Literary Arts

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An African proverb says: The child who is not embraced  

By the village, will burn it down to feel its warmth!

Who are the children in the cities that burn?

Cities whose ashes fill the streets — scars left by those

Who feel little or no warmth. Perhaps no love.

An angry pack of wolves pursue their prey, only to

Satisfy their need for food — their bodies warm 

With the nourishment.

The builder of bridges works far away from the fire.

His tools are his warmth, and his towering structures

Rise above a beautiful city.

Far, far away from the fire — and only there will

Bridges be built.

Florence Millett, New London NH

I miss your smile,

your scented perfume.

I can’t see your lips,

I smell sanitizer.

Where have you been

as you step back six feet?

Ask me If I have distanced

and washed my hands.

Time travel with me

to a virus free future.

Devoid of this illness

I know you remember.

Celebrations and parties

sharing dinners with friends.

And those wonderful trips

to exotic lands.

Are you smiling or frowning?

Please don’t be cross

I really can’t hear you.

it’s that damn mask.

Come closer to me.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

The dragon breathes fire

spewing burnt orange flames.

The condor screeches

wildfires in the West.

The ancient trees bow low in sacrifice.

They suffer for all, ending in charred ashes.

Only ghost houses remain to testify.

Once there were condors flying high in the sky.

When Job asked for deliverance

there was no response.

He endured and believed.

So, I caution, just wait. 

The Phoenix will rise.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

Build a bridge

Across a wide stream

Lead us to a new venue

On which to create a dream

Build a bridge

Now to the future

Expand your horizons wide

Reach for your ideals to nurture

Build a bridge

For opposing scenes

Create cooperative ide

as

As we come to a common means

Build a bridge

Between birth and death

The path one takes to traverse

When we strive to take a breath

Build a bridge

Create connections

Between rival thoughts

Explain ideas and directions

W. D. Tighe, New London, NH

 I cannot do everything but still I can do   something. I will not refuse to do something   I can do. –Helen Keller-

Peaceful protestors build bridges,

looters burn buildings. Important

choices made bring destruction

or a chance for constructive problem

solving. Both sides claim righteousness

as we see violence in the burning

streets. Masked or unmasked, 

clashes fill the nightly news with

the latest horrors. Do we turn 

off the newscast and rejoice it 

is not happening in our neighborhood?

By doing so, do we condone the aggression?

How can each one of us reach out 

and be a building block of a bridge

to a united peaceful future?

Answers are hard to come by

taken individually, but if each 

one of us separately vows to make

someone’s day a little better,

a little happier, we will build

the bridge to harmony one smile,

one mile at a time. 

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

“Lie still, becalmed, sufferer with the wound

In the throat, burning and turning. Open a pathway to the  wind the gates of the wandering boat…

  --Dylan Thomas, from “Lie Still, Sleep Becalmed”

Your masks are bridges where our wounds are shared, at a distance.

I say, burn them like bras and learn to breathe on your own again.

If you wish to speak to me, wanderer-to-wanderer, do not offend me

with your bridge of No Trespassing. Shake my hand in-greeting, sing,

sniff, laugh, kiss, hug! Open a pathway to the wind, know me as a friend.

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH

Burning

Destroying by

Lighting torch easy

Flames envelope neighborhoods

Mayhem

Sobbing

Holding other

Asking perpetrators 

To join us in rebuilding them

With us

Or will

We walk away

From each other with much

Disdain and destroy our nation

Pray not

Natalie Davis, New London NH

You were created by craftsmen long ago

Executed in oak, pinned with steel,

Coated with creosote, renewed often,

Such a stout support for trains to school.

Years vanish, time plodded, service is gone.

You now service only pedestrians, a belittling.

No more behemoths, no more loads of lumber.

May you be creosoted, not cremated.

Dan H. Allen, New London NH

Flames rage

fanned by hot winds

that swallow tinder whole

and turn the structures built on hope

to ash.

Wild surge

of rampant youth

dismantles order’s claim

when there’s despair of being seen

or heard.

Right now

where burned-out frames

incinerate to dust,

may fresh winds of mind and heart

build hope.

Joan T. Doran, New London

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

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

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

Our Flag

Patriotism

Independence

Spirit of Freedom

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Standing Tall

Proud to be

Respectful

American

W. D. Tighe, New London NH

 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

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

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

 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

 “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

 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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