IN MY POCKET

I find a fragrant stem from a Balsam Tree

I planted years ago with my friend Sue C.

Now, these trees are taller than me

With this memory, I sing to these trees

   I adore, instead of athletes or jeweled celebrities 

I hear, boaters motoring across the lake

Wishing they take time in their noisy busy lives

To think about what is left in their greasy wakes

As something in our natural world dies

   When their numbers and speed accelerates

Towering above the canopy

Of our forest, I hear the Thrushes 

Singing their flutelike melody

A soft wind caresses and rushes

   Humbling me, of thoughts of superiority

I look down to see the tiny Linnaeus Borealis

Hugging ground, twin pink and white flowers

Deserving of a royal crown, throne or palace

   Some hiker pass over like mindless towers

Fragile and small with their duck like call

Listen for the tiny wood frog 

With its cryptic coloration

Stepped on during a morning jog

   It is hard to see in it’s forested nation

Now, I find a red leaf in my other pocket

A ‘Red Alert’ a warning signal for ‘Change’

What could be lost with one deadly rocket

   Time to take action in our ‘Earthly Range’

Loa Winter, Newbury NH

WHAT’S IN MY POCKET

In my pocket are the best of everything.

All that cards can provide;

Water slides, plane rides, sail boats with rigging.

I really want to impart before you depart;

It’s washing dishes that shows you care.

What’s not in your pocket is your heart. 

Dan H. Allen, New London NH

WHAT’S IN THE CARDS

“Why you’re nothing but a pack of cards”—Lewis Carroll: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland 

What’s in my wallet, you might ask. 

I answer, It holds all the cards. To prove it,

let me lay them out here on the table,

asking you to pick a card, yes, any card,

One dates my birth so long ago 

that radio and movies were magic tricks,.  

and now it puts me in the driver’s seat, 

wanderer in my own wonderland

where an azure card leads me 

to curiosities I crave—lets me pay later.

Other cards are magic wands 

inside old-fashioned marts, or big-box stores. 

This one’s a triple-A, if I should need a tow.

Here’s a gift card, balance still unspent—

Card from a jewelry club (expired)—

Card noting my blood type is rare—

Card that shows my next of kin.

Card attesting to my Covid shot

in voice I trust the virus understands.

Sometimes in troubled dreams I turn around

to find my wallet gone, nowhere in sight--

And frantically, I search where I had been

in hope the wallet reappears, so all the cards 

it holds will let me navigate my world again--

But even if they really disappeared one day,

they’re not the rulers of my realm—

For, after all, as Alice said

They’re just a bunch of cards.

Joan T. Doran, New London NH

POCKETS

I like deep pockets

that hide intent, 

shelter secrets.

I hold my hands

in tight fists of 

protection 

or intrigue,

plotting, luring,

gripping, mysterious.

Who knows what hides 

under cover of 

convenience…

a foreign bank account, 

tax shelters, a Ponzi 

scheme or two.

I suspect those with 

fat purses have 

more to hide.

Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT

A STONE IN MY POCKET

Oh my soul,

consider everything in creation.

Give thanks and praise with a quiet heart.

Listen to the simplicity of balance.

I lament the pace, the noise.

Small rough crystal,

silence the unwanted chatter.

Water, rock, tree embrace me.

Show me the power of quiet.

How can I form a prayer, 

through the noise of my thoughts?

Crystal, I trust in your power to ground me.

Please, bring me the peace of quiet.

Contentment of a walk in the mossy woods.

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

A FORTUNE COMES AS CHANGE

Chinese fortune/wisdom cookie fortune

Found while rummaging in my pocket for change.

The cashier is impatient, the consumers in line

Behind me are impatient—each one rolling their eyes

While gazing at i-phones. At first the paper feels

Like the tip of a dollar-bill, but it is as tiny as

A post-it note. The impatient people sigh and fidget

As I reveal the fortune/wisdom at present, reading

To myself:

The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it. 

Lucky numbers 25, 19, 18, 23, 5, 32

All I needed was a nickel…and there it is. 

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH

ODE TO THE HALLWAY MIRROR

Does the mirror in the hallway

see what we see, or the spin?

Whatever must it make of all the 

going out and coming in 

the fussing, the frustration

the endless silly posturing

and seeking approbation? 

