Poetry of the Lake Sunapee Region

Literary Events

Monthly Selections by Local Poets

This year's theme

"Beauty in Diversity"

In collaboration with the

Mt Kearsarge Indian Museum

learn more

Monthly Selections by Local Poets

Poetry by the John Hay Society

Selected each month and published in the InterTown Record

this month's poems below

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

winning poems here

September Poems

PURPLE POLITICS

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THE LOST G & T

We say Fishin

When we mean Fishing

We say Huntin

When we mean Hunting

We say Swimmin

When we mean Swimming

We drop the G

Easier you see

We say Budder

When we mean Butter

We say Lader

When we mean Later

We say Wader

When we mean Water

Our T's are amiss

Why is this?

W. D. Tighe, New London NH

REMEMBRANCE

Intermittent August showers hovered over

Beautiful Otsego Lake in Cooperstown, New York.

There our family gathered for a Celebration

Of Life at Glimmerglass State Park Pavillion.

In an empty park, twenty of us shared this tranquil place -

Some coming from as far away as France.

Our pent up emotions played out – some renewed in

Quiet corners of the heart – others spoken in fond

Remembrances of our loved one - a husband,

Father, brother, uncle, and friend.

Cellphone cameras clicked between the words

For pictures to hold the moments for another time.

Memory boards and photo albums lay on a

Table for those who chose to reflect in silence.

In mid-afternoon, the sun shone through the heavy

Rain-filled clouds bringing us a sign of peace to

Quiet our hearts and let us know that all is well.

The parting family goodbyes belong in history,

Though our loving memories will remain in our hearts –

Never to be taken away.

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH

GOING NOT YET GONE

HL Mencken knew it well

there’s no present like the past

no good lessons ever learned

nothing lingers, nothing lasts.

Think of self-rule think again

think of founding fathers

watch as freedom’s chipped away

like nothing really matters.

Look to Constitutional rights

granted by our Maker

watch them fade as people fail

to comprehend their nature.

Freedom is our birthright yet

many do not know it

future generations count on us

to safeguard then bestow it.

David Balford, New London NH

IT’S STILL HERE

I still have it, thank goodness, it’s still here

But it often gets lost every now and then.

I am lucky I find it and try to hold it near

When other things, on a scale of 1 to 10,

Remind me it’s not quite so bad as yet

As aging, which the cause most certainly is,

Is a common issue for which I’m grateful, not to let

It become my main focus in this daily living biz.

Now, then, what is this topic I’m expounding about?

Seems it’s flittered away leaving me in doubt.

Oh, yes, I recall, after a modest time delay

It’s my mind that is trying to run away!

S. Little, Newbury NH

“SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING NOT YET LOST”

My Mind

Keen as a newly-sharpened pocket knife,

Dull as a missed, unbuffed diamond—

Wandering like a stray cat, hunting forever.

My Sanity

I often wonder if it is in the form of a Frisbee,

Manmade, aerodynamic, throwable/catchable, losable—

Fun to play with until too many hands get to it.

My Self

Raw as a scuffed knee or naked-foot on gravel,

Unpredicted as a first, fluffy, snowfall—

Ornery as a cowboy in love with an Indian.

My Heart

I often wonder if it is in the form of a Boomerang,

Manmade, aerodynamic, throwable/dangerous, losable—

Fun to play with until too many hands get to it.

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH

“Searching for Something Not Yet Lost” (prompt by Dianalee Velie for September 12, 2022) created 8/24/2022 4:30 a.m.

