Poetry of the Lake Sunapee Region
Literary Events
Monthly Selections by Local Poets
Monthly Selections by Local Poets
This year's theme
"Beauty in Diversity"
In collaboration with the
Mt Kearsarge Indian Museum
Monthly Selections by Local Poets
Monthly Selections by Local Poets
Monthly Selections by Local Poets
Poetry by the John Hay Society
Selected each month and published in the InterTown Record
2022 Winning Poems
Monthly Selections by Local Poets
2022 Winning Poems
Interpreter Reed Cotton with Winning Poets Ryan Twomey, Carol Lake and Kay Morgan
Missing from photo Hannah Rubin
April Poems
April poems
BIRTHDAY GIFT
For my Birthday
I received a sister
fifty-one years late.
We celebrated
our second birthday,
blue eye to blue eye,
under a Vermont sky
far from our beginning.
It was another time
and circumstance.
We were told that
our mother named us.
We were told we held
hands in our single crib.
But then everything changed.
It was an expanding universe
of people and places and time.
We were 5,000 miles apart
when someone found us and
brought us to arms length again.
Now we are growing old together
and each year we are
each other’s Birthday gift.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
OUR DAY IN TIME
A birthday is a passing shadow
In our journey in time – revealing
Contrasting emotions – highs and lows
In our short years of earthly life.
Birthdays are unwelcome by some
Who choose not to celebrate.
Others revel in the day as if
It were their last, and candles on
The cake hold secrets – their light brief
Until the flame dies with a breath or two.
Merriam-Webster’s words ‘strangely and
Wonderful’ only begin to tell the story -
My surprise trip to Europe and Paris,
A birthday gift of a lifetime at twenty-one.
Though such gifts are rare, our life on earth
Is blessed with each special day – a day of
Our own – our birthday.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
HOW THIS STRANGEST BIRTHDAY GIFT BECAME A FAVORITE
Because she knew nothing about me, the new kid in town,
and her mother was an artisan crafter…
for my first-grade birthday gift, Roberta
gave me a recipe-clipboard from her mother’s shop.
What do I do with this?? This 6X11 clipboard
of quarter-inch plywood, two clothespins hoisting a happy,
rosy-cheeked pink pig with a heart tattoo on its butt?
The board background is your picturesque
red barn, a silo, a fence, one green-leafed tree
boarded with blue trim and red-dotted charms.
How else to respond beyond an awkward thank you?
With this poem, decades later. Instead of recipes:
I used my pig-clip-board at first, to write letters on.
Come fourth grade, it held scrap paper to write poems on.
Teenage years, it steadied my hands while painting my nails
black-raspberry-shimmer. Today, decades later, I
have grown into my smiling, pig-clipboard,
as it hangs in my kitchen with favorite recipes.
Thank you, Roberta and your mom, wherever you are.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
LESSONS
I lost my sparkle and was angry
when my engagement ring went missing.
Searching was fruitless, but I reconciled
learning it is only a thing.
One beautiful birthday many years later
I received another even brighter surprise.
I reminded myself to not get attached
remembering it is only a thing.
I lost my sparkle each time I lost someone,
a baby, a brother, a sister and friend.
Life sometimes means loss, a cruel lesson I learned.
Things are replaceable, people are not.
Yet, I have found joy in an endless supply
from a paint brush, a bird’s song, a loon call from afar.
Each color I see each rhyme I hear
Sparkles again and again.
This is precious, a saving thing.
Mary Blohm. Newbury NH
THE STRANGEST GIFT I EVER RECEIVED
It was a box of salt--the kind
that “When It Rains, It Pours”
wrapped in red tissue paper
inside a bag rampant with wreaths.
It was gift-tagged, To Mom with love.
The giver beamed expectantly at me
who wondered, Does this gift mean
I’m salt of the earth, or that I’m rubbing
salt into some wound or other?
Or does it say that simple things
like salt, and love
we just can’t live without
and when they’re offered as a gift
they mean the same thing, after all.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
THE BEST GIFT
The strangest gift on your birthday?
The gift of life on the very first day
Lo, those many years ago
Strangest does not fit
Exciting, enthusiastic and poetic is better
Yes indeed on the day of my birth
The gift was outstanding
W. D Tighe, New London NH
PRESENTS
Guests arrived penciling poems
about the poet, petite surprise packages
attached to the standard gag-gifts
of Preparation H, Depends,
and Milk of Magnesia,
multiple humiliations
honoring my fiftieth birthday.
In return, I offered silence,
surprising my surprising friends.
Unable to speak, after lightning lanced
through the roof, my computer,
and then finally through me,
I did what I do best, scribbled little notes
of thanks and praise as I opened
box after box of lyrical poetry
depicting my past, poems about
a person I could scarcely recall.
After cutting a strawberry shortcake,
glittering with candles to commemorate
half a century, my forty-year-old baby sister
gave me the presence of youth,
Rollerblades, to glide me into the next half
of life. Then you, my dearest in-laws,
mumbling in muted tones, bestowed
your extraordinary gift. While showing
me photos of the crypt you had purchased,
preparing for your demise. You then asked
consent to move the body of your beloved son,
so he would be in place, waiting
for you with welcoming ….
welcoming what, my mind wondered
as your words wandered away in waves,
your whispered wish that the fourth place,
a present to me, be reserved space
with all of you for eternity.
God must have silenced me
four days earlier on purpose.
Words failed to flow,
even from the pen I clenched
in my frozen fist and the paper
crumbling, along with my decorum,
in my other hand.
Nodding consent, I swallowed the pain
in my throat and dashed for air.
Not bothering to change my clothes,
I snapped on my new Rollerblades
to race in circles, around and around
his memory, my long, white, chiffon skirt
billowing behind me, as I tried to shake the shrouds.
Amused revelers laughed,
saying I appeared more ghost than
mortal that late afternoon in June.
Alone that night with your awakened presence,
having already given permission to raise
your body from the dead,
I descended back into hell.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
THE GREENING OF SPRING
When Winter’s White Season
melts into Mud Season’s
barren brown Intermission,
Nature patiently holds her breath throughout the dormancy,
as She prepares the stage for
"The Next Great Show"
and regales the landscape with:
"The Greening of Spring!"
Every imaginable shade of Green debuts
each growth’s uniqueness.
Plants now peek, poke and pop
covering the ground in Green.
Bushes burgeon, bloom, and burst
forth in a froth of Green.
Tall Trees turn out tender tendrils of Green
The brand-newness of New Green illuminates the landscape
while sister shades
of Dark Evergreens
lend contrast to New Greens
like the Older Dancers
providing backdrop and ballast
for the Baby Ballerinas who
Steal The Show!
Welcome, Spring!
Welcome all you Lovely Lively Greens!
Alexis Wallace, Wolfeboro NH
March Poems
Additional Information
TO MY DEAR FRIEND, ROBERT FROST
Life is lonelier on the farm with you gone,
Your empty rocker stilled in its place by the fire.
On the oak table lay your poetry books,
My treasured gift to remember you by.
I shall miss our warm visits, our conversations
Melting over tea and my molasses cookies.
You brought a smile to my face when you ate
The last one on the plate, your charming way
Of paying me a compliment.
Molasses cookies were a favorite of my brother’s.
Robert, you met Tom at his graduation ceremony.
You gave the Dartmouth College Commencement
Speech, your words nothing short of brilliant.
Finally, I shall not forget our walk in my garden.
Sadly, it was to be our last, though unaware
You squeezed my hand as you shared the words
On the sundial, ‘’Time takes all but our memories.’’
Robert, thanks to you, mine are many.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
" GREETINGS FELLOW POETS "
Mary Tighe
1772-1810
I may assume we could be related
based on the family name
Through ancestry we may
share similar poetic enthusiasm
I have enjoyed your poems
especially Psyche and The Lily
Surely you might have
enjoyed some of mine
Slainte
We must include our very own
Dianalee Velie from Newbury
From Rzeszow and Krakow she came
Dr. Ewa Chrusciel at Colby-Sawyer College
Honorable mention to J. J. Metcalf
whose poems are incredibly easy to read
Cheers to you all
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
TO WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
(THE SECOND TIME)
Is it true all that my mother says,
you saved my life,
twice,
the second time,
wanting so desperately for me to live,
blowing life and spirit into my lungs,
yours?