Surely it perceives far more 

than match of scarf and hat, 

or fit of coat; cannot ignore

the kindness, generosity, 

and greed or spite as easily 

as it can see when we are fat

or glad or suffering from ennui.

Without a word or sound

of judgment, speaks its truth 

to all who gaze spellbound

for validation and forsooth

to those who can forego

as if to linger risks much more

than we are wont to know.

Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH

The Little Girl in Me

The little girl in me had not a care in the world.

She smiled at the morning sun – her invitation

To play in the neighborhood.

Free as a bird - she skipped happily down the sidewalk,

Stopping briefly. ‘’Hello, Mr. Snyder. How’s your cat?”

She asked while looking for her playmate, Dorothy,

Who lived in the big gray house on the corner. 

The little girl in me – her voice filled with music

A beautiful soul of a child for whom time has won

The game, but not the memories.

They will live on in eternity.

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London

UNNECESSARY JUNK

My brain bolted out of the bank today,

infuriated after I stuffed her into my purse.

She deserved punishment,

embarrassing me by pulling

the check, I had sworn to the teller

was deposited last week, right out

of my satchel. She began leaving

without notice, at the most inconvenient

moments, the day I decided to move,

and threatened to disappear forever

if I lost my glasses one more time.

Just yesterday, she snuck down the street,

climbed up the wooden post to the mailbox,

and grabbed four days of crunched, cramped mail.

Evading my grasp, she bounced

down the street to the pay phone,

canceling my electric, phone, newspapers,

and garbage collection, knowing I’d forgotten.

Sulking at the bottom of my purse, beneath

my wallet, cosmetic bag, ungraded papers,

vitamins, and a torn-in-half self help book

I’d piled upon her to really keep her down,

she busted loose. Stopped by security

as a suspicious blob, she returned arrogantly,

yet somewhat apologetic, knowing I couldn’t

live without her. As I made her promise never 

to leave me again, she laughed, haughty

and hearty as ever, and started to clean house.

She deleted all past guilts, rejections, fears

and loneliness, leaving only enough room

for the present moment, until, exhausted,

she wept, having finally destroyed

all the unnecessary junk I’d forced

her to carry around for far too many years.

Dianalee  Velie, Newbury NH

WORDS

Found means that 

someone or something was lost.

Or was begun, started from scratch…

Melted. Forged. Discovered.

Created. Endowed. Established.

In Latin from ‘the base’, fundusto fundare.

Father…Patriarch. Ancestor. 

Originator. Creator. Founder.

Founding Fathers is a circle.

We can ‘circle our wagons’.

‘Ring Around The Rosie’.

Sit in a circle. Here we go Loop de Loop.

The words they wrote are

so high they live in the sky

like blooming fireworks 

that light up the night.

“All men are created equal.”

“Unalienable Rights 

of Life, Liberty and 

the pursuit of Happiness.”

I will ask of one, Thomas Jefferson,

“How did you find these wonderful words,

these shimmering bright ideals, these other-

worldly ideas for a new country?”

You might answer, “I am educated. I speak

many languages. I’m a lawyer, a governor. I represent

my state and soon many people. I have lofty and elevated 

thoughts. I have friends in high places.”

“Yes,” I say. “You look

formidable in your wig. Yet

you may betray your writings

in your love-life, your ownership 

of slaves, and your solutions for Indians.”

“But I am carved in stone.”

“My words made the ‘best known

quotes’ list. I was elected President twice,”

you argue from the high lectern of time.

“I had the foresight 

to die on the Fourth Of July,”

you wrap up your evidence.

200+ years and now

we look back at you,

remembered for your words.

Do words transcend actions? 

Do they elevate motives? Can 

they cancel the ravages of time?

Or is it enough that our 

Founding Fathers wrote about 

the best in human nature? And

are we so changed that we

no longer recognize 

their meaning?

Jennie Pollard, Windsor Vermont

CONVERSATIONS WITH OUR FOUNDERS

Our founding fathers

set the tone

for a new nation

Hopefully to grow

prosper and flourish

in the future

We shall be fair & faithful

to all who follow our lead

they said

They spoke to each other

in a cooperative spirit

to lay a foundation

Many years later

on the successful path

set by our founders

Creating one of the

greatest nations

on this earth

We thank them

W. D. Tighe, New London

A Fireside Chat with George Washington

As I sit reading the US Constitution, I have thoughts

To share with you, George.