DECISIVE DECADES

she thought she lost it in the restrictive 50’s

but found it flourishing at a Grateful Dead

concert in the early 60’s only to lose it again

later in the decade to the summer of love

and a run away marriage. In motherhood

she found herself glowing in the 70’s

longing to fulfill an emptiness

in the 80’s she resorted back to poetry,

losing herself during the 90’s in the traffic

and pretense of a New York City booming bedroom

community she began spending more time

in New Hampshire and Vermont

making the 90’s a ping-pong decade

setting the stage for a big move at the start

of the New Millennium by wrapping herself

in the gentle mountains of the small

New Hampshire town of Newbury and in

the sunbaked land of Santa Croce di Camerina,

Sicily here she found solace after the horrible

murdersof 3 close family members realizing

she had spent too much time searching

for something that was not yet lost

she would continue finding herself over

and over forever and again until the end

loving the connections of family and friends

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

NOT YET LOST

Look deep into trees

follow the black crow

across sky too blue

think of galloping

waist high through

grass, a tail of grass

tied to your waist.

Not yet lost but

paths are becoming

entangled. I hear

trees whispering,

crows cawing,

grass neighing.

It’s like an upturned

coffee cup

that leaves

a hot stain

spreading

across the table top

dark at first

it will event-

ually fade.

Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT

SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING NOT YET LOST

Gather at the table

Sit

Invite other to join

Settle

Keep silent and still

Breathe

Dare to be open

Laugh

Feed the fragile bonds of community

Talk

Conversation tastes best around a kitchen table.

Savor

The moon so close in the morning sky

Witness

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

SEARCHING FOR MYSELF

The Black and White Photo reveals

An ankle dusted by a ruffle

Bare feet scaling a granite slab

I’m six

My first petticoat

swishing around my bare legs

Walking at dusk

along the path

through the pines

Happy to twirl

Silky cotton brocade

my mother insisted

be worn under my white dress

I could be carefree

in this small space between my parents

Feeling giddy to slip

the skin of the linebacker

my father insisted was my destiny.

Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH

SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING NOT YET LOST

If I knew what it was, I might not be

writing about something I don’t think

I need, but may want to have. An

unease that broods in my bones and

boggles my balance, sitting like an extra

sweater over my shoulders, tied in a knot

bumping against my heart, cracking my

concentration just as thunder splits

a stillness I cannot quite see but know

has changed with no consequences other

than a scrambling for the sense of it

and an apprehension that some

aspect could be irrevocably lost.

Before it was ever truly known.

Pat Witney, Sunapee NH

SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING NOT YET LOST

Beside

the still waters:

dragon fly, blue heron,

waterlilies, flashing minnows—

Find them, before

they’re gone

Joan T. Doran

New London, NH

July Poems

PATIENCE LOVES A BROOK

With taking one’s time, we are returning

Time—like the snow-melted brooks

And the spirals achieved in Nature.

Each creature, wild, unbroken; the winged

Ones, the antlered, the scale-bearers,

And the swimmers, from flowers to fungi,

Time allows them all to circle around.

Be gentle as a newt strolling across moss,

The greenhorn hiding in the thicket,

The otters at play, the butterfly drinking.

Give them your time and let them take theirs.

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH

HOW TO CAPTURE A HUMMINGBIRD

Brushes and paint are the tools

the hummingbird is your muse.

Hear the hum, before you see

a flash of neon color.

When it hovers this tiny cyclone

whirls in perpetual motion.

How to capture it?

Paint one wing up, the other down?

The red tipped beak is long and sharp

pointed to suck the sap.

Intent on the target, highlight the eye,

it is bold and focused.

The underbelly is soft and downy

a stippled blur of feathers.

Quick, before it darts away,

ring the neck with a metallic band.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

PEACE IN SOLITUDE

Into the woods I go to vent my thoughts

And nurture my isolation from the hectic world.

I hear the rushing creek water cascading over

Polished stones, it’s rhythm competing with

The song of a Northern Mockingbird.

I walk until a flat rock beckons me to sit.

My tired legs welcome the rest.

I am barely seated when I hear the clear notes

Of the Mockingbird’s concert, one of 200 songs.

Mother Nature brings us exquisite beauty,

And a needed peace we find in solitude.