Have poems written by me lay dormant,
germinating over time with the memory
of that creative moisture in your breath?
Have they come silently on to my page
recapturing that life giving breeze?
Extending myself deep into my past,
do I find your need nurturing mine,
in a yellow house on Ridge Road?
Did you leave a fissure deep within my soul,
twice?
If you did do all that my mother says,
do I thank you, praise you?
No, I think not. Mother did all that.
I am
content to feel your breath within me
and to taste the sweat of terror on your lips,
feeling your satisfaction, that
I am here.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
DEAR EMILY
Would that to you
Greetings fly
Love envelops
Cheer deploys
Mysteries unfold
Joy is found.
‘Like to peek at drafts
Enquire wide
Convey my care
Encourage your playful side
Exact your diary!
Exult to the sky.
Your passionate friend.
Dan H. Allen , New London NH
ADVENTURES OF THE SUPERANNUATED (THE OLD)
In my dotage opportunities for adventure crumble,
no Artic or Ant-Arctic super-human endeavors.
Realistically, consider trips to the out-house in deep snow,
or snowmobile rides down steep slopes with hazards.
Marital euphoria, too, has it’s up-hills and down-hills
compounded by physical inadequacies of age.
One does what one can;
your mind will cherish any success.
Walks in the woods can no longer be trying traverses.
Trips to the moon are limited by comfort stops.
Holidays are generally indistinguishable.
But a good hug is a raison d’etre.
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
LETTER TO A FAVORITE POET
Dear D,
You asked for a letter, even a note,
to a favorite poet, and so I'm thinking
who wrote what, and what was better
to make my choice.
I would have liked to send cards
to, perhaps, Keats and definite
regards to Ms. Teasdale, Ms. Kenyon
and Ms. Plath. However, time
unfortunately has passed, now dead
letter mail.
I could, maybe even email, messages
To Ms. Olds, Kay Ryan or Bob Hicox.
And while I enjoy their work, this
letter addresses you not only for
what you write, but also what you do.
Yes, there are the poems of olive oil
and Italy...and takes on nursery rhyme.
What I admire is the time you give to us,
your sometime head-scratching prompts,
the words you often say after we read
which make our day brighter.
So, to you, on behalf of all of us I am sure,
this note to you is filled with respect
for what you write, what you bring to us,
and what you do!
Robert Manchester, Concord NH
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
Galway Kinnell ate oatmeal for breakfast
made on a hot plate with skimmed milk.
With nothing to savor about the
glutinous texture and gluey lumpishness,
of his morning repast—his very words—
he invites Keats to join him, imagining
an exchange about Autumn or nightingales
because it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Paying a bit more attention to the oatmeal,
I think I’d use Irish, steel-cut oats with a
liberal addition of rum-soaked raisins before
I invited Hemingway to my morning table.
And just imagine what porridge with maple
syrup and local cream might elicit from
Robert Frost about the secret lives of
stone walls, yellow woods and even birches.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
YOUR WORDS[1]
FOR JOY HARJO
Dear Joy,
Let me begin with your name
wafting across the landscape
in music and in words. I believe
a name defines us, so you must
name joy.
You said
poetry is about listening…
listening to each other,
listening to trees, to the earth.
I listen to your words, like the wind,
musical and strong, passing by me.
You tell us not to give our power away,
to be who we are even if it kills us
because it will, not to separate
poems from life. You say, “My voice
is not just me. It is ancestors, stones,
trees. Your voice is the life around you.
Let it be what it is.”
MY WORDS
TO JOY HARJO
My words are in trees, leaves
a delicate yellow-green swelling
with the lengthening days of spring.
The smooth white branches of the birch
speak my words.
My words are yellow dandelions
that decorate our lawns and fields.
My words are white clouds against
blue sky or gray on gray of rainy days.
Sharp wings that traverse
the sky, or feathers like hands
that glide with almost no movement,
are songs sung in my words.
Interview with Joy Harjo, U.S. Poet Laureate, through New Hampshire Humanities, on May 3, 2021.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
QUICK NOTE TO EMILY
I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Are you-Nobody – too? –Emily Dickenson
So, you’re Nobody? I’m impressed.
From what you wrote - I would have guessed
You were Somebody - good and true--
Who always knows what’s right to do--
Or Everybody - here and there--
In far off lands - and everywhere—
Or Anybody - who just might
Discover what’s just out of sight.
But you make my mind take wing:
Nobody can do Everything!
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
February Poems
ORDINARY TIME
There’s a rhythm to my days,
a dance to my week. I pass
through years, shuffling
or stomping or tiptoeing.
It’s better when we hold hands.
There’s the Monday morning laundry swing;
Tuesday or Thursday grocery slide; a Monday,
Wednesday, Friday exercise bounce;
we have our Friday family dinner do-si-do,
our Saturday cha-cha-cha chores.
On Sunday it’s an Adagio or Largo,
but we may sometimes jig a silly
relief at our day of reprieve.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
LAMENT OF THE ADVICE COLUMNIST
Monday’s letter is angry, intense
Tuesday’s letter all self-defense
Wednesday’s Letter, the unexpected
long ago sweethearts have reconnected
In Thursday’s Letter, the family’s upset
no expectations have ever been met
Friday’s letter says life’s a charade
Saturday’s letter from a partner betrayed
but Sunday’s letter gets all the applause
who’s coming to visit? The dreaded in-laws!
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
LIFE
Precious is the breath of life.
No two days alike – each with it’s own color.
Some a rosy pink – others bask in dull grays.
The mystery of time skirts in and out of the hours
When some days seem mundane.
Perhaps they are a blessing in disguise, giving us the
Gift of time to think and time to bring some
Needed rosy pink to light.
We take our lessons from the past with the hope
Of understanding the meaning of life in all its confusion
And to cherish our precious time on earth – be those
Days painted in rosy pink or dull grays.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
THE WEEK
Monday, time to get busy
lots of things for which to prepare
Tuesday, take a short break
then resume schedule
Wednesday, ah, time for
a midweek respite
Thursday, now to
continue efforts
ORIGIN OF THE DAYS
From the Vikings came the Gods
Odin, Thor, Tyr, Woden
the Goddesses
Frigg and Sunna
England supplied
Day of the Moon
Day of the Sun
Rome offered their Gods
Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Saturn, Venus
From these come our seven days
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday
Wednesday, Thursday
Friday, Saturday
Friday, time to wrap up
activities, get busy, TGIF
Saturday, time to socialize
with friends, shopping,
reminisce, ruminate
Sunday, sleep late, relax, read,
study, pursue hobbies, unwind,
collect one's thoughts
W. D. Tighe, New London, NH
DAILY WONDERS
January first, my family’s tradition
of starting the year with a week’s worth
of new underwear continues still. Slipping
on new underwear fulfills the childhood
delight of finding new undies labeled
with ever day of the week. I’d like
to embroider (a skill I don’t possess)
my new under garments with simple symbols
of daily wonders, recapturing that magic.
Sunday panties would wear a heart,
thanksgiving for waking up each morning
with your heart beating against me.
Monday’s undies, a moose,
grateful for her continued presence
in our yard during these times of isolation.
Tuesday would depict my earthenware
coffee mug, so old it is worn in the spot
my lips kiss it each morning as I savor a sip.
Wednesday our well, providing cold, clean
water, directly from the good earth to our tap,
that we so luckily to take for granted.
Thursday a key board because it keeps me
connected to the outside world and my inside
thoughts to produce pages of poetry.
Friday would be a fish, a constant symbol
of my Catholic upbringing that decreed
no meat, only fish, on Fridays and Holy Days.
Saturday would be a merry-go-round
completing the loop of the week
as I continue to ride the pink pony
up and down these seven days
of the week, grateful for each revolution
and the joyful carousel music, never
knowing when this precious ride will end.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
FORECAST FOR THE WEEK
Slipping from the blankets
stepping on the floor
checking out the window
to see what lay ahead.
