secrets
Below the shade pulled halfway down.
A child leans against the sill -
Excited to see the snow.
He watches it change to flashes of ice -
Dancing up the glass.
Soon - he forgets the snow
And moves his toy soldiers
In front of the frosted pane.
He guides them - one by one - up wooden blocks
And down again to make space -
To begin again.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
FROZEN IN TIME
Memories are not always
neat and tidy like peas in their pods,
in boxes stacked in the freezer,
preserved perfectly
to savor any time we want.
Recall is more like a desk drawer
somewhat jumbled, you know
it’s in there, but so are
missing parts… and pieces
that no longer make sense.
Then there’s what we know now
which changes how we remember
what happened then… to say nothing
of whose version is true, as if
your truth and mine were the same.
Anyway, time never freezes
It’s always moving, making more
of what we don’t need and
leaving less of what we now want
perhaps, then, we are what’s frozen in time.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
ELFSTEDENTOCHT
This most famous speed skating race
Is a Dutch tradition since 1890
The Dutch pray for the cold every year
They need two weeks of cold
For the ice to be at least 6 inches thick
1997 was the last race held on the frozen canals
In the Netherlands, Hank Angenent
A Brussel sprout farmer won the 125 mile race
In less than 7 hours
This year The Alternative Elfstedentocht was
Held on a lake in Austria, a friendly Dutch invasion
Many champion Dutch speed skaters and
Families drove 11 hours to get there
This unique event includes a ‘Blister Bowl’
After party, as the Dutch and new friends
Celebrate with a traditional sing-along
The Elfstedentocht has a 10% chance of ever
Happening again in the Netherlands.
I am proud of my Dutch ancestry and love to skate
On canals and lakes, indoor skating is a thing of the future
A new story for Hans Brinker and Dutch skaters
Adapting to a new normal of rapidly warming temperatures
Loa Winter, Newbury NH
SPELLING BEE
I spent hours preparing studying words,
learning their origins in Latin and Greek.
Autumn, loquacious, catarrh, conundrum,
antonym, anonymous and tricky foreseeable.
When I could spell sarsaparilla, I said
“test me, test me please, now test me.”
When the day arrived for the tri-county bee
I walked to the podium ready to compete.
I survived three rounds and was reassured,
since I knew how to spell all the other kid’s words.
It was my turn, “tacit” he said, and I froze.
“Please say it again,” but it was no use.
Never seen it, heard it and so I guessed.
Perhaps it meant cushion, a tiny French stool.
I spelled TASSET. No, take your seat.
The word meant “understood” and I did,
so unfair such a little word to misspell.
I quit that game, the odds were bad.
You only win if everyone else fails.
I learned to compete at tennis and cards.
Sometimes I won and was triumphant,
had a baby and felt, afterwards, euphoric.
But, then I heard malignant and curable.
So, I anxiously repeat my earlier words,
Test me, test me, please now test me.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
FROZEN IN TIME
Here I sit
Year upon year
Decade upon decade
Frozen in time
Solid as can be
Impenetrable!
Immovable!
Impervious!
To ocean waves
Tickling my surface
To ice crystals
Forming in winter’s freeze
Here I sit for millennia
Rock solid
Holding my own
Soaking up the sun’s rays.
Anne Sarkisian, New London NH
EVERYTHING SHE LOVES...I'M SURE
From my old lover I live a long way
although she lives only three miles
from me. From my old lover I live a
long way although as the crow flies
it's minutes away. From my old lover
I live a long way although from where
she works it is not even ten miles.
From my old lover I live a long way,
thousands of memories from her.
From my old lover I live a long way.
Robert Manchester, Concord NH
POEM ON BEING ASKED FOR THE HUNDRETH TIME, “HOW CAN YOU KEEP SMILING?”
Everything I love
in this hair like fragile tightrope of life
can disappear in
the slash of a silver blade
the flashing of red lights
the hysteria of a grief-gutting call
the harsh reality of a black hearse
This I know for sure.