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH

LUSTER OF THE FADING SHADOW

They say our seawall’s rotting at its base—

If so, will brackish tide

flood our now sweet-flowing brook?

Could oysters seed vast colonies

where now the untamed rainbow leaps—

Would that news flash through the world?

Would armed drones surround the spot?

Would the President then helicopter in?

Because, of course, insurgent oyster beds

could offer pearls, and monetizers

could arrive: there could be

claims and franchises to think about

Now, though, the tide

still rises and still falls

beyond the seawall’s boundary—

Near at hand clear sunlight

skitters on the brook—for how much longer

can we stand here at the edge

and revel in the trout’s wild fire

before the shadow of its luster

fades with the last of Eden’s light?

Joan Doran, New London NH

LIFE IN LITTLE BROOK

Its source is from the granite hills

deep within the forest

sometimes just a trickle

gurgling twixt rock and root and pebble.

Sometimes roaring with fury found in

the mighty old Columbia,

sweeping branches whole and small downstream

in gnashing torrents

that make me shudder.

Sanctuary to a million squirming, crawly things

that traverse its banks and brave its rapids

that sweep its basin like a good neighbor gleaning fields

creating home among the ferns that line its rugged shore.

Resting place to the lovely Herron that stands aloft

straight upon a spindly leg, the other leg cocked in graceful angle

blue and black and shiny feathered bird it splashes

in the pool to cleanse itself and drink the water that

nourishes its body like its presence nourishes my soul.

David Balford, New London NH

SILVER BROOK

Silver is a sound

clear as running water

dreamily wandering

wondering

wordlessly

murmuring.

Silver is the light

on stones and rocks

settled along creek bottom

feeling the pull and tug

the rise and fall

of seasons.

Silver Brook’s music is in

the playful otters

the watching owl

elusive buck in velvet

foraging black bear

the flowers and

mushrooms and mosses

reverberating the melodies

echoing in air

the trees

my mind

bringing

peaceful

repose.

Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT

SILVER BROOK POLLUTION

I'll fetch thee Brooks

From spotted nooks-

E.D.

Sitting through 12th grade Lit. in early June drowning in

babbling brookspoetry. Tennyson, Spenser, Longfellow -

like the stream of life, flashing and flashing, leaning birches -

thinking only of Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Vachel Lindsay and

boomlay, boomlay, rag-time tune. Those ancient sparkling water

poems not Matisse or Cezanne, only from Sunday painters.

Old ladies in their smocks perched on the edge of public parks.

To talk of water, streams and rivers, in a poetic, non-sophomoric

way, look to Jane Kenyon's April Walk or Beaver Pool in December.

She is gone from us, but perhaps she and Leonard Cohen can look

to a more remote spot in NH and from its water spring a poet who

once time-traveled in Arizona, and she can paint babbling brooks

into Degas and Hoppers.

Robert Manchester, Concord NH

SILVER BROOK

Your love ripples over me, smoothing,

polishing my rough, rocky edges until

they are as flat and shiny as ancient river-

bed rocks in harmony with crystal water.

Your love, as clear as the Silver Brook’s,

flow, calms me with persistent persuasion

while we walk hand and hand along

the trail with no destination in mind.

Your love is as gentle as the female deer

who crosses our path, while my love

is as clumsy as the black bear, dazed

and hungry after winter’s long hibernation.

Your love frees me to frolic like the otters

in the spring fed pond and to gaze in awe

as flora and fauna spring to life around us

in our own local version of Paradise.

Ripples and rocks, water and stone

united for eternity.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

A FRIENDLY STREAM

Flowing waters slowly trickling down

Bring sweet dreams to those in need

How serene a venue as thoughts develop

The scenario is delightful indeed

Colorful flowers dot the landscape

Multi hued mushrooms all around

Cavorting Otters play in the water

Imposing Dog and Deer abound

Salamanders to complete the scene

A wise old Owl to provide wisdom

Waterfalls a myriad of different shapes

Small animals caressing their kingdom

Autumn approaches foliage colors arrive

Winter comes with its white snow replete

Soft music to accompany the journey

Our voyage through the woods complete

W. D. Tighe, New London NH

June Poems

HAWKER AND HAWK

The spark of awareness,

like an inferno,

fires consciousness.