Monday forecast chilly
Tuesday just the same.
February has been fickle
Gray with ice and snow.
Could Wednesday be a masterpiece
a prism of glowing colors
first pink, then red and orange
a Van Gogh sunrise morning?
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
expect mundane, just cloudy.
A repeat performance of last week,
tune in for more this Sunday.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
NOTHING SPENT
Monday, Moon-day, you might forgive
Tuesday for being the sway
of the everyday pendulum that
Wednesday eve has to offer.
Thursday, weak-day, I love your forgoing
as Friday’s parties don’t always make the grade.
Saturday, Saturn-day, too many of us
make you the mundane and picnic you away.
Sunday, Sun-day, you used to wake me
with Sodom and Gomorrah…
not much has changed, yet nothing spent.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
RETIREMENT LESSON
He said, I’ll have to learn about Manana,
as he ignored chipped fence’s mute reproach.
And then, he muttered, Think of Carpe diem,
as he dropped golf clubs Into the trunk
and headed off into the Monday sun,
the sky still blue in spite of Sunday’s rain
and Tuesday’s forecast of another shower.
I couldn’t paint the fence on Wednesday, he expounded
to his alter ego standing there behind his ear,
reproving paintbrush in its spectral hand,
because we’re going to the ocean
if the weather’s nice. So maybe Thursday
if it doesn’t rain, and if it does, there’s Friday.
Friday’d been his favorite day at work
made light by dancing thoughts of
Saturday’s uncharted time that now
feels like the principle of carpe diem.
He swings the clubs onto his cart
and roars away into a freshly painted day
that rises without end into manana.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
SUPPLY CHAIN PROBLEMS
The big guy pondered as he read his emails
Parents were frantic – even with store sales
They couldn’t get the toys their children requested
And Santa’s elves were already too invested
In the surprise gifts he delivered in the wee hours of morn
On Christmas Day when he’s busiest – he was forlorn!
Store toys weren’t shipping, and there were huge delays
Even materials were scarce for Santa – we needed new ways!
What could he do to save the day for the parents and kids?
He pondered scratching the chin his white beard hid.
Noel, he called out to his head production elf
How many rotors do we have on the shelf?
Are there motors and bladed and strings we can loan
To the supply houses to deliver presents by drone?
Energized with a plan the elves began to scurry
They had lots to do and they had to hurry!
Christmas was coming - only a day away
And he couldn’t carry everything in his big red sleigh.
Christmas Eve arrived and folks looked to the sky
Not really believing what could be seen with their eye.
Clouds of presents being flown to many a house and a store
By thousands of drones – but, wait, there is more!
Even as people marveled at this unique sight,
They heard a recording – ‘Ho, Ho, Ho and to all a good night’!
S. Little, Newbury NH
SANTA SAVES THE DAY (HE THINKS)
Santa woke up with a headache the day before Christmas.
Why had he let the elves form a union and buy everything
from China instead of fashioning all the gifts right here
in his workshop? Now with the supply chain crisis, gifts
were sitting in shipping containers over all the oceans and
Christmas morning joy seemed doomed. As he paced,
he remembered last month, in many parts of the world,
people were setting their clocks back an hour. If they
could do that, think of what he could do! Climbing up
the clock tower at the top of the North Pole, he turned
it back an hour, then another and kept going until
he reached last Christmas Eve where the elves were
working full speed ahead loading the sleigh. Satisfied
and proud of himself, he watched everyone wake up
on Christmas morning feeling a year younger, if slightly
disoriented. He could now change history. Instead
of letting the elves form a union, he would increase
benefits, build a gym and share the profits he made
on all Christmas decorations. Hmm, life was lookin’ good.
How far back could he go? His mind spinning through
the implications, he started thinking of possible
repercussions. He’d deal with it tomorrow. Tomorrow,
after all, was just another day that could be repeated.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS
Are there grinches lurking in the shadows of Christmas?
Have any of you seen one in your travels?
The news tells us there are huge container ships
Sitting in far off harbors waiting to be emptied of
Perhaps, those special items, our Christmas gifts.
Are there grinches aboard these ships?
We may never know the answer, though Dr. Suess
Has shared his storybook Grinch with us all.
And what a character he is!
He thought he could trick The Who’s in
Whoville by stealing their Christmas.
My, oh, my was he fooled!
We, like The Who’s in Whoville know
That no Grinch in the world can stop Christmas.
Christmas is a season full of special magic - a magic that
Creates gifts far greater than those in container ships.
Gifts each of us can give - those from the heart.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
SANTA TAKES CHARGE
It’s the most wonderful time of the year
filled with music and sparkling holiday cheer.
But, Santa frowned, “we have problems,” he declared.
“The goods for the toys are stuck at the pier.”
The management course he took to prepare
instructed he identify any future disruptions.
Make focused decisions, but he had no solution
Since the ships were delayed with congestion at ports.
There’s a shortage of chips and not enough drivers.
The reindeer and elves are still quarantining,
concerned that cold weather might spread the virus.
The goods are stuck and we’re out of luck.
Santa roared, “I have made my decision.”
this year will be different, the sleigh will be light.
The stockings that hang by the chimney will miss
some treats with a surprise note that says,
“Be kind to your parents, they try their best.
Merry Christmas to you. Your gifts will be late.”
IOU!!!!
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
SANTA'S EVE
Where are all the toys
For the girls and boys
Gifts arrive as the elves allow
The holiday supply is open now
Midnight is now fast approaching
Children the world over are waiting
Children happy parents and more
Everyone joyous with presents galore
Christmas morn is now complete
Packages abound and are a treat
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
SANTA SOLVES THE CRISIS ON
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
In the time of ‘The Night Before Christmas’
our stockings were hung by the chimney
or the window or wherever with care,
then full on Christmas Morning.
Always.
Elves made the toys and
Santa delivered them.
Then it happened.
It was a cold and snowy night.
The North Pole was in a giant globe.
Socked in. Freezing fog. ‘A White Christmas’.
‘Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow’.
Good thing Santa found an odd reindeer
with a nose like a headlight. He said,
“Rudolph with your nose so bright,
Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight.”
So Santa loaded all the toys in his sleigh and
‘Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer’ lead
the way to all of our houses. Like usual.
‘Jingle Bells’. Ho ho ho!
When we awoke on Christmas Morning
all was as it always is. We never knew
there was even a problem until
Gene Autry sang about it.
Then ‘the other reindeer, who used to laugh
and call him names,’ didn’t tease Rudolph any more.
He was famous. There was a movie.
‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
HOW SANTA’S SUPPLY CHAIN PLIGHT WAS SOLVED
Santa Claus is worried—all the elf men do is fret:
Christmas Eve is coming soon, and nothing’s ready yet.
Though the toys have all been loaded into the great big sleigh
the reindeer are all sleeping—they won’t even wake for hay--
so no children may have presents ‘neath the tree on Christmas day.
Santa calls the elf men, and sits them in a row
And says, “The problem is, we have to make them go--
but reindeer fly on Good Will Power, and we have none this year
With Covid and with loneliness, there’s sadness, and there’s fear.
We’ve got find some Good Will Power and bring it right back here.”
Santa says, “I’ll send a message, it’s too late to have it mailed
But I have to tell the children that my supply chain has failed:
I couldn’t find enough Good Will to power the reindeers’ flight.”
He sends his message by T-V, it travels through the night
and everywhere it travels, his message sheds a light.
His message says “I love you! Now go and pass the word.”
Then all the children in the world soon follow what they heard.
The world rings out with shouts of love that rise so very high
with such Good Will, the elf men, in a twinkling of an eye
soon carry all that Good Will to the North Pole through the sky.
Here at last is Good Will Power for Santa’s supply chain.
Its energy is filled with joy-- the reindeer wake again.
The elf men hitch them to the sleigh-- they just can’t wait to go,
delivering love to everyone in places high and low.
Christmas cheer and great good will still sets the world aglow
and Christmas Eve will verberate with Santa’s HO-HO-HO!”