This is why I smile .
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
WHAT I LOVE
Is it the breeze that ruffles my hair
On a cerulean day in June?
Or the site of the full moon just cresting the trees
spilling gold in the Lake when it rises?
Or finding that perfect coral leaf that fell
when we hiked last October?
Or the mournful call of the loon
then answered with a chortle far away?
It is all of these and so much more.
But, this is the one that I cherish most.
I love when you call my name.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
BED TIME
Lounging in my recliner downstairs,
I see staring at me-Mina, our tortoise cat.
Yawning, I realize she’s done it again:
Herding me to bed.
Finally my love and I are in bed, holding hands.
He’s on one side, I, the other.
Mina jumps up, nestles next to me.
Each night we become a family of three.
Natalie Davis, New London NH
SCITUATE, 1943
People were thin.
My uncle Freddy came to visit from Fitchburg.
I remember Mom stopping our Crosley
beside the road In Hingham to pick up
a hitchhiker she recognized, her brother.
His much earlier car accident had cut short his prospects.
Later I learned his much-loved girl-friend died in the collision,
and his significant intellect was lost.
A new BMW 3-wheeled Isetta sat unused in his yard forever.
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
DAN’S IRISH BLESSING
May your love be constructive,
Your demeanor generous,
And may your heart host a smile.
Dan Allen, New London NH
EVERYTHING WE LOVE
Books, libraries and
seats of Academia
Life, liberty and
the pursuit of happiness
Freedom, fresh air and
a vibrant countryside
Research, evaluations and
a sense of history
Time, good friends and
a keen interest
Poetry, fairy tales and
challenging rhymes
Anything which tickles
your fancy
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
EVERYTHING I LOVE
I LOVE GOD, GOD is LOVE
Of course, I love my human family
And my domestic animals
I love my wild animals too
Fish, frogs, salamanders and toads
Birds, fox, deer, bear and bees
I love my gardens and wooded places
I have made a place for these loved ones
I LOVE LIFE
I love clean water, water is life
All life depends on water to survive
Rain and snow falls to the ground
Spring water comes from the deep earth
Water is our most valuable resource
In India, the Ganges River
Is consider to be a sacred Goddess
Spiritually protected
In reality
It is dangerously polluted with human waste
What are we doing to protect
Love of life and our clean water?
Loa Winter, Newbury NH
VALENTINES
Articulate my
Lighthearted sharing of
Everything I love,
Not to mention
Time spent playfully fusing
Intention and design
Neglecting all else
Except for blissfully
Sitting, cutting and pasting.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
V A L E N T I N E S
Are just
Little reminders of
Exceptional family,
Nurturing friendships and
The many kinds of love
In a world too often
Neither generous nor kind
Enough to encourage
Sentiment.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
MY LOVE AND I
We awake — my love and I —
To the breath of morning —
Silent — in all its magic.
I rise and move the curtain.
Gone is the night.
Its subtle shadow lingers
On the face of the distant moon.
I whisper softly to my love.
His answer — an amazing smile —
His gift of love to me.
Florence Wiltshire Millet , New London NH
LETTER FROM SHANGHAI – NOVEMBER 1903
Diary response from his wife at home on the farm
I’m coming home in February, Ella.
- You have been gone four months already, Joe.
I have heard some talk
- Who is telling you this?
Do not go to town after dark.
- I went to the theater to hear my sister sing.
“Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion.”
- I once went to dances, parties and teas.
Your role is to care for the children at home.
- What about me?
You are spending too much. I want an account.
- Feeding and clothing five children costs money.
I have a piece of jewelry for you. It’s very expensive.
- That is not enough. I want more.
Your picture is next to my mantle.
- That’s so you won’t forget me.
It does not do you justice.
- You do not do me justice.
- Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
JUST LIKE YOUR GRANDMOTHER
Dearest great-granddaughter, Anne
Like your grandmother Jenny
You come from a line of women
With strong traits so many
Though I departed earth too soon
Your grandmother was raised
By a loving devoted family
I was so pleased and amazed
Jenny loved to garden
With flowers everywhere
Arranging fresh flowers like you
With an artistic, creative flare
A fabulous cook was she
Everything from scratch
Donuts, pies, fancy desserts
Whatever was in the veggie patch
One of the first B & B’s
Up to the country to relax
Card games, puzzles, shelling peas
And freshly made flapjacks.
A strong voice had she
In church and the community
She was a giver and a doer
At every opportunity
You have her creative flare
And love to compete
Knowing you both
Would have been such a treat!
Anne Sarkisian, Sunapee NH
WHAT GREAT UNCLE JOHN SAID
Words from an ancestor I never knew
My great aunts and uncles,
who played contract bridge,
and summered on Governor’s Island,
knew how to make memories.
I can see them, still, acting out elaborate skits
and rolling back the rug in the dining room
to dance after dinner, wishing I were
grown up enough to join them.
As the first grandchild and great niece
my memories include Radio City, Central Park,
and the Bronx Zoo; lunch at the Waldorf
and my first pair of patent leather high heels.
And while I never met my Great Uncle John,
sometime in the 1920s, he came home
to visit his mother (my great grandmother)
telling her that he must say goodbye,
that he was about to do something he could
not explain to her, that he loved her but
they would never see each other again.
Family alliances being what they are
my great grandmother shared the story
with her granddaughter-in-law (my mother)
and that is all my mother knew when
she passed it to me, not long before she died.
Did Great Uncle John become a spy,
commit murder, move to another country,
marry someone the family disapproved?
Was he gay, terminally ill, suicidal?
And there it sits, for almost a century,
this mystery among the memories.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
BUENA GERTRUDE TOLAR
Born March 1897- died 1944
As I leaf through the old family album
your photo caught my eye.
Unlike other photos of family members
standing seriously straight, you are smiling
and casually seated posing with fishing rod
and dressed in white blouse and white pants.
I found no other photos of family women
dressed in pants, unlike now when most women
wear pants more often than dresses.
You may have been an embarrassment to your
family because you were different.
You wore different clothes and may have been
discriminated against because of your actions.
There were barriers that no longer exist today.
I read the many praises for your work in the appreciation letter from
The Business and Professional Woman’s Club Of San Benito, Texas.
I read,“making progress in the welfare of women workers
whether their work was in a home, a shop or office”.
Thank you Aunt Buena, you were a good woman.
I wish I could talk with you now and let you know
How many things have changed for women.
Progress has been made because of women like you.
Loa Winter, Newbury NH
She died of a brain tumor in 1944
The year I was born
MARTHA KNAPP LULL
Imagine! The year is 1778!
Picture yourself at age sixteen.
You are married with three babies.
Your home is in a rustic settlement in Upstate New York.
Martha, my 4th great-grandmother was this young woman.
The American Revolutionary War had raged for fifteen years.
It was a time of fierce and bloody conflicts,
One being the historic Cherry Valley Massacre.
With her husband, Joseph, father, and brother-in-law
Having been captured by the Oneidas, and her farm ablaze,
Martha chose to take her babies, one horse, and sister, Mary
On a 3-day, thirty-three mile journey to Cherry Valley.
It would be treacherous, traveling through ominous wilderness.
Determined, Martha persevered as she had faith that her friends in
Cherry Valley would provide a safer place for her family.
Here, time and space do not allow for more narrative,
Although Martha’s complete story has been written.
A beautiful ancestor, Martha is a forever friend.
A true roll model for her sixteen children and their descendants.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
SANTA’S MIDLIFE CRISIS
On days of gray Santa’s spirit sank out of sight;
His delivery elves had joined Amazon year-round.
His toy makers couldn’t match speed of light
Gem-cracks. What could he reasonably propound?
His cookie makers had left for self-employment.
Fact staff now worked in NY city for the ACLU.