The art of Hawking is from yore,

from knights and swords and ladies.

A Hawker takes a small being that gives

over its soul, but willingly.

Yet isn’t that what we all

do when we fall in Love?

The dance, the flight of Love.

To look into other’s eyes, one

soul to another, Lover to Lover

is the feeling of being swept away

to somewhere, a slight seasickness,

vertigo, unease, and yet safe. It is in

the touch that the awareness is.

The Hawk can feel through the fist

the Hawker’s intent, can sense longing

and fly out another’s vision.

The Hawker can see through the Hawk’s eyes

the illuminated landscape, and feel the bliss

in the chase and the kill.

I can marvel at that transfer of power

from one to the other, from a brain as light

as feathers to our human one, a consciousness

of one mind to another.

La divina commedia, baked in

Italian sun and Vesuviun fire,

burns with knowledge and simmers in sin

with humble Dante as the prior.

We all deserve his lowly Hell.

Lover, Hawker, Hawk conspire

to dispel fear and goodness swell.

In this world of earthly ties between person and

bird, they are held together with a long jess

of gossamer like a jellyfish’s tendrils

swimming through liquid sky.

We can feel the pull and release, the tug

of heartstrings from one to the other, and

wonder at the spark that flies between

as we can wander in our human bounds

no stronger or weaker than the hawk’s jess

tying us to another person, as Donte is tied to

his unrequited Love.

It is the first untethered flight of the Hawk

away from the Hawker, and Lover to Lover

that are our own allegories. Once is

a miracle, over and over is Paradiso.

No movement, no being is ever lost.

If a thought can move a mountain or

a small bird or another person,

their natures will take wings.

Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT

WAS IT FATE OR A MIRACLE?

Imagine life in Boston with the city at your fingertips.

I was a happy senior in college, awaiting my entrance

Into the outside world where my future lay.

On a warm June evening I received an invitation.

A sorority sister was having a house party.

My busy days in school had left little time for partying.

Doubts about going danced in my head, though not for long.

To this day, I question – was the evening fate or a miracle?

Once upon the crowded living room dance floor,

Blue eyes looked my way as a tall, handsome senior

Glided towards me, and the rest is history - 42 years of bliss!

Was the spark that lit the fire fate or a miracle?

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH

THE SPARK

I am the spark that caused the Inferno

to be written,

the spur that sent ten young adults to the country

to tell ten tales a day,

the flash of a handsome lad’s reflection in a pond

turning him into a flower.

Dante, Boccaccio and Ovid honored me

with these great works: Divine Comedy, Decameron, Metamorphosis,

strokes of genius.

Leonardo da Vinci worshipped me daily, excited

by every new thought.

I am available to everyone, I wait patiently

to inspire

I am the catalyst of greatness begging

not to be ignored.

I am the masterpiece awaiting creation

I am any idea given form.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

REVERSING ENTROPY

Entropy is the process of renown

that makes the world grind down.

The stuff you buy will soon be found

discarded and no longer sound;

thermodynamics says it’s chaos bound.

What was so orderly and bright

marches steadily toward rust and blight.

At the dump on Saturday how much loot

Is bent, broken, or no longer brute?

That’s the dedicated work of entropy!

Stuff is by manufacturers designed

to soon leave the world of worth behind,

and causes you to buy anew;

that is what they hope you’ll do.

Now all the stuff that goes to the dump,

a place of metals, appliances, and stump,

is destined to be nothing but landfill and lump,

‘til you rescue a real prize from the sump.

The town’s generous bent toward philanthropy,

a somewhat distorted kind of therapy,

will let you the proud new owner be

reversing the strange disease of entropy.