It is many years after your presidency.

America is a very different place – hard for you to

Imagine and difficult for me to describe.

In your world of politics, you handled your duties

Gallantly as General of the Continental Army

Followed by two terms as President.

In retrospect, you won the hearts of America.

You would be proud knowing that we celebrate

Your achievements every February.

Though I must tell you, George – our present

Political system appears frayed at the seams

With human swords eager to pierce the 

Opposition – perhaps a game of egotists.

You once said, “If freedom of speech is taken

Away, then dumb and silent we may be led, like

Sheep to the slaughter.”

George, you have climbed mountains with success.

Do you think we as Americans will ever learn to

Accept the truth – and live life as you and others

Fought so hard to achieve?

“Truth, I say, will ultimately prevail where there is

Pains to bring it to light.”

Florence Wiltshire Millet, New London

EXPANDING CONSCIOUSNESS OF A NATION

Silent souls slipping into oblivion,

past prejudices prevented more

innovative thinking, thinking

that laid the foundation of this

land of freedom we call home.

I ask you, Founding Fathers, 

were the Founding Mothers,

The Native Americans, the Negroes

and other ethnic minorities in your thoughts 

when you said all men were created equal?

The consciousness of civilization

had not yet developed fully, so

you are understood. Before you slip

further into oblivion, know

that you have given us the basis

for one of the greatest democracies 

ever known that future generations

expanded into total inclusiveness.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

VOICE OF THE ANGELS 

Ethereal bowls spin sweet harmony 

as the wind when it whistles in the sycamore tree. 

A vibration rings out with the touch of water, 

hail to the forgotten Glass Armonica. 

Beethoven and Mozart once composed melodies 

Marie Antoinette played the rainbow keys. 

Banished when performers claimed to go mad, 

maligned, never proven it caused any harm. 

Of his many inventions, Franklin’s favorite of all. 

Bring back the angelic Glass Armonica. 

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

DEAR FOUNDING FATHERS THE WORK TO BUILD OUR DEMOCRACY CONTINUES

A torn black lapel ribbon acknowledges his son’s life;

Whose curly blond ringlets bouncing in the sun, framed his gentle soul

running with his dog, exploring the Maryland coast;

Then a young man teaching law students who wrapped up the semester,

wrote a note, now creased and resting on his father’s heart.

“My illness won today. Continue my work to protect the poor and the animals.”

The bereft Congressman asked his daughter to come with him on January 6, 

to witness what her brother could not, the certification of Joseph Biden as president.

Rampaging through the capital, a mob threatened as he and his daughter hid with elected

representatives afraid for their lives.

Rumpled, exhausted, spared to act on his son’s behalf and protect the poor,

he pens the articles of impeachment.

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

PETITIONING OUR EARLY LIGHT

Dear fractious Founding Fathers, 

When, two hundred years ago and more, your world was candle-lit,

you inherited Enlightenment and visions of peer equity

for manly landed gentry—you viewed rights through many eyes, 

but found your common cause pursuing life, and liberty, and bliss.

Today, our vast continent teems incandescence 

bright enough to dim the stars, and bright enough

to see the myriad of faces shining it its light:

The people of our land, of every hue and tongue and faith

who cherish now the same pursuits that you prized then--

those truths we knew in your first light

have bourgeoned to illuminate all varied humankind.

Dear Fathers, you inherited your world, 

but leapt from tyranny to sharing freedom’s early light.

So, in the renewed light of our own world’s bequest

may we see our fractious, wavering, stubborn way 

to bring to earth, at last, your hallowed truths.

Joan T. Doran, New London NH

VICTORIAN-FEMALE PLEAS

Mother may I play

Without a nanny

Robbing me of free,

Binding me from fun?

Mother may I stroll

Without my boots on;

Robbing me of blood,

Binding me from ground?

Mother may I swim

Without my clothes on;

Robbing me of skin,

Binding me from sin?

Mother may I sing

Without a corset

Robbing me of wind,

Binding me from God?

Mother may I kiss

Without you watching;

Robbing me of love,

Binding me to you?

Mother may I frown

Without the rumors

Robbing me of friends,

Binding me with stares?

Mother may I learn

Without penalty;

Robbing me of life,

Binding me as wife?

Mother may I grow

Without suspicion

Robbing me of herbs,

Binding me of spells?