The Reindeer had lost forage to the climate tint
What could neglected Santa possibly do?
Well there is the annual greetings to small kids
With little ones sitting on Santa’s lap as guests
And the importance of being Santo for all on the grids
Surely Santa knows best how to channel requests,
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
CHRISTMAS
Santa is a spirit filled with the magic of Christmas,
A magic seen in a Christmas tree that shines its ornaments
Through windows of a neighbor’s house
Where excited children wait in anticipation of Christmas Day.
Santa, however, is not always dressed in red,
Wearing a white beard, and carrying a sack full of toys.
He has many helpers, some of whom are mothers and fathers.
Sadly for some, Christmas does not hold
Their wishes to surprise their children.
It was written in olden days, “There are times to give and times to take.”
Christmas has a deeper meaning than Santa.
Gifts or not, Christmas is Love!
Love is the joy of Christmas!
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London
SANTA’S MID-LIFE CRISIS
Santa didn’t feel like delivering toys
To all the good little girls and boys
Often feeling sick and tired
Hypoglycemic and uninspired
His tummy was so bloated
His insides felt explosive
So full of gas
Few could surpass
Bad allergies galore
And a troublesome coldsore
With asthma he did writhe
And could hardly breathe
Santa was depressed
And overly distressed
With bronchitis, osteoarthritis
Sinusitis and acute gastritis
He began to inflate
As he piled on weight
He was eating a lot of cookies and bread
Maybe that’s why his cheeks were so red
Mrs. Claus had read about gluten
Thought maybe this was the solution
So on a gluten-free diet Santa went
And his health began to reinvent
All his symptoms went away
As long as gluten-free he did stay
Santa was able to deliver the toys
To all the good little girls and boys
He hopped in his sleigh
And was on his merry old way.
Anne Sarkisian, New London NH
SANTA’S MID-LIFE CRISIS
Mrs. Claus’ once happy face is wearing a frown
As she watches the way Santa’s been going to town.
He’s on-line buying toys for a much younger man
Thinking he’s due to enjoy all that he can.
A Fitbit new watch and a new exercise routine
Just doesn’t seem like Santa, if you know what I mean!
How many kids will be disappointed on this Christmas day
To find all those cookies left untouched on his tray!
And what’s with the shiny new red Corvette - all for show
It’s not like he can even drive it in North Pole snow!
Santa’s sleigh now sits so forlorn outside the barn
While the Vette sits inside, toasty and out of all harm.
The reindeer are worried, not eating their hay -
Wondering if they’ll even fly on Christmas Eve day.
They heard Santa talking to some high-tech boys
About using drones, of all things, to deliver the toys!
But worse than the clothes and his new toys small and big,
Is the new ‘do’ with dyed hair that looks like a wig!
An IPad now replaced the ‘List’, Mrs. Claus realized -
The Naughty and Nice kids are now computerized!!!
Who to turn to and ask, Mrs. C ponders in vain
Santa’s mid-life crisis is driving her totally insane!
Sandra Little, Newbury NH
SANTA’S MIDLIFE CRISIS
An elfman woke me up last night by dancing on my head.
I asked, “Is everything all right?”, and this is what he said:
“We’re warning everyone we know that Santa’s gone awry:
he won’t put on his Santa pants and says, ‘I’m not that guy.
I’m way too cool to ‘Ho ho ho’ and drive a dumb old sleigh.
I’ve joined a gym, and do tai chi, and now I’m on my way
to jog around the entire earth—I’ve got my Nikes on.
I may be late with Christmas gifts—too bad—but now I’m gone!’”
The elfman shook his tiny head, and looked so very sad
I looked into his tearful eyes and told him, “Little lad,
you’ve got the toys, you’ve got the sleigh, the reindeer know the route
and Mrs. Santa’s just the size to wear the Santa suit.
Perhaps she’ll take his place this year delivering the gifts--
No one will know the difference, and no one will be miffed.”
The elf man smiled a little smile, and to the North Pole flew.