Dan H. Allen, New London NH

I AM THE SPARK

>>>

>>> Ash touches cinder

>>> Awakening embers

>>> Embers nudge char

>>> On angry white coals

>>>

>>> But I am the spark

>>> That ignited the inferno

>>> So I own the power

>>> While they become smut

>>>

>>> I am the spark

>>> That ignited the inferno

>>> So I get the kudos

>>> While they become moot

>>>

>>> I am the spark

>>> That ignited the inferno

>>> So I set the boundaries

>>> Step back or get burnt

>>>

Catherine A. Feeney, Durham NH

GENESIS

--“I am the spark that caused the inferno”,

from The Spark, by Dianalee Velie

I am the spark that set off the inferno.

I am a dragon roaring flames across the sky.

I am the field mouse sensing shadow of dark wings

before the mortal stab of talons.

I am the menace felt through stomach’s pit,

the throat, the heart, the soul.

I hear imposters come: they mark their way—

slow-grinding of the cyber-gears, disguise

for guarded code: Two trucks in tandem—

two drivers seated high enough to hide identity—

I know they are not only two, but legion.

I shroud my secrets, sensing ambush,

moving through my obscure paths

past traps, defying furtive plots.

My arms are ranged invisibly,

my trove is waiting, loaded, aimed.

I am field mouse grown huge with rage,

I am the threat sensed in remote highways,

bred amidst decay, festering in echo chambers—

I am abandonment in wilderness—

I am the fire-spewing dragon, blasting flame

into defenseless face of innocence.

I am the pain aimed at a world whose back is turned.

I am the burned-out heart.

I am the shattered soul.

-Joan T. Doran, New London, NH

May Poems

BLOSSOMS AND BABY BUDS

The month of May

Will soon arrive

Blossoms and Buds

No doubt will thrive

Best florals in life

Are to be relished

Time to rejoice

Buds be embellished

Flowers will soon bloom

Bright colors will abound

New garden growths

Will rule all around

Nature's fine ways

Are marvelous indeed

To be enjoyed by all

As in life we proceed

W. D. Tighe, New London NH

GRATUITOUS GARDENERS

Sunshine, then melting snow from warm rain,

has turned our backyard lawn soggy, inviting

a squadron of earth worms to escape

their underground bunkers and squirm

above ground. This maneuver, detected

by a regiment of robins, caused an orgy

of gorging birds to stuff themselves then

put on a show of sexual mating worthy

of a biblical narrative. This morning assures

us our naturally aerated land will produce

a plethora of blossoms and baby birds in May

due to the generosity of God’s gratuitous gardeners.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

BLOSSOMS AND BABIES

Don’t babies make you

just blossom into a bouquet

of heavily scented flowers

And force you to

burst into a blooming smile

of pure pleasure

Don’t babies utterly

Fill your inner being

with joy and contentment

And with the sweet

cooing sounds of

the magnificence of life.

Anne Sarkisian, New London NH

CHASING BUBBLES

Shiny spheres reflect inside

floating rainbow prisms hide

freed to soar with any breeze.

Hear the children laughing.

Bubbles caught in slippery hands

burst when touched or reach a branch

soapy mess wiped on clothes

Hear the children laughing.

Wave of wand and breath of air

dip in the bottle once again

fragile orbs not meant to last

Hear the children laughing.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

BLOSSOMS AND BABIES

In February 1950

my first baby brother was born.

I went to the funeral home with Mother.

We were sad but we did not cry.

The baby was perfect in everyway

But he was a ‘Blue Baby’

In our old photo, I am handing a blossom

to my second baby brother, Don.

My brother was 2 and I was 12.

Mother looked happy.

In February, many years later when I was in labor

with my first son. Mother left me to go to the kitchen

to make coffee. She was expecting it to be a long night.

Reflecting on our experience, that February night

I remember how anxious she was

As my labor pains increased.