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
SHARING MY WORDS ON A SNOWY AFTERNOON
Whose rhyme this is we surely know
the words, a lesser poet’s, though
and as these Christmas cards I make
I watch the lake fill up with snow
how peacefully each single flake
floats into place with no mistake
how does each one know where to go
and not another’s space to take
in reaching out to say hello
from near and far and long ago
I use this moment to reflect
on just how love and friendship flow
with all the lives we intersect
It takes intention to connect
to realize the mighty sweep
of differences in retrospect
now as the days grow dark and deep
we each our promises must keep
and choose the joy we want to reap
these miles to go before we sleep.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
A LETTER TO SANTA
Dear Santa,
The Supply Chain of Wonder is all that Matters.
A New Day Stands at Attention.
We half believe the stories we tell ourselves.
We listen, hopeful of a different ending
Or middle
Even a new beginning.
Stay focused on the small changes.
Re-imagine the old self.
Put away the predictable.
Begin a new script.
No guarantee things will be better.
I feel alive as the flash of light on the December horizon.
Love
Kathleen Shulman, New London NH
A Covid Christmas
by Tom MacDonald
T'was the night before Christmas, but Covid was here,
So we all had to stay extra cautious this year.
Our masks were all hung by the chimney with care
In case Santa forgot his and needed a spare.
With Covid, we couldn't leave cookies or cake
So we left Santa hand sanitizer to take.
The children were sleeping, the brave little tots
The ones over 5 had just had their first shots,
And mom in her kerchief and me in my cap
Had just settled in for a long winter's nap.
But we tossed and we turned all night in our beds
As visions of variants danced in our heads.
Gamma and Delta and now Omicron
These Covid mutations that go on and on
I thought to myself, "If this doesn't get better,
I'll soon be familiar with every Greek letter".
Then just as I started to drift off and doze
A clatter of noise from the front lawn arose.
I leapt from my bed and ran straight down the stair
I opened the door, and an old gent stood there.
His N 95 made him look pretty weird
But I knew who he was by his red suit and beard.
I kept six feet away but blurted out quick
"What are you doing here, jolly Saint Nick?"
Then I said, "Where's your presents, your reindeer and sleigh ?
Don't you know that tomorrow will be Christmas Day? ".
And Santa stood there looking sad in the snow
As he started to tell me a long tale of woe.
He said he'd been stuck at the North Pole alone
All his white collar elves had been working from home,
And most of the others said "Santa, don't hire us!
We can live off the CERB now, thanks to the virus".
Those left in the toyshop had little to do.
With supply chain disruptions, they could make nothing new.
And as for the reindeer, they'd all gone away.
None of them left to pull on his sleigh.
He said Dasher and Dancer were in quarantine,
Prancer and Vixen refused the vaccine,
Comet and Cupid were in ICU,
So were Donner and Blitzen, they may not pull through.
And Rudolph's career can't be resurrected.
With his shiny red nose, they all think he's infected.
Even with his old sleigh, Santa couldn't go far.
Every border to cross needs a new PCR.
Santa sighed as he told me how nice it would be
If children could once again sit on his knee.
He couldn't care less if they're naughty or nice
But they'd have to show proof that they'd had their shot twice.
But then the old twinkle returned to his eyes.
And he said that he'd brought me a Christmas surprise.
When I unwrapped the box and opened it wide,
Starlight and rainbows streamed out from inside.
Some letters whirled round and flew up to the sky
And they spelled out a word that was 40 feet high.
There first was an H, then an O, then a P,
Then I saw it spelled HOPE when it added the E.
"Christmas magic" said Santa as he smiled through his beard.
Then suddenly all of the reindeer appeared.
He jumped into his sleigh and he waved me good-bye,
Then he soared o'er the rooftops and into the sky.
I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight
"Get your vaccines my friends, Merry Christmas, good-night".
Then I went back to bed and a sweet Christmas dream
Of a world when we'd finished with Covid 19.
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
FROM THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN
“Only the cook who stirs the pot
knows what’s in the stew.”
From a distance they seemed a perfect match,
each brought to the table their talents.
A house, a home with children and jobs
a recipe meant for success.
A decade passed then the union collapsed
beginning to curdle when something was added.
The damage is now unfixable.
The quandary I pose is what went wrong?
The secret belongs to them and not shared.
Only the cooks know…
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
VIEW FROM OUTSIDE
A view from outside
May reveal surprises
Internal secret revelations
Could open up compromises
The views from outside
Raise awareness, embellish
We live our life in full
For all to see and relish
From the outside looking in
You'll get a different view
Many things to learn
As life begins anew
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
GALA AFFAIR
Did she know this would be the last gala affair
In this magnificent house, that she would host?
Vast quantities of alcohol uninhibit the guests
Over abundant trays of hors d’oeuvres. Two people disappear,
their absence not even noted.
Resting her head on his shoulder, outdoors, she
Carefully memorizes the sight of the indoor lights,
Evening’s star scattered sky mimicking the illuminated party.
Did she ever think this marriage would last?
Ever weary of the façade, she leans into his arms,
Cautiously at first, until they blend into the shadows,
Intimately promising each other better tomorrows.
Satisfied their spouses will be better off without them,
Indecision disappears into the summer evening as
Old Promises are broken. Listening to the party’s joyous
Noisy laughter, they rise, ready now to enter the valley of tears.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
INSIDE A BEAR CAGE
In the Smokies, bear cages at discreet intervals occur.
The view from inside such a cage differs from that outside.
Now which view would you think everyone might prefer?
Would you be comfortable outside such a cage or inside?
How about the bears and their natural point of view?
And which view of the bears might you really eschew?
Of course, there is a temporal aspect we can’t ignore.
Better to hike during the day and be inside to snore?
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
“Smokies” refers to the Smoky Mountain National Park where the lean-to shelters are protected by chain-link fences across the open sides with gates.
OUTSIDE GUEST
Snow has the lawn covered with a fluffy white icing
The feeder has birds perched nearby waiting for their turn
Small animal prints cross to the woods, not too close to the house.
Inside people are gathered - reading, while the fireplace logs burn,
What better way to spend a winter evening – so enticing.
The buck emerges from the woods to stalk silently ahead
Curious, he peers through the window at the family he sees
He shakes his antlers making the snow that stuck on them fly
As he tilts his head slightly he wonders why
While he moves a little closer with that majestic tread.
What a strange sight - an oddity at best
To be isolated inside and miss the awe-filled sight
Of a cold, dark sky filled with so many stars
That is so often the case on a long winter night,
The buck walks away - the people naïve to their outside guest.
S.J. Little, Newbury NH
RENOVATION ROULETTE
How I stopped waiting for
the renovation to happen and
became The Clerk of the Works.
In order to lay the new floors
in the bath and kitchen, the plumber
must remove the toilet and the gas man
disconnect the gas range
and move it to the living room
beside the refrigerator that has
been dominating conversation there
since March.
In order to install the countertop
and backsplashes, the carpenter must also
make the most of this window of
an appliance-less kitchen. As well as
tear out the bathroom sink and
vanity top before the floors are laid.
And, of course, the materials must arrive.
But in order for the carpenter
to work in the bathroom, the plumber
must first disconnect the water.
It’s an intricate dance of changing
partners and trading spaces in
confined places and an interrupted.
Interdependent economy. It’s
also why large construction jobs
have a coordinator position known as
The Clerk of the Works!
One by one, slate tile floors
replace old linoleum and
black kitchen counter tops
and bathroom vanity make
the original wood paneled walls glow,
while the aqua-piston Santa Rosa toilet
sits sleekly beside a black glass vessel
sink and sculptured brushed nickel
faucet reflected in a round, black- rimmed oversize mirror,
that is, if no one misses his cue.
And until they are carted away,
the old fixtures lying on their sides
next to the garage, have turned my yard
into God’s Little Acre.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
OUTSIDE IN
From inside the window
gold light seeps into yellow
of late fall grass. All is quiet
no conversations,
the small noises of living.
There it is lonely. You watch in secret.
This is what it must be
to be homeless, looking
in on someone else’s life.
Yet we can be invisible even
though you can see us, our inside
clear as the blue of autumn skies
or water from faraway
streams you can see
clear through.