He told the plan to Mrs. S., who knew just what to do:
“Bless your heart, you tiny man, but everything’s all right.
Christmas Eve will always come, and Christmas will be bright.
But after all these many years, poor Santa needs a break:
He needs to get his mojo back, and heal his every ache.
Remind the world, this special year, we’re sisters and we’re brothers
and not to wait for Santa Claus--give love to one another.
And think how happy all will be to look up in the sky
and marvel when Cool Santa Man jogs into their July.”
Joan T. Doran,New London NH
SANTA CLAUS’S MID-LIFE CRISIS
Santa Claus was feeling quite frumpy,
since Mrs. Claus no longer looked dumpy.
Her diet last year, left her full of good cheer
and her cellulite was no longer lumpy.
Santa exercised and starved on the Keto diet,
his wife just watched him and got very quiet.
Checking his figure with much vim and vigor,
liked what she saw, booked a room at the Hyatt.
Then Santa decided to give his reindeers a rest
and thought horsepower this year would be best.
A Ferrari he bought, without a thought,
and passed his USA driver’s test.
Then the grey beard and hair had to go,
it made him look too old and slow.
He dyed it all black, and loaded his sack,
but now he had too much to tow.
He hired some trucks, to carry the toys
for all the good little girls and boys.
Then a new white suit, he bought to boot,
and a snappy red tie stamped with joys.
Things went smoothly for a little bit,
until the first border crossing he hit.
No visa or passport he had to retort
when told by the guards these to submit.
Eyes are a twinkle, your nose red as a cherry,
get out of the car sir and do so in a hurry.
Sirs, that white stuff in the bag, with no Merry Christmas tag,
keeps me wide awake this night, and now I really must scurry.
They did not believe he was Santa Claus
told him so with never a pause.
Patting him down, they started to frown,
knowing he had broken some several bad laws.
But suddenly in the air Mrs. Claus did appear
with Santa’s sleigh and all of his reindeer.
She unloaded the trucks, and called to the bucks,
we can still save Christmas this year!
So this is the story of Santa’s mid-life crisis.
Seems they thought he was a member of Isis.
Looking quite dapper, he spent the night in the clapper,
which Mrs. Claus thought was quite priceless!
They all heard her exclaim as she drove out of sight,
My Darling, my Dear, have a very good night.
You can thank me later, to me you will cater,
for making your Christmas Eve flight!
I’ll keep the Ferrari, don’t take it back,
if you want to keep this marriage in tact.
I’ll post bail and out you’ll sail
then we’ll write a new marriage contract.
It will state I’m your equal,
since I am brilliant and bilingual.
Only then I will write you out of this blight
while holding all legal rights to the sequel….
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
THE BEST YOU CAN BE
I see in you a strong beautiful woman
Whose talents reveal your inherited backbone
A gift giving you the courage to be the best you can be
I see in your eyes the magic spirit in a wishbone
The spirit dreams are made of
What greater gifts are there?
You have met some unfortunate times
Though your strength has carried you
You are a true survivor
Cherish each day as a precious offering
While in your gratitude
Let your backbone shine
Let your dreams be contagious
And never stop sharing your funny bone!
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
The Wishbone Football Offense Formation
They all had strong backbones those in the wishbone.
Quarterback, fullback and two tailbacks.
Take the snap from the center. Ball can be thrown
Or pitched to trailing speedsters for your attacks.
Or tuck the ball into the FB's gut
For a plunge into the line
And watch him cut
Downfield into the endzone - goalmine!
Darrell Royal Texas Longhorn,
Bud Wilkinson Oklahoma Sooner - the coaches.
The 4-man backfield triple option was born
And electrified 1960's/70's fans with its exciting approaches.
Skip Hause, Sunapee NH
WHEN BACKBONE MET WISHBONE
At first, they ribbed each other
but soon they were at cross-bones,
for Backbone’e eyes bored holes in things,
while Wishbone’s eyes were never bored
and saw things holy everywhere.