She worried about me, as she must have

been reflecting on her own labor pains

with her first baby boy.

In my Mother’s time, she was taught

to hold in the tears, be strong., be brave.

Now we know more about grieving

It is helpful to express our sorrow

It’s O.K. to cry and to begin to heal.

Loa Winter, Newbury NH

DIVIDENDS

Good things fall all around me like ripe fruit:

armfuls of babies, each with peach-skin cheeks;

songbirds who sing heart’s words when I am mute;

a bear and cubs who pause to cross the creek.

I’m finding jewels and ermine in the snow,

clusters of diamonds, strings of pearls at night.

Curtains of magic rise when wet winds blow:

showers of apple blossoms drifting in new light.

There was a time I locked things in a box,

a hoard of treasures I could count upon,

I opened it to find flowers dried to rocks,

and images I saved were ghosts and gone.

So now, when random wonders come, I greet

and celebrate those windfalls at my feet.

Joan T Doran, New London, NH

MOTHERS DAY 2022

On this day, I am the head mother of my family –

A woman born from her mother’s womb and who

Inherited the family traits from our mothers –

Those women who lived in past years – women

Who blossomed and met the challenges of their days.

They were mothers, grandmothers, and great -

Grandmothers spanning eight generations —

Mothers who took pride in their many children –

Pride in life’s values.

On this day, I am the head mother of my family.

In silence I bond with the mothers I never knew,

Though I search the library and Internet for stories

In the hope of bringing to light my mothers and their past.

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London, NH

BABIES AND BLOSSOMS

Pansies or faces, dimples and all

line the walk in violet and yellow.

One winks, her rosy mouth an ‘o’

of simpering coyness. Another calls

across the murmuring heads and twirls

and nods in the breeze, a whisper

as she bends and sways to her sisters

in petticoats bouncing like a baby’s curls.

We sit them safely on our knees

to play a game of peek-a-boo

or snuggle or a coochie-coo.

A flower or baby, whichever you please

is soft as cotton candy, and sweet.

Their freshness floats through spring.

We hold tenderly to what they bring

though the season for both is fleet.

Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT

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

January Poems

MEMORIES BY THE MONTH

Wintergreen schnappes January

Deep dark chocolate February

Hearty beef stew March

Easter Eggs April

Cinco de Mayo Feast May

Strawberry Shortcake June

Grilled burgers & hot dogs July

Lemony lemonade August

Apple crisp September

Pumpkin pie October

Gobble, gobble November

Gingerbread December

Catherine A. Feeney, Durham NH

WHERE I LIVE THROUGHOUT THE YEAR

January’s house is an ice-clad branch

Struck with the sun’s cold fire

February’s house is paper lace

Closeted with cinnamon, chocolate-edged

Winds tunnel through my house of March

Uprooting darkness, making snowdrops dance

In April, I nest in a tulip cup, cheered

By the robin’s burble, touched by zephyrs

I share May’s soft days with fields of buttercups

That swarm and buzz with flitting things

In June’s rare days, my home blooms emerald,

neath canopies of perfect, newborn leaves—bright green

July parades through my front yard with sun bouquets

And lights night skies with rainbowed blooms of fire

In August, perched beside the molting birds,

I feel nights cool, as insect orchestras begins their din

September cloaks still mornings in its misty scarves

That later melt into the golden sunlight of my lakeside path

October brings me home to roost amidst a pumpkin row—

A scarecrow, or a skeleton—can you tell who I am?

November’s house is stuffed with onions, sage--

Leave room for slabs of family love and thankfulness

December’s house is wrapped in swaddling clothes

Warmed by the soft breath of beasts, and lighted by a star

Joan T Doran, New London NH

THE OPPOSITE CALENDAR

I’d like to see a calendar that begins in October,

The original, Celtic/pagan New Year; perhaps,

A photo of Ray Bradbury, cheering-on Dandelion Wine.