Mother may I live

Without Romeo,

Robbing me of me,

Binding me like you?

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH

                              MAY I?

                          Hey Mom

                             May I;

                       Have a hug?

                      Have a Kiss?

                    Have another?

                            May I;

                  Clean my room?

            Do my own laundry?

     Finish my school homework?

                           May I;

      Go out for the groceries?

     Help with the housework?

     Do the dishes after dinner?

                      Hey Dad

                        May I;

                Go out now?

          Don my new suit?

         Have the car keys?

                Well, may I?

    W. D. Tighe, New London

                        MOTHER’S LACE

                             Twigs lace

                            sky to earth,

                    my thoughts to you

    like delicate stitches on the edges 

of tablecloths or tatting to wear around

         your graceful neck like a collar.

                              The sun is

                            on the edge,

                          sinking below 

                       the horizon and

                   the moon is rising on

                      the opposite side, 

                        in juxtaposition,

                 like my mother’s dark 

             hair smoothed into a bun 

         against her creamy ecru lace.

         I watch as birds fly between 

           earth and sky, you and me,

                           and time.

            That’s where the magic is,

  where you are my memory, a slender

    willow beside my sturdy oak body,

   my small light against your setting 

       sun, then the darkness before 

               my moon face rising.

          Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT

MOTHER MAY I?

Leave the world of should

Put down a soft blanket of forgiveness

Lay under the stars

Peer at the twinkling possibilities

Mother May I?

Breathe slow

Easy Breaths

Smile

Comfort my bruised self

Give her a hug

Mother May I?

Reach to the clouds

Hitch a ride beyond horizons

Beyond worry 

Clear away my fears

Mother May I?

Zip my life over my bones

Tug it smooth

Walk into early dawn

One foot in front of the other 

Love in my heart

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

A MOTHER’S BLESSING

I am blessed with a beautiful daughter.

I live in awe of her soul.

She possesses her grandmother’s beauty

Where kindness wraps her eyes in gifted silence.

Her words are poems set to music.

In her strength, she walks a strong step—

Her guidance a light for all to see.

If, you love the flowers in the garden and

Enjoy listening to the birds sing—

You may find my daughter there—

God’s gift to me.

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH

“Mother, may I go out to swim?” “Yes, my darling daughter. Hang your clothes on a 

hickory limb—but don’t go near the water.” – Old folk rhyme

Not because she didn’t want to--

Not because there weren’t swimming holes,

for nearby woods held quite a few--

Not because she wasn’t brave and bold--

Not because, for girls, to swim was new--

Not because the summers there were cold--

Truth is, she had to forego swimming’s joys

Because of all those skinny-dipping boys.

Joan T Doran, New London NH

KITCHEN CLEANUP

Mother May I, a simple childhood game,

now a rude grammatical correction

aimed at a friend who asked me,

“Can I help in the kitchen?”

The corrector, a woman who marches

for peace and woman’s rights, has chosen

embarrassing rudeness to show intellectual 

superiority and knowledge of spoken rules.

The corrected either didn’t hear or chose 

to ignore this slight until I heard her say,

“world peace and acceptance should start

in the kitchen among friends or we will

never tolerate each other’s differences

no matter how far we march when 

                                                             we are able.”

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

IN, DOWN AND UNDER MAYHEM

(Monica Mayhem, Australian, futures trader,

exchange broker, singer, exotic dancer and

retired porn movie star)

Marching into mayhem.

Is that what you say mate?

What about dancin' in,

chargin' in, slippin' in,

driftin' in, bouncin' in,

pushin' in', jumpin' in?

Need I say or relate

another entry gate

to lovely Miss Mayhem?

Robert Manchester, Concord NH

THE TOY SHOP 

Listen to me, all of you,

we only have the hours 

between midnight and 4 AM

to come alive and I am tired 

of all this strife. Life is too short. 

I am Chatty Cathy, your new president, 

having taken over when Old King Cole

resigned due to old age and a touch 

of dementia. These are my new mandates:

From now on the wooden soldiers 

will have to take down their red-block

blockade and stop marching into mayhem

against the GI Joes and their blue, Lego 

barricade. This ridiculous fighting over 

shelf space must stop. As the purple 

peacemakers say, we are all part 

of this same childish, petulant, toy world. 

