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Poetry of the Lake Sunapee Region

2021 Poetry Contests

Selections by Local Poets

Selections by Local Poets

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"Native American Beauty is Diversity"

Deadline for submissions March 20th

Contest Rules HERE

Selections by Local Poets

Selections by Local Poets

Selections by Local Poets

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Poetry by the John Hay Society

Selected each month and published in the InterTown Record

Read them here

Winning Poems

Selections by Local Poets

Winning Poems

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Winning poems are selected each year in all age categories and read at the April First Friday Event!

Read them here

POETRY PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED IN THE INTERTOWN RECORD

  

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, pursed 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 

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REINDEER RAP

I’m Rudolph the Red so listen up here,

There ain’t gonna be no snow this year.


Climate change has caused the old man worry

So this year we will pack up the bright red surry.


Gifts will now be left at the front door

cause the COVID numbers are starting to soar.


If your security system scans a masked man,

he’s leaving gifts not taking them man!


So put the gun down and please don’t shoot,

it’s 2020 and no one will give a hoot.


And don’t leave Santa no cookies and milk

a nice cold Corona is more his ilk.


I know you dudes want this year to end,

to finally become horrible legend!


So have a drink or two to turn your nose red,

then hunker down and go to bed.


So as I powder my frostnipt-nose

I’ll bring this rap to a hasty close.


Cause I’m a transgender deer,

see ya’ll next year with Christmas cheer!


Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH



CUPID AND THE BAD RAP

I didn’t do it!” claimed Cupid to the rest of the herd.

My alibi may be weak, but this is absurd!

Blaming me for restrictions I had no part in making

Because isolation and safe distancing now make partaking

In the usual treats left for us on each Christmas Eve

Will be missing and you can’t really believe

It’s because my trait is uniting friends - don’t be naïve!

Just because I like bringing people together

Doesn’t mean I caused infections making folks feel under the weather.

I’m innocent I tell you - just a reindeer facing the new rules

And aware that our carrots won’t be left for us during this Yule.

So don’t blame me and realize that we all must do without treats

And hope by next year the pandemic will be beat!


S. J. Little, Newbury NH



DECEMBER RAP

I live in a small town 

Pandemic is all around

Holidays are here, not easy to cheer

When there is so much fear.

WE all are having hard times

Blaming won’t solve this crime

No time for weeping or sleeping


I feel more alone, no family is near

I wear a mask and keep my distance

Rushing out to get supplies, I take a chance, 

Rushing home, to husband I’m losing

New challenges everyday, every wound oozing

No time to write or paint or play

No time to lend a helping hand to others

But I still worry about my sons and brothers


Today, I saw a deer print in the snow

Maybe the best part of this grey day

From this dark hole, I search for a small glow

Of warm light, I know it is here

I know it is here, I want to stay


Loa Winter, Newbury NH



REINDEER RAP

On Dancer, on Prancer

So the story goes

Urge those Reindeer

Through the snows


With a full sled

Laden with toys

For all the children

Girls and Boys


For Santa Claus

The bells do ring

It's holiday time

Let's all sing


The tree is decorated

The night is still

Merry Christmas to all

If you will


W. D. Tighe, New London NH



CHRISTMAS PEACE

A rare silence is the peace — a peace the world

Competes with in its struggle to breathe tranquility 

In this time of Christmas — when long ago —

A child lay in a manger bed amid donkeys and lambs.

A lone holly berry shivers in December’s cold —

Our season of hope to brighten the silence of Christmas.


Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH



REINDEER RAP

Santa’s the boss, he’s the man with the beard

who delivers the toys, you might have heard

if you’re good you get something, but not if you’re bad

that’s the way it goes, don’t be mad.

I’m second in command they call me Rudolph

my nose is red, hey, just get over it.

I’m first in line on Santa’s sleigh 

here are the others and how they sway.

Dancerand Prancer like to hang with the stars

Comet’sright with them, a streaker for sure.

Dasheris fast with a crush on Vixen

Blitzenlikes eggnog and is known to nip some.

Cupidloves Donner, but I am a loner

still waiting for a reindeer who likes my persona.

The elves have been working and need a break

the list is long for goodness sake.

We are ready to go so stop that chatter

start making those cookies, hey, we all like chocolate.


Mary Blohm, Newbury NH



IT’S ALL ABOUT CHOCOLATE

Not talkin bout death

Not talkin about pain

Everyone suffers

Won’t hear it again.


Everyone gains when 

They eat chocolate.

Chocolate, chocolate that’s my song,

Milk or dark salted with caramel

Kisses or bark it’s all I’m wantin.


Used to be vanilla when I was young

Plain and simple that was my song.

Then I switched to cherry, chips and cream

Saw the light and that was my dream.


Life got complicated things got brittle

Made a switch and it made things simple.

I’m talkin about chocolate,

Dark, light and salted.

Crunchy to the teeth, creamy to the taste,

Bitter sometimes but never a waste

Talkin about chocolate.


Mary Blohm, Newbury NH



(W)RAPPING UP CHRISTMAS

I’m staring out the window and I’m feeling kinda low

The icicles are dripping down onto the soggy snow

I remember “It’s December!--but it doesn’t feel the same

‘Cause this is 2020 and darn’ COVID is to blame.


You say your morning’s lonely—and you’re lonely in the night

You’re lonely every afternoon—yo, hope you are all right.

You’re sick of all the masking—and you’re sick of eating beans

you’re sick of black and white and gray instead of reds and greens.


I won’t look out the window—all that soggy frozen stuff

I’m gonna play some music—even “Rudolph” is enough.

I’m gonna bake a fragrant cake-- jot you a Christmas card

and send you wrapped-up packages—and love—that isn’t hard.


Let’s all go out and find a tree and light it red and green

and put it in the window for its beauty to be seen.

And then from every window there’ll shine a vison bright

as all the world rejoices still—in miracles of light.


Joan T. Doran, New London NH



REINDEER RAP

The reindeer are refusing to saddle up and do their task

Cuz Santa absolutely won’t comply and wear his mask

The reindeer explain the viral reality they all are facing

Come on, oh Christmas Dude, just imagine contact tracing!


Reconstruct a Christmas Eve of a Covid Santa bringing gifts?

No mo’ ho-ho, homie, we’ll be antler-deep in global rifts

But Santa is determined to present his well-known face 

And the reindeer are refusing to vacate their parking space


Rudolph intercedes and pokes his (red) nose in the matter

Rudy knows he must do more than compliment and flatter

Convince the guy in the Santa Suit, “Mask up before the flight!”

He does what comes most naturally, for Rudy hates to fight


Rudy convinces Santa to wear a mask adorned with bling

Santa sees he now looks like a young and dapper thing

Santa’s vanity in tact, and reindeer ready to take flight 

We hear our blinged-out Santa sing, “And to all a good night!”


Catherine A. Feeney, Durham NH



FAREWELL MR. TAMBOURINE MAN

 (the answer is blowin' in the wind)

 (Bob Dylan)

At the corner of a busy intersection the faithful gather.

Still. Asking drivers, honk your horn, and waving

flags and banners into the wind of traffic as if to wipe 

away reality. Walking down the street to a quiet

neighborhood, headphones on, Cesaria Evora sings

em busca di um futuro. An old man with very long

clippers cuts up small palms, and behind an empty

house sits a lonely pink Our Lady, her shell protecting

her from the late morning sun. The poem about houses

on a Florida street, abrupt in the middle, was only a

pigeon to carry a message in its epigraph and the last

line. Those words by a long-admired artist who now,

like Esau, sells his rights, his songbook, for use in

selling cars, soaps or shoes.


Bob Manchester



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