From here, November is all about food: the harvest

To keep us for the coming months, December, January,

February, and March. In January, I want to see

Richard Brautigan trout fishing on his birthday and eating

His favorite watermelon. In February, I want to see

Barbeques and lemonade; a photo of Sylvia Plath,

all smiles and tanned on a hot-sand beach.

April must remind us of last April…winter isn’t over.

May remains the month of flowers. June, how about

An enlarged photo of the June-bug, forcing its body into

A porch-lit window. July can host an evening of fireflies.

In the highs of August-heat, I want snowballs and icicles.

By September, day light fades; I want a photo of lit-candles.

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH

THREE TREES

January

evening skies are

red against the leafless trees.

Februaryis bright with snow that

lights the way to March and movement towards

brighter days with April showers, more rain than snow.

We know

May

is on the

way, however

slowly she walks. By

Juneit may be safe to plant

our gardens or maybe not but in July

sun and colors rule with flowers and fruits and

warmth.

begin to

see changes in

Augustas leaves blush

with September. October is

harvest and color’s last hurrah ending

in russets of November. Dark December

comes to give us rest and peace and Christmas

trees.

Jennie Pollard, Windsor, VT

TIME FOR THE BUBBLY

Last year was dreadful,

no way to recork it.

Farewell to failed resolutions.

This time I vow to begin

only with celebrations.

Cheers!

January arrives with an Omicron pop.

Our trip is canceled and we must stay home.

Only two bottles of bubbly remain.

Being prepared, I order a case.

Cheers!

The snow moon rises,

the frozen lake groans.

Dark comes early leaving a void.

I pour a flute of Veuve Clicquot.

It’s “a party in your mouth.”

Cheers!

March and April slowly pass,

mud season comes and goes.

As if by magic Spring arrives.

Friends return and I say with glee,

“Take off your mask,

I need to see you.”

Cheers!

May, June, and July, it’s time to try

Extra Brut Sensation 1999.

It’s organic, sustainable, biodynamic,

and hints of apple, lemon, and mushroom.

I toast the bounty and all vegetation.

Cheers!

August flies by like a kite on a string,

pulling this way and that with family and friends.

September turns chilly and I feel melancholy.

I have the sniffles but it’s only a cold.

Cheers!

Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas are a blur,

keeping our full attention.

To my surprise a year has passed.

I met my goals, toasting.

Farewell til next year.

We begin again.

Cheers!

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

CALENDAR GIRL

Passionate in the heat of July, my mother

watched him leave for the Philippines.

Miss May, his pin up poster girl, she

sent him sweets to eat in December.

She gave thanks next November for his letters,

after an October scare of malaria silence.

An autumnal blush on her cheeks,

years later in September she wed.

Pregnant with April’s promise,

she gifted him a baby girl

on Father’s Day in June.

With eyes as dry as August grass

and as icy cold as January ice,

she buried my father

on a blustery day in March,

dressed in fiery Valentine red,

February’s final gift.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury, NH

THE TWELVE MONTHS

For ice skating, skiing,

snow sculptures, ice hockey,

January and February are perfect

March brings seasonal rains

springtime flower growth generating

thoughts for the new season

My, my, my, what nice names

for the ladies - very popular

April, May and June

July and August produce

warm sunny days, at least in the

northern hemisphere

Colorful foliage pervades our

September and October,

brightly blanketing our countryside

November and December are, of course,

holiday time to appreciate family, life and

pursuit of happiness

Spring, summer, autumn and winter

all to be thoroughly enjoyed

W. D. Tighe, New London NH

Download PDF

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.

eat

lunch

outside

happily.

Red

tomatoes

shout

sun

ripen.

Birds

fly

daily

above

greedy.

Green

leaves

tossed.

Bowls

clap.

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 of the Lake Sunapee Region

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Dan H. Allen, New London NH

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February Poems

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Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

Poetry published each month in the InterTown Record

WHY MOTHER NEVER LEARNED TO SWIM