The Madame Alexander dolls 

have formed a coalition with the Barbies

and we intend to withhold any contact 

with the male toys. It worked 

for Aristophanes in his play, Lysistrata,

and it will be enforced here until 

all this warring stops and peace 

once again settles into the Toy Shop

when the door is locked up tight

and everything is quiet for the night.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

MAYHEM IN MARCH

March Methods

March Madness

March Meanderings

March Machinations

The Military learns

marching orders

The Mayhem begins 

parade steps off

Ides of March

soon upon us

April on its way

weather improves

W. D. Tighe, New London

March Hare 

Waiting to climb out of this rabbit hole 

hoping for signs of Spring, 

I search for clues, but they are few. 

Hunkered down here for a while. 

It snowed every day last week. 

I made it through February storms that buried us. 

Went snowshoeing, skiing, and enjoyed most of it. 

Enough is enough, I howled impatiently, 

sling me some mud and melt. 

The temperatures plummeted to one.

This week is sunny, 

shining ice diamonds drip to the ground. 

Cedar waxwings adorn my juniper 

wearing masks and gorging on berries. 

Spring is almost here.

Imagining mergansers who find open water, 

jump up on the ice floes then dive down under, 

blue skies and crocus and peepers pleading for mates. 

I declare that Spring has sprung.

Only a dream, it will come soon, not yet, maybe April.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

MARCH MAYHEM

The knight of yore wore metal armor - his cloak in time of war.

Brave soldiers - we are called to be

When all around us mayhem lurks - corruption at our

Feet - webs of disbelief!

We are thrown into a sea - the tears of things -

Some days it hurts to live.

Our patience seeks a voice to melt the chill

And keep the truth - and us - strong-willed.

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH

BOOT CAMP FOR SPIRITUAL WARRIORS

Golden light filters my thoughts

A time of year

A time in my life

A time before sleep

I scroll through the NY times

Those we Lost

Images of victims of the COVID 19 Virus 

Many in their early seventies

Fellow Baby Boomers

To honor their memory

I refuse the oblivion of sleep

Acknowledge their loss.

To grieve with the survivors

Is a gentle process

Solid as an oak

Soft as the underside of a cat

Faithful as a pair of worn slippers

Patient as the clouds nestled on the horizon

Ready to catch days last light

Hold the grief

Listen to the tears

Ask the unanswered questions

Sit vigil 

Light a candle 

Pray

Learn the art of peace

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

MARCH MADNESS

March winds are known 

for their fearful chill

they rattle the windows

and seep through the sill

sweeping the snowfields

their voices shrill

for March is the last 

call for winter.

The days grow longer

and temperatures rise

the sun and the moon 

reach a compromise

about who’s ascendant

and who’s in demise

as the seasons 

march toward summer.

This month that begins

with long underwear

can turn in a day

to the fifties and fair

then hail and sleet

like your worst nightmare

and that’s the why

of March Madness.

Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH

CHALLENGE

Crazed men and women stormed the Capitol

Breaking into and entering the building

Destroyed what was in their path

Causing Senators, Representatives and the Vice President

To flee to safe hiding places

What sparked this insurrection?

Donald Trump, sure the election was rigged, command, “Go to the Capitol!”

The mad crowd rushed to it, entered, destroying what stood in their way

And killed a policeman

Horrified, I wonder:

Will all white Americans ever accept people of color as equals?

Will we commend Native Americans as its first dwellers?

Will America ever become a democracy for all its people?

Natalie Davis, New London NH

TRANSFORMATION

Brash March sweeps in 

on winter’s coattails

polishing the clearing sky 

with ragged clouds 

tinged gray by lingering chill.

No time to waste—the sun 

already beams his summons

to the birches’ swelling buds, 

the fox lopes from her den,

the fisher bounds over sparse snow, 

the deer drinks at the water running 

clear beneath its pane of ice.

March snatches last year’s 

remnant leaves from maples, 

rips brown needles 

from the thrashing pines, 

throws litter through the churning air, 

across decaying snow—a mayhem 

born of rising change--

Before too long, the bear 

will shrug off hibernation, 

March will melt to April’s streams—

replenished earth will waken.

Then at last, we’ll see 

May sweep in with swirling skirts

through fields of buttercups 

that drop, abundant, from her hem.