The moon almost full rises
over the hills also gold. Shadows
move across the grass. You’re in shadow
too, as we sometimes define
ourselves by how others
see us or don’t see us.
A simple gesture, to look
in another’s eyes, maybe
to see through their eyes,
to accept, even honor
things that separate, that keep
you outside, that make differences.
Suddenly inside light
touches you, reaches
outward, outside where
you’re included, you’re visible.
The outside
has come in.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
FROM THE OUTSIDE, LOOKING IN
My fifth-grade friends huddled on the playground sharing their annoyance with their mothers: hair braided too tight, advice on what to wear, actually kissing them goodbye. My silence reminded these girls that I was different, no mother to complain about. I can’t remember if they moved to line up or if I moved away. If I avoided them or they avoided me. Was the death of your mother contagious, if you got too close could another girl catch it?
Our family rules were simple, unspoken: avoid scrutiny, pretend, no trouble at school, no one over to the house, nothing to arouse suspicion. I engineered a secret world: “We’re fine, no need for foster care.” I created an inner-life of prayer, an eating disorder, awareness
of moss, science and a keen interest in unraveling nature’s secrets.
Today, I work with students on the margins to honor Ms. Pat, my Algebra teacher who prevented me from dropping out of high school to care for my siblings and brokered my academic dreams. How do we insure that students have viable public schools and communities that support all students and teachers who dare them to dream?
Kathleen Shulman, New London NH
INSIDE NOVEMBER LOOKING OUT
You watch the sunlight empty
gold across Mount Sunapee
its lower slopes
first deepening to indigo
then disappearing
into the wind-chopped lake.
Inside, you see the slanted light
still warming this familiar room
but crossing it with shadows.
As November yields to winter
before you’ve even dealt
with autumn gone
you’ll find slopes’ trails
and clefts exchanged
for winter’s opaque mask.
Inside though, your lamp
will send its glow
into the coming night,
and softening shades
inside your room
will knit themselves
to comforters.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
ON THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN
We stroll, my dog and I, among the gravestones in the
Churchyard and the many lives gone by.
There’s Molly Witham by the pine tree.
Word is she led a devil’s life from what men in town say.
The newly dug grave next to Reverend Smith
Must be his second wife, Sarah Anne.
She often talked of going to heaven.
I wonder if her dream came true?
Her husband’s sermons were often stories of the afterlife
With brief memories of a once beautiful time.
This morning the church is full of parishioners
Longing to hear a message of hope.
Their eternal question asks if there is a heaven?
The answer will come for all of us when we are no longer
On the outside looking in.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
CLOSET SKELETONS
Many people tend to hide things
in their ancestry which could
be embarrassing
Some cultures more than others
may tend to 'bury' things
from the past
Should we open our closets to
expose those skeletons which
are long hidden
What will the future hold
if we open up the coffers
of the past?
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
SKELETONS IN MY CLOSET
I push them into the dark corners
of my closet pretending they are not there.
But, I hear them rattle when I don a new day.
Distant, they are never distant.
Today I want to crush those bones, pulverize
them into dust and powder like the ashes
of my loved ones as they sank into silt at
the bottom of Mud Turtle Pond.
But other days I stroke their brittleness tenderly
remembering they created who I am today.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
IF THESE HORSEHAIR PLASTER WALLS COULD TALK
if these horsehair plaster walls could talk
if these northern white pine beams could speak
if I could translate her shivering moans
if I could interpret her trembling creaks,
what stories this colonial farmhouse could tell
of who came to visit and who stayed to dwell.
of the little babes born and the babies deceased
of the vile sins committed and lost souls released
of the gentle inhabitants who heard the death knell,
what stories this colonial farmhouse could tell
of who came to visit and who stayed to dwell.
when the acts of God tried to topple her down
when the occupants filled her with small-town renown
when her residents cried that the end is near
when her rooms were filled with morbid fear,
what stories this colonial farmhouse could tell
of who came to visit and who stayed to dwell
and grew to become quite courageous in war
and behaved in such ways as to spark local lore
and kept to themselves so their names are unknown
and encountered such grief to lament and bemoan,
what stories this colonial farmhouse could tell
of who came to visit and who came to dwell,
for the horsehair plaster walls did see
true tales of joy and stark misery
remarkable plots of birth and of death
and what came between those different breaths.
what stories this colonial farmhouse could tell
of who came to visit and who stayed to dwell!
Thom Smith, New Hampton NH
HEARING IT AGAIN
I’m hearing it again.
That sound.
Rattly. And dry.
Louder than before.
Janey is still asleep.
So is little Milly.
I call the whole family into our room.
Janey says she doesn’t hear a thing.
Milly says I’m scaring her.
Junior says I’m being nutty. Again.
Mama tells us to lay down. Go back to sleep.
Gramma tucks me in. Gives me a pat.
But, Grampa
slides his eyes quick
toward that closet
before he shuffles out the door.
Ellen Evans Pysz, Newport NH
THE PIANO
My eyes stare in awe of this magnificent piano
Sitting in its beautiful space – a Steinway grand
Model M holding the silence, broken only by
One’s hands radiating across the keyboard to
Break that silence and open the symphony of
Myriad sounds and emotions hidden in a closet -
A closet of steel strings and felt-padded hammers.
Be it joy, sadness – Bach, Beethoven, or
Perhaps Saint Sean’s “Dance Macabre’’ to
Celebrate a ghostly October – this lovely instrument
Never ceases to amaze me.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
THE CAUSE OF MY NIGHTMARES
The fact I remember is that I told a lie
Perhaps it showed, but without my admission
Retribution did not occur. Correction never.
I was only 8 and it would be eighty years too late.
All involved have passed, might still be watching.
Perhaps I owe $2 to my brother’s heirs plus interest.
What I suggest is not bothering the heirs.
Who don’t know of their dad’s loss.
What’s important is that I know and suffer.
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
SKELETONS IN OUR CLOSET
“If I can’t stop all of the hate all over the world in all of the people, I can stop it in one place within me.” Elie Wiesel
Here in Salem, in the year 1692, people are cautious, paranoid.
They avoid other people
Fearful about a thing they can’t see or touch.
Rumors fly.
Science is questioned.
Communities are divided.
There’s tension in the air.
There was gossip
Bridget Bishop was targeted with witchcraft accusations
Maybe she was responsible for the deaths of her first two husbands.
She had been accused of witchcraft before in 1680,
when John Ingersoll’s slave Juan
claimed her specter had pinched him,
that she had stolen eggs, and
frightened horses.
Ten neighbors now testified against her.
Accused her of pressuring the afflicted girls to
"Sign the Devil’s book.”
On June 10, Sheriff George Corwin escorted her
from Salem jail, along Prison Lane to Main Street,
to “a spot of common pasture at the edge of town”
on Proctor’s Ledge at Gallows Hill.
A crowd gathered.
She was “hanged by the neck until she was dead.”
The first of 19 people to be so executed.
It was not the end, but the beginning
Governor Phips of the colony,
upon hearing that his own wife was accused of witchcraft
ordered an end to the trials.
However, 20 people and 2 dogs in total were executed
for the crime of witchcraft in Salem.
In 1976 Linda Caporael offered evidence that
The Salem witch trials followed an outbreak of rye ergot.
Ergot forms hallucinogenic drugs in bread.
Victims can appear bewitched
They’re actually stoned.
In the 1500’s and 1600’s, the symptoms of ergot were blamed on witches
All over Europe and in Massachusetts.
Witch hunts hardly occurred where people didn’t eat rye.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
(salemwitchmuseum.com)
THE SKELETONS IN MY CLOSET
don’t take up much room now
shrunken as they are to shadows
of themselves, their hollow eyes
no longer blame, their accusations
long have fled from slackened jaws
lank finger bones point only back
to earth’s patient salvaging.
Once I named you all like wild dogs
who one by one, rose
from your daytime shrouds
to drip vengeance from your fangs
to camp around my bed by night
and sear my dream-blown mind
with fireball gaze, with piercing howls
heartless with recrimination.