And though the Fates conspired
to wall them off from one another,
Wishbone’s longing summoned gold
and from it, Backbone made
a ladder, strong and tall,
forged from possibility and will.
Then Wishbone painted rainbows
on whatever clouds came into view.
Backbone molded clouds to bricks
and built their dream on bare-boned grit
and granite sparked with mica stars.
Their bone china bore the sweetest meat.
Their bone pile was always full
and they were blessed with funnybones.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
RIDDING THE HARMFUL
Instead of breaking the wishbones of Thanksgiving,
I’ve kept them whole with wishes. I don’t want to hurt anything
especially that which once connected a Y to wings.
In the comfort of my own despair, I honor the backbone
I seldom knew was there. From the beginning of me, it seems
someone or a group of them has wanted to crumple me like a bag
of dirty laundry. “You have to grow a backbone” some said.
No, I say, I don’t; you create it for me day by day, disc by disc.
Those people would pull so greedily on a wishbone,
the magic snuffs in the snap, because they are ignorant.
Instead of breaking the wishbones of Thanksgiving,
I’ve kept them whole with wishes. I don’t want to hurt anything,
especially that which once connected a Y to wings.
My vertebrae mean everything to me—no one can break me.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
BACKBONE VS WISHBONE
Backbone gives one stature
Wishbone gives one hope
One will raise you up
The other gives you scope
Solid foundation on one hand
A prospective on which to dream
Profound thoughts come to mind
Opportunities so it would seem
As we stroll down many paths
Life unfolds along the way
With our Backbones and Wishbones
We will certainly have something to say
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
THE APPLE PEELER
for Linda Whipple
Five bushels of apples she peeled
and cored, doing most of the work
herself. My arthritic hands pared slowly,
blessing our friendship, praying and
remembering the turkey wishbone
we snapped one Thanksgiving
calling it a draw. Now I desire only
to take away her pain as she seeks
balance after losing her love to cancer.
The backbone, the core of our camaraderie,
lies in tragedies borne, joyous occasions
celebrated and sharing stories of our kids
and grandkids. Today she’s apple saucy
and smiley, peeling and organizing my pantry
as our November days grow shorter, darker.
Now, with the backbones and wishbones
of our friendship, we harvest
what we have nourished, awaiting
the inevitability of winter’s hibernation.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
A BONE OF CONTENTION
You are graciously invited to come for Thanksgiving
but, first you should know there are certain conditions.
Do not bring your dog, we have two cats,
when they feel threatened they are known to attack.
Conversation is encouraged, however, there are rules.
Climate and politics are okay to discuss,
as long as you watch the same news that I do.
Wishing you are healthy and if you are not,
keep the organ recital to a minute or two.
I will serve a bronzed bird with all the trimmings,
including stuffing, cranberry and mountains of mashed.
And, something green but not that bean casserole,
because my mother always said, “why gild the lily?”
For dessert I will serve my signature pie,
don’t bother to add yours, we’re trying to diet.
Can’t wait to see you and just so you know
we don’t eat marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes.
If you comply you are welcome back.
See you on Thursday, Happy Thanksgiving.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
WE OF HOARY HEAD
My heart yearns for what it cannot have
but gulps my privilege.
History has taught availability.
Old Age has refined choice,
has encouraged disorder, entropy,
which is arrested by a backbone.
Dan H. Allen, new London NH
Literary Publications
Visual Verse Poetry Reading and Photography
Visual Verse Poetry Reading and Photography
Visual Verse Poetry Reading and Photography
The second volume of Visual Verse, a book of poetry and photography published by the Literary Arts Guild of the Center for the Arts, Lake Sunapee Region and Lake Sunapee Protective Association.
Visual Verse
Visual Verse Poetry Reading and Photography
Visual Verse Poetry Reading and Photography
"Visual Verse"
Art and Poetry inspired by The Fells
Purchase your copy
at Morgan Hill Bookstore, or at The Fells
or order your copy by emailing us HERE