Joan T. Doran, New London NH

A HOUSE BEGINS

We start with a house, without a pretense

Small plot  of land, a white picket fence 

A garden green, with flowered yard

What more to want, it's not too hard

Sloped roof, to accommodate the snow

Many large rooms, wide windows to show

Cuisine well equipped, lots of food there

Well stocked wine cellar, flavors to spare

An abode well designed, as noted above

Warm family presence, filled with love

What we have now, is a comfortable home

Accompanied of course, by this lovely poem 

W. D Tighe, New London, NH

A STEP BACK IN TIME

The gray shingled house has long stood untouched—

The home of my childhood in a time when play was innocent—

Full of imagination—make-believe in the fantasy world of small friends.

Teddy bear and my magic skin doll came for tea at a child’s table

Set with colorful tin dishes and tiny spoons.

Eager ears listened to my reading of the nursery rhymes

Pictured on the linoleum covered floor.

I wonder—if I were to visit the old house today—

Would the walls remember me?

Florence Wiltshire Millett – New London 

HOUSING

In a tree

down from tree,

Savanna ground.

Animal skins

caves, dens

Neandersapians

mammoth skins,

mammoth bones

covered by skins.

Sticks, thatch, mud

round houses, long houses

tepees, wickiups, sod

on the range.

Hovels, huts, shacks

log, wattle and daub.

Bricks, lumber, steel

cape, saltbox, federal

ranch, Mc mansion

retirement, funeral

casket, cemetery

under the ground,

under a tree.

Robert Manchester, Concord NH

IT BEGINS WITH A HOUSE

You long for a home to call your own

a place to be you when you’re all alone.

Share with someone or two or three 

filled with expression, a place to be.

Cook a meal and read what you want

rest or invite a friend to walk.

Watch out a window to see a finch nesting

gaze at the moon while it is cresting.

Wake at night and stare at the stars

crawl back to the warmth and lay under cover.

A place to come home to every day.

It begins with a house and becomes a home.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

TOO MUCH STUFF

It starts with the house

and then a garage

tools for the upkeep

and of course, the yard.

Lawn chairs and coolers

awaiting the summer

no matter what you get rid of

there’s still too much clutter.

How did it happen

with all this stuff?

The answer, of course,

you bought a house.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

Late in the Depression we camped in Vermont.

Touring northern highways Dad saw a house so sad.

House and shed, (camp, studio, vacation fun font).

We did get in, though spear-headed by Dad. 

He was cautiously allowing only short forays inside,

Worried about rotten joists helped by leaky roof.

Outside the trim was in place, paint-less beside.

Deeds, ownership, history, taxes, necessary proof.

Went to town and inquired (Dad a newspaper man).

Title held by bank, price reduced, Dad much aglow.

Who would do a house inspection? Charlie can.

Mother pointed out the remoteness and said NO!

Dan H. Allen, New London NH

IT BEGINS WITH A HOUSE

Where our representatives meet

Unprotected from lies 

That are repeated, retweeted, repeated, retweeted

Echo fear 

Take shape as a creed

Dedicated to a false ideal

Fuel an armed mob

Incited to murder

Storm, plunder and loot the people’s house.

Officer Eugene Goodman stood alone 

as the door to the capitol was breached and the mob 

spilled into the corridor.

He poked and provoked the leader of the mob to follow as he 

Ran in direction away from the open Senate door.

Provided the minute needed to secure the chamber.

Looked back and ran further with the mob in pursuit.

A black man, pursued by a mob, whose selfless response

Saved those elected to Congress from violence and gave fellow

Citizens hope that some will stand and face off hate.

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

SOMEWHERE IN THESE REINCARNATE DECIBELS OF LIGHT…

Somewhere, in these reincarnate decibels of light,

Your dark-life-haunting is always a house….

This house, you never view from the outside; it

Is constant from its innards and beckons your bones.

Empty rooms, hallways, stair-flights—cellar-to-attic,

Attic-to-cellar, this house you fear the most, where

Every turn you tip-toe, you know you are not alone….

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH

IT BEGINS WITH A HOUSE

A simple cape built in 1929 by Yankee carpenters

Who stripped boards from the foundation pour 

To sheathe the roof which stands tight

On a snowy hillside 

Sheltered from the north wind by pines

A view west toward the mountain

A caution light blinking at the intersection

A tidy Olmstead garden tended by volunteers

Visible from the front yard.