Once I called you by your names:
Come Pride, let me find mirrors in your eyes
of wishful myths of self;
Come, Denial, bring to me
self-righteousness--and fear—
to bandage over what I will not cure;
Come Shame, fetch me the shawl of misery
where I can hide my face.
My closet now yields little room
for skeletons, filled as it is with space
I’ve rescued from the vaults of time
with buds that turn expectant
faces to the sun, with trees
so tall I peer to see the sky
where light pools in the crescent’s cradle
and stars are plentiful enough to gird infinity.
On some nights, though, old winds
stir shadows of your ancient bones,
howls hushed to whispers
sighing, You, you, you…
Then for a moment I remember
all your names and answer, Yes,
Through time, pain’s closeting does pass,
those hounding bones sink into dust.
Joan Doran, New London NH
A SKELETON?
I hear the click-clack
and wonder…
bamboo wind chime
dry limb against a window
train wheels traveling the rails
ideas rasping on my cluttered mind?
NO!
THEM BONES
hidden from sight
into the darkness of memory—
my closet!
I’m familiar with
the scratch-scratch
of finger pointing
the sideways scritch
of tsk-tsking
or clomp-stomping
impatient feet.
THIS IS DIFFERENT…
I examine my motives
think back to actions
taken and untaken.
I crack open
the closet door
just a stitch when
EVERYTHING
tumbles out and onto the floor
tiny carpels and metacarpals
heavy femurs and pointy
tarsals and metatarsals
all in a glowing white
spookiness.
I try sweeping them
under the rug
under the bed
but they keep appearing
when most inconvenient.
I try speaking sweetly to them
or yelling insults and threats.
But their haunt is harsher
than mine.
FINALLY
we agree.
I reassemble
their smooth bones
in the living room where
we can admire their beauty.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
SUITS, WITH NO-BODY IN THEM
“CLOTHES”—HUNG
“A goblin lives in our house, in our house, in our
house, a goblin lives in our house all the
year round....” –Rose Fyleman?
“Keep the light on,” the youngest sister plead, thumb-in-mouth—
for the small closet in their bedroom faced the foot of her bed.
“Close the door, but not all the way, I want to see the light;
spare me the fright of empty, hanging, clothes.”
The closet door was warped by storms and did not shut tight
without a rock to brace it from creaking-open on its own.
Their father borrowed this overflow-closet for his Sunday-best—
He with no clothes on his bones….
The daughters had no skeletons, except in their own architecture.
Imagination, however, how the empty clothes rattled them.
The protective sister remembered, when she was younger,
requested her older sister, “please shut the closet door,
I don’t want to face them.” She needed rest, as she knew, skeletons
(especially closet-ones) would follow her, in the guise of others—
ones with no clothes on their bones….All the year round…
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
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
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
CLAMCAKE
Brown
Clam
Tasty
Ocean
Hot
Family
Cake
Narragansett
Treat
Karen Reilly, Sunapee NH
AUGUST SHORT-SHORTS
Red
Tomato
Clinging
Today
Grab
Sunlight
Energy
Fresh
Today
Tasty
Grey
Observing
Grandkids
Laughing
Cousins
Love
Lakeside
Today
Family
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
AUGUST SHORT-SHORTS
Yellow
squash
sizzles
summer
heat.
I
eat
lunch
outside
happily.
Red
tomatoes
shout
sun
ripen.
Birds
fly
daily
above
greedy.
Green
leaves
tossed.
Bowls
clap.
We
eat
supper
outdoors
cool.
Yellow
corn
playing
music
pops
her
ears
ripe.
Garden
deliciousness.
By Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
SHORT-SHORT
Yellow
Squash
Entered
Throat
Quickly
Artemis’s
Breakfast
1980’s
Here
Buttered
Dan Allen, New London NH
AUGUST
Red
Lobsters
Boiled
Butter
Melted
Friends
Celebrate
Saturday
Beach
Birthday
Yellow
Corn
Steaming
Butter
Dripping
Family
Together
Evening
Home
Rest
Orange
Sunset
Delights
Clouds
Whisper
God
Nature
Tonight
Heaven
Speaks
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
SAVE OUR CHILDREN
Grayish Red
Eyes Hearts
Cry Share
Hunger Food
Weeping Give
Children Children
Undernourished Support
Experiencing Encouraging
Life’s Daily
Struggle Healing
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
SUMMER SUPPER
Lobster Roll:
Coral-tinged
delicacy,
evoking
seasides,
reminding
us:
Brevity,
summertime.
Handheld,
devoured.
Corn-on-the-Cob:
Golden
kernels
drip
butter,
fill us:
Satisfaction
now,
here.
Feast.
Zucchini:
Green
cylinder,
abounding
succulence,
exhausting
everyone’s
imagination.
Every-day
over-flowing
abundance.
Strawberry Ice Cream
Rosy
confection,
inviting
us,
delighting
us.
Heaven
now:
earth-born
treat!
Joan Doran, New London, NH
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
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
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
NOR’EASTER
Small craft advisory.
northeast gale.
I grab the gunnel,
stare into the deep.
Scared icy with fear.
Reach to Gloucester.
Bundle the mainsail.
Ride the jib.
Swells lap the mast.
Cleats clangs.
The Pearson creaks and groans,
riding walls of ink.
Sky and water fuse.
Guided by the compass,
charts blow useless.
No visible landmarks.
No two-way communication.
Hope the sound of an unseen buoy.
Captain Meersman,
Commands the tiller.
Happy it’s not a golf club,
or gardening tool.
Her confidence honed driving a race car,
climbing in Nepal,
investigating homicides.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
CANYON DE CHELLY
Sheep graze on the fine green shoots of the lush desert in April.
Rock worn by feet, sun, and water
shapes the steep canyon trail.
I crawl into a shallow cave.
Feel the heat of the flat smooth sandstone.
My eyes trace petroglyphs in the rock.
I appeal to bear spirit in this silent space.
I listen and do not know.
I cannot hear my shadow.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
OUR SUN
Mighty Sun we salute you
A rising Sun will enlighten our day
Burning brightly filling us with warmth
A sunset has a peaceful effect on our state of mind
The magnificent Sun which we orbit yearly
The great Sun we observe daily
What more can be said
Thank you Sun
W. D. Tighe, New London
SUN STROKES
Witching hour fast approaching
as the
Sun slowly creeps up the mountain
and
Night falls down
~ ~ ~
Dutiful cricket mesmerizes
~ ~ ~
chirp-chirp-chirp
Debra Lamson Perkins, New London, NH
Salutations to Laureates
and Other Fine Poets.
I can salute who I damn well please.
R. Manchester
On a sunny day
the poem was Halled out
of a New Hampshire hay field
by a woman. Jane. It was written
with a touch of Frost, cold
as Maxine's wolf. It could stand Pat
as written, or perhaps include,
in the field, Richard's groundhog,
or Cynthia's ghost. Maybe more
Peary and thrust which netted
Marie and Eleanor and, sadly,
has passed by DV. Butt, I have
witnessed the sly wit of Pat
and Joan, felt the memory
of Ellen's loon and saw the anguish
of Peter's dog.
The sun shines here and there
and from time to time
illuminating some more than others.
However, on any given day
that bright ray of light can be anyone.
SUN SALUTATION
Unwind the mind
Align the body
Inhale exhale with twelve Asanas.
Start the day with intention.
Clear the pathway
Synchronization
Bend and arch
Face the sun
Feel the heat
Release tension
Energize revitalize
Be the mountain
Salute the day
Repeat the steps
Sun salutation.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
THE GIFT OF HOPE
Good morning dear Sun.
I see your glow rising in the East.
Hide no longer behind the trees.
Come find me here where the loon swims
And listens for the sounds of the lake.
Soothe the pain that holds me hostage.
Touch the music in my soul.
Bring to life my song.
Find me by the water’s edge
Where the shore trees lie
Mirrored in their silent form.
A dragonfly rests on a lily pad.
It waits to bathe in your warmth.
O morning Sun – I, too, need you.
Speak to me with your light.
I will answer – with hope.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London
SALUTATION TO THE SUMMER SUN
At 4:44 AM rays of light slip softly through the trees
dismissing the darkness of night as the robins, nuthatches,
cardinals, finches and other local birds begin their
choral cacophony, their salutation to the summer sun.
This wondrous wakeup lulls me back into semi-slumber,
where I dream of wilderness and wild things, free
and unencumbered by plagues or fear of tomorrows.
I want to sing with the birds now splashing in the birdbath,
shower outside under this star of ours saturating
the sky with warmth and glimmering highlights.
First the sunshine spotlights the burgundy Japanese maple,
then the weeping willow, as it rises into the sky,
producing ever-changing museum quality works of art
right here in my own backyard with no admission charge.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
EACH SEED
I place each seed
as common and as
extraordinary as this day
into the warm ground.
They fall gently.
I kneel as in prayer,
and smooth soft flakes
of dirt over the tiny
kernels of life.
Each is different,
as each snowflake is
different, as we are different.
I pat the ground leaving handprints,
a little bit of me in the natural selection,
in the possibility of growth. I salute
the many-colored sun,
the blessings of rain, and
the miracle of growth. I do pray.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
BEWARE OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
I live in a poorly lit, cold cave
til spring and hope begins.
The equinox, subtle promise,
produces reduced hardship.
This week’s summer solstice
brings what father warned, and
I might learn from his poor choice,
shortest night in marriage month.
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
SUMMER’S GOLDEN ORB
Swathed in night’s black velvet
I toss and turn
Waiting for dawn’s pale white sliver
My eyes close briefly
Opening them I see
Rimming the horizon a thin band of light
Becomes a pale sun moving slowly upward
Evolving into a blinding yellow sphere
Birds tweet their welcome
To this golden orb of summer
Natalie Davis, New London NH
A VAMPIRE’S LAMENTATION
Sun—of whom I once loved—
my day-riser, my lover, my god…
please remember me
as the young sun-bather-worshiper
I once was:
pulsing with life and
salutations of your dandelion-arms.
I ask that your reflection upon
the vacant moon is a reply, a song,
a sign, that you remember me alive.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton. NH
SALUTE TO THE SUN
September sun, eager to set
to get on with autumnal art
the stirring of seasonal colors
the harvest, the gatherings
the winter sun whose pale rays
and thin light conceive chill and cold
encouraging the den animal in us
to curl up near a fire and nap
the sun in March, an earlier riser,
reminding us to look for diamonds
on new snow, to feel the promise
of walking without jacket or hat
and summer sun that sits on my
shoulders like the warm arm
of a friend who doesn’t speak
but says what I need to hear.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
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
WHY MOTHER NEVER LEARNED TO SWIM
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
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
HI, HO, SILVER
Radio blasts pounding notes of the William Tell Overture
Followed by thudding horse beats
“Mighty Hi, Ho, Silver,” exclaims the Lone Ranger
Followed by Tonto, his side kick
Piled in the dish drainer- the first load of dishes
Sink on a western plain
I sigh, ”Now to put the first load away.”
“May we help you?” asked the Lone Ranger
“ Yes, yes, yes, ” I gratefully reply
Tonto moves to the dish drainer, picks up a dish
throws each one to the Lone Ranger, who piles them in the cabinet.
“Thank you, my friends for making a hard job easy.”
As they thundered off, I headed upstairs to my bedroom.
Natalie Davis, New London NH
PLEONASM
I am so bored
Think I'm going to die
I'm so empty
I cannot even cry.
So Bored
Sia
My sixth grade teacher,
Miss Joan Hay said to us
one day, "write a poem
about your life".
Oh, how boring! My life?
My boring, quotidian life!
And so I thought and thought
of what to pen, and thought
again. So in the end, my poem
as was formed.
My Mundane Life
I am so unexceptional,
so unremarkable, so temporal,
so run-of-the mill, so plain
vanilla, so common, everyday,
so lowly, uninteresting,
so unexciting, so banal,
so mudano, so banale,
so lifeless...
that my mother no longer
sets a place for me at the table.
Robert Manchester, Concord NH
SEARCHING FOR MY MOTHER
You smile from a sepia photo,
Dark hair scooped into a pageboy.
Tailored suit a tribute to your mother’s talent.
Stenographer’s pad on your lap.
How did you form your script?
With your left or right hand?
Were the loops tight like
The gauge of your knitting?
Puffed like your yeast rolls?
Quick like your knife that chopped celery?
Slow and deliberate as the stitches in a hem?
Sharp as the prick of the pin in my diaper?)
Smooth as the linen you starched and ironed?
Erratic as his moods?
I want a trace of your handwriting,
Laundry list, birthday card, favorite recipe.
Favorite prayer to Saint Jude,
Note to my teacher,
Knitting pattern,
Envelopes labeled for monthly bills.
I want to know
How you felt
About what you knew?
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
DUST
“Dust is a protective covering over furniture,”
speaks a friend’s stitched sampler. So,
by all means, leave it alone!
Let it do it’s protecting.
If you must, open
the windows and allow
the wind to blow through,
to move in and around and out.
Best of all, you go
outside and forget
all this nonsense
of dusting.
Did you ever see a dusty flower?
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
‘FLAME OF SPRING’
Upstairs, I slowly move the soft
Cloth across wooden windowsill
Like quiet wings of a Lunar Moth
Shadows of the empty room fill
With the soft spring breeze
My domestic chores that day seem long
In spite of this spring day’s rising degrees
Outside, I hear a ethereal bird’s song
In the canopy of Oak and Maple trees
Greeting green leaves, bounce in new light
Seeing a little fellow’s scarlet body bright
With waving black wings, ready to sail
All atoms in motion, twitching his black tail
Dark eyes, alert to all within his shire
Stone still, I watched this scarlet flyer
With buoyant spirit swinging in the wind
Racing into the woods to his secret places
With joie de vivre, he lifted me with him
I return to dusting photos of family’s faces
Grinning now, his world and mine blend
Loa Winter, Newbury NH
Dusting upstairs, seeing a ‘Scarlet Tanager’
DAILY BREAD
Light’s fingers prod away your laggard dreams
you throw your window open to the day
and let in rushing flood of morning beams
whose clear-eyed fingers brush dark shades away:
again, night’s bedpost, only what it seems.
Earth rises to the summons of the jay.
The hawk flies over fields before they green,
by nature, tracking hidden mouse’s pace.
You, too, will know your work before it’s seen:
To smooth the tangled things, put all in place,
to fill the steaming cup, to sweep and clean--
to take and share your daily bread with grace.
But after mundane things are put away
will you have had your bowl of stars today?
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
CLOSET TREASURES
April’s cool touch whispers thoughts of spring.
If only by the calendar – I should feel such joy.
Pinterest vies for my attention – morning
Emails with speed cleaning hints.
I laugh and tell them “no thanks.”
My closet is already clean and neat
Along with showers of old memories of places.
Come, and I will show you my treasures.
That yellow dress was worn for tea in Rome, Italy –
A delightful afternoon at the Spanish Steps.
Those blue slacks were right for walking in Vienna
Where I heard Beethoven’s “Fifth Symphony” at the
World famous Musikverein Concert Hall.
And I shall never forget sitting under the stars at the
Baths of Caracalla in Rome. My jade green blouse was
The perfect evening wear for a performance of “Aida.”
Though, time takes all but the memories – perhaps on
Another day – I’ll find the courage to let go –
And empty my closet.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
A MUNDANE TASK (DRAFT)
She says, sweeping
is one a them things
you got to do daily, really.
Come to find out, raking, too
like sweeping
takes a strong back
monotony, bending low, loose grip.
It's good to be short, she says.
Short daughter
hides cookies down low
Tall boy stashes chocolate
up high.
But only ol' mamma seems the right
height for a broom
or a measure of quiet moment
with the rhythm and work
of a rake, a broom.
Who raised these kids!
she says, refusing
to help ol' mother?
She says, she says, no - listen!
Listen, listen, linda listen . .
There are things
you got to do
duties, tasks, mundane
or whatnot.
Sometimes you just need
to wipe and swipe.
Even a garbage can needs cleaning
sometimes.
And sweeping, it's one of them things
she says, you go to do,
daily, really.