A town so unlike any I have known

An old root cellar held gray shelves of mason jars,

Lids, wooden boxes, metal pans and work gloves.

Until, a possum found its way in smiling 

As it hung on the old beam 

Prompting a tear down and new cement floor.

A fuse box with stacks of copper pennies on the lid.

Roof rake, snow shovels, snow scoops and rubber galoshes

End to end, two cars could now be stored 

Out of the snow and wind

These twenty years in a quiet house have changed 

Me and shaken me out of busyness.

Aware of the chattering and warble of birds,

Chipmunks scurrying along the stone wall.

Sunsets from my window.

A bell to mark the hour .

I long now for quiet spaces.

Simple choices.

Less.

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

MINTY

Every great dream begins with a dreamer.

 -Harriet Tubman-

Begin with a house on a wealthy planation,

in Maryland, then zoom in on the slave quarters.

Here my life began as Araminta Harriet Ross

the daughter of slaves. Cruelly treated, whipped 

and struck in the head causing seizures during

the remainder of my life, I imagined my episodes 

as spiritual visions that promised me a better life.

My parents called me Minty and part of me

will always be that little girl who saw her sisters 

sold and taken away yet I watched my mother,

Harriet, fight to keep my brother on the planation.

She became my idol and I asked to be called Harriet 

when I married a free Black man, John Tubman,

never expecting my name in history books.

I became a liberator of my people, guiding them

to safety, never thinking of myself as a hero

only doing what my visions portended.

Even becoming a spy for the Union forces

my main objective was freedom for my people.

My life’s journey gave me over ninety fulfilling 

years and I died a free woman in New York 

content that my life’s mission was accomplished.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

THE BONES OF THE HOUSE

The house bore everything within its bones:

murmurs at night, birth cries, prayers breathed

for strength, against despair, and for drought’s end,

for fruitful harvest, and for births—

so many births,

so many silent prayers, beside still graves. 

The house heard crow calls at first light

the lowing of the cows, the horses’ neighs

the stirrings in the house, the men still yawning

as they carried the fresh water and the feed

out to the barn, the women, coaxing back

the slumbering woodfire in the iron stove, 

measuring out the flour for the biscuits, cracking 

rafts of eggs, retrieving bacon rashers 

from the smokehouse, slicing through the slabs 

of last night’s pie before they cleaned it all away, 

before the dinner bell at noon, before 

the men returned, laconic, ravenous, 

sunburnt and glistening with sweat

to stoke their bodies for long labor with their horses 

in the fields until the sundown, milking time.

Then grace, leftovers supper by lamplight, 

the Bible readings, early bed, exhausted sleep.

The house held visions in its bones:

young children bursting from the wide front door,

streaming through long pastures to the one-room school, 

the teacher keeping order and instilling 

righteousness and awe with lessons 

of our patriots’ valor, and of wonders far away.

The house observed the trimming of lamp wicks, 

the tinkers come to mend the broken pots,

the grinders come to hone the tools, the seamstress 

come to cut and sew the year’s new clothes for Sunday best, 

with last year’s clothes now set for every day.

The Bones of the House-2-

The house knew everything: that chipmunks bred 

their young beneath the porch and cats their kittens 

in the barn. Through tall windows, it observed 

the buggies go to fetch the mail and store-bought goods,

to carry family to the country church—

knew of the endless hours spent in pews, transfixed before 

pre-destination, before blame—Alone, it knew 

the well was poisoned, saw the typhoid’s toil, 

and bore the grief pent in its bones. 

It saw the buggies come and go: 

knew of the parlor visits, churchyard graves.

Until at last, past shoulders squared,

defying pestilence and drought—past 

brave veneer of pride, past shame, 

past secrets stored away—

the house’s bones grew old, its rooms bereft

except for mice who claimed the larder’s crumbs

as one by one, the family left, transplanted to the town—

the livestock sold, barns empty but for feral cats,

the fields gone fallow, loosened shutters 

clamoring against night winds that set 

the house’s bones to shivering, to hollow ache.

In the quiet at the end, the squatters came

then fled to their next fate-- 

Behind them, untamed wildfire left 

spent ashes of the house’s bones 

that slowly drifted through bare fields, 

beyond crow calls--to vanish in the rising light.

Joan T. Doran, New London, NH