Nicole M. L. Gage, Newbury NH
GARDEN TASKS MUNDANE
Simple things to be done
Collection of easy chores
Mundane tasks requested
Off with snow tires
Away the overcoats
Remove woolly hats
Mow the lawn
Prune the trees
Sweep driveway
Trim shrubbery
Plant new bulbs
Realign the patio
Exercise often
Enjoy springtime
Celebrate summer
W. D. Tighe, New London
THE DUMP RUN
Covid – 19 changed my life.
It’s arrival shock shook my timbers.
No longer could I peruse the castoffs,
nor leave my meagre prize,
yet we relish
each visit’s catharsis.
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
CLEAN SWEEP
Romance swept past
us the day you gifted me
a vacuum cleaner
for my birthday.
I grant, you,
the old one
tired easily
and was lately
prone to violent outbursts
of dirt and dander,
the vacuum, that is,
not you, darling,
but the new one
came on bold and bright,
anxious to sweep up
anything in its path,
which is where
I placed myself
unknowingly anxious
to once again
be swept away.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record
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
Poetry Previously published in the InterTown Record
PERFECT PAIRING
Charlotte was always quite a dish:
exquisite, delicate and airy-sweet--
So light-hearted, bubbly—
So beautiful: berries and cream--
her lady fingers tender, soft.
She turned away from inapt matches
such as Reuben, that wry guy.
She found him sort of cheesy, sour,
parading in his Russian dress—
or svelte Alfredo, rich
and smooth--she termed him
saucy and too unctuous--
Louie, too, was robed in riches
well-dressed, yes--but really crabby--
Spurned, too, was jumbled Mulligan,
who simmered in a mixed-up stew.
At last came Chuck, a meaty guy
and sizzling hot--providing juicy tidbits
Charlotte nibbled from his plate—
He was tender, too, and sanguine—
she said she’d stake her life on him.
Their marriage was in superb taste:
a grand love feast, a perfect pairing.
Joan Doran, New London NH
CONFLICT IN LOVE
A day—years ago—how well I remember
The first showing of “Gone With The Wind”
At our local theater—nearly four hours of epic drama.
Ellie and I were excited school girls with front row seats—
Our eyes waiting for the house lights to dim.
In an afternoon of youthful passion, we imagined ourselves
Playing the lead actress, Scarlett O’Hara, whose love life
Held a self-centered and spoiled teenager in a tangled web—
Never leading to a lasting romance.
Her love for Ashley Wilkes, a true southern gentleman, played
Games with Scarlett’s psyche—her mind lit with fire.
Filled with conflict, her marriage to Rhett Butler, a dashing,
Scandalous businessman, was in shambles from the start.
Rhett, forever bitter, tried to punish her for it.
Scarlett—in the end—realizing she must move on.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
WHAT HAWTHORNE NEVER TOLD US
Don Juan's secret flight
was to meet with,
on a warm summer night,
that so pious, so fine
married woman,
Hester Prynne.
A joyous romp
the sex so fine
would leave our Hester
with a telltale sign.
Don skips back to Spain
leaving both Hester,
with her scarlet sign,
and pastor Arthur
to suffer guilt and pain.
Don Juan always wished
he could return for more
because as he said,
she's an A-1 whore.
Robert Manchester, Concord NH
THE PERFECT LOVE AFFAIR
First to sign, the marriage log
Miss Piggy, Kermit the Frog
Earl and Opal, an elderly team
Their love special, full of esteem
Next to join, what love has dealt
Pianist Schroeder, Lucy van Pelt
With friendship confirmed, by design
Garfield and Odie, a pet team divine
Beetle Bailey, Miss Buxley on a date
At Camp Swampy, the Army was great
From the marine world, oceans and toil
Comes Sailor Popeye, with his Olive Oyl
Daisy Hill Puppy Farm, a really cute pair
Snoopy and Woodstock, a platonic affair
For sibling rivalry, comes a double whammy
McPherson kids, sister Zoe brother Hammie
From the Okefenokee, comes quite a few
Pogo Possum, miz Mam'selle Hepzibah too
Another crew, from the Georgian scene
Albert Alligator, Miss Sis Boombah serene
All these affairs, from a fictional land
Sensual endeavors, aspirations grand
We wish them well, in their future life
Completely free, of stress and strife
W. D. Tigh, New London NH
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
They almost rode past each other in the Texas badlands,
the dust swirling around their galloping, obedient steeds.
Coming to an unplanned halt, they circled each other,
a perfect ying and yang. The two masked men, intrigued
by their opposite replications, the Lone Ranger in white
on his alabaster horse and Zorro all in black with his ebony
stallion, wondered what lay hidden behind their facades.
Only one way to tell, they decided and road off
into the sunrise, into a new time slot, into prime time,
and into the 21st century. Tonto sold their story,
admitting to the paparazzi the Lone Ranger
had been alone too long. The couple, now retired,
bought and restored and old Victorian house
in the city by the bay, took up golf and hired
Tonto as their publicist to keep their names
in the supermarket tabloids.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
TIME FOR A CHANGE
With a very small bag she climbed on the plane
her destination Africa, an adventurous plan.
She ditched boyfriend Ken, so empty headed,
sold the pink Cadillac to purchase a ticket.
So much stuff to get rid of, the task was daunting
she discovered Marie Kondo and emptied her closet.
The gowns and stilettos were listed on eBay,
the dream house sold quickly, it was now called mid-century.
Finding a new man on the dating app eHarmony
no possessions would be needed where she was going.
An independent woman Jungle Barbie was ready
to meet up with her real man who called himself Tarzan.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
ASSAULT ON KEARSARGE
“I am late, I am late for a very important date,”
Alice gasped,
Owl commanded,” Follow me!”
A tug on her skirt,
“We can’t keep up,”
cried Winnie the Pooh and Piglet
Running to them, Jo scooped them up,
put them in her backpack.
“I am with you, Alice. We will be the first women to lead
an assault on Mt. Kearsarge.”
“How will we get to its base from this beach road?”
Suddenly eagles swooped down, picked them up.
“We ‘re scared,” screamed Pooh and Piglet
All the expedition members fell asleep.
The eagles dropped them at the trailhead in Warner.
Pooh and Piglet stood at the trailhead, a large slab of rock,
“We can’t climb that,” they moaned.
“Yes, you can with our help,”
Alice steered them up the first steep rock.
From there Pooh and Piglet tottered and crawled up the rocky path.
When they came to a steep rock section,
Pooh and Piglet in tears. “We can’t do that.”
“Go around to the right, Alice stated.
Jo stayed behind them and gave them
a hand or push when needed.
Reaching a huge rock face, the access the summit.
Pooh and Tigger moaned, “We can’t. We can’t.”
Alice gave Pooh a gentle push.
Jo picked up Piglet when he was out of breath and couldn’t move.
On the summit, Jo held Pooh, Alice, Piglet
Pointing north, Jo exclaimed, ”The high peak- Mt. Washington.”
Natalie Davis, New London NH
DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR BROKENNESS, LOVE
“Don’t sit in that chair moping and expecting me to fix it”
Hide
Run
Deny
Shout
Rant
Loose sleep
Turn away
Drive fast
Swallow cookies
“Get creative, just stop pretending to read your lecture notes.”
Invent a reason
Pretend it’s fine
Slag your thirst
Binge watch Netflix
Slam your feet on a treadmill
Max out your credit card
“I’m fixing meals, engaging in zoom, pretending. Please know how I feel.”
Sadness like a jellyfish
Undulates with stinging tentacles
Coiled to unleash the venom of memory.
Temporarily Paralyzed between
then and now
flight and surrender
“Use your power to help me find a way forward. Stop ignoring me.”
Who will love me now?
Hold me as I sob?
Keep silence?
Look beyond the scars?
Bring Hot Tea, that cools as I drift?
Will I embrace the broken me?
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
Martha’s monologue imagined during the pandemic of 2020 as George continues to read at his desk, remaining silent. George and Martha are character’s from the film, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Screenplay by Ernest Lehman adaptation of Edward Albee’s 1962 play)
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
