"Visual Verse" Collections:
The Fells
The Ripple Effects
Snapshots in Time
Diversity is Beauty
Rooted in New Hampshire
Visit The NH Poet Laureate Poetry Path
in Newbury, NH
Visit the Fells Gallery Exhibit
"The Artist's Eye and the Poet's Words"
Read poetry by Local Poets Below
selected each month and published
in the InterTown Record
Standing L-R: Dianalee Velie, Contest Coordinator, Autumn Simoneau, Sign Language interpreter, Melanic Chicoine, Contest Judge, Cynthia Knorr, First Place Adult Winner, Pat Tivnan, Third Place Adult Winner
Seated L-R: Brenna Manuel, Second Place Adult Winner, Miriam Talcott, Elementary School First Place WInner.
SPRING FEVER
Last night I had a troubling dream.
High in a beech sat a camouflaged nest
of spider silk, moss and green lichen.
Two little hummingbirds darted,
wings beating frantically lest they fell
in search of nectar but finding none.
I awoke unsettled, determined to plant
beebalm, petunias, and trumpet vines,
baskets of lantana and fuchsia, then hang
a shiny red feeder with sweetened water.
I fell back asleep then dreamed once more of
gloves and rakes, spades, and hoes midst
leaves and twigs and pinecones.
I cried out “wait, I am not ready yet.”
And awoke knowing what was awry.
It’s that time of year and my diagnosis
a wicked case of Spring Fever.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
WELCOMING THE LIGHT
An arc of daylight creates a happy smile
grinning from 6AM to 6PM. The sunlight
melts any remaining snow freeing water
to seep into the ground, quenching earth’s
thirst, softening the soil, awakening roots
and bulbs from a long winter’s slumber.
The lost hour of sleep in March is stashed
away with winter doldrums into the closet
along with down jackets and snow boots.
Flip-flops are dusted off as bouquets
of seed catalogues propagate the mail
with colorful blossoms and basketball fans’
enthusiasm rises like the temperatures
as March Madness has them filling
in brackets trying to predict game outcomes
as to what teams will rise to the Final Four.
Debutante daffodils’ graciously come out
their fluted yellow cups drinking in sunlight
like champagne, welcoming the light with
a cotillion of golden beauties dancing with the wind.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
ODE TO LIGHT
We measure you in lumens, watts, volts,
and insert you into filaments.
We think we contain you, but we don’t.
We see seven colors and their shadings,
and arrange you neatly in a wheel.
We think we describe you, but we don’t.
You cannot be created or destroyed,
You act as a wave and a particle.
We think we understand you, but we don’t.
You would laugh, if you could.
You weren’t born, you exploded.
A single point, hot and dense, thrust you out into a great nothing.
You surround us, always with us, even when hidden.
Our minds cannot grasp you.
.
Paula Minaert, New London NH
WHEN THE LIGHT RETURNS
When the light returns
Winter's icy grip slackens
The eternal contest lost
Stonewalls sheltered
Under frozen mantles
Like rounded helmets now exposed
Stand sentry, lining the Muster fields
Their wintery-white blankets
Warming, yielding, greening under
Cathy Chesley
IN THE MORNING LIGHT
In the morning light, geraniums
Poised on the kitchen sill
Reach to kiss the window glass
Old house cat in tuxedo
Stretches slowly, blissfully
In the worn wing chair
Warming, her jet-black fur
Shining, sun-kissed, ever sleepy
Cathy Chesley
SPRING EQUINOX
Vernal pools thawing, greening
With the Spring Equinox
Waiting, welcoming spring peepers,
Mating, salamanders sliding
Like the bees in the hive stirring
Frenzied workers fanning
The queen, her brood morphing
Alive, preparing to take flight
To swarm with the warm light
Like the black bear with cub beside
Lumbering out from the dense dark woods
To the lake's frozen edge, now receding
Winter's thirst slaked
Drinking deep, warming deep
On the sunlit sand
At the edge of the lake
Cathy Chesley (3 poems) North Sutton NH
WELCOMING THE LIGHT
The whisper roars inside the dark,
promising the bud, the lark.
The ray will shine its gift of light,
awakening from winter’s night.
Still the cold, stark rests upon
vacant meadow, frozen pond,
yet, hearts yearn for opening,
a softening, what thaw will bring.
Underneath the surges grow,
offering spring seeds to sow,
as sky frees raindrops from flakes,
greenery, as earth partakes.
Patsy Barrett-King, Newport NH
THE BOLT
I lay on the creeper,
staring into the abyss,
trying to see the bolt,
that I somehow missed.
I open the hood,
welcome in the light.
I can see it,
but it’s just too tight.
If I had a joint,
between elbow and wrist,
it would be easy,
I’d just reach up and twist.
But, the gods need pain;
a lot of cussing;
a stripped bolt head;
blood a’gushing.
So I grab the wrench,
gnash my teeth,
prepare for pain,
and roll underneath.
Douglas King, Newport NH
OUR TRACKS VANISH
Disappear into time
Betray our longing
For making a mark
This morning
I drove into a wash of spring light
Settled into the day
Alive in that moment
Grace kissed my cheek
Disappeared
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
SUNRISE
OCEAN BOULEVARD
RYE , NEW HAMPSHIRE
Before the first rays of light can warm our bodies
Discomforting cold winds strike our faces,
Raising doubts we will witness this sunrise.
At first a red line stretched across the horizon,
Undercutting layers of clouds
Casting a faint light on a lobster boat (It's captain hoping for a payable catch.)
Silhouetting the Isles of Shoals,
And faintly outlining sea gulls drifting in the wind.
Restless with night being in charge
Mother nature's curtain rises on this endless play.
This intense fiery globe catches us off guard,
Winking at us with it's grand entrance
Some mistake it for a signal from an imaginary lighthouse.
Crisp fall colors blended and surrounded this emerging fireball
Intent on fulfilling it's destiny.
This celestial body enters it's realm
Infused with the energy of creation.
Horizon's clouds now disburses the suns rays to all intended parties,
Blanketing the rumbling sea,
Waking the land,
And stirring sleepy eyed people.
Finally, this giver of life, towers over horizons clouds,
Brilliant with dazzling celestial colors-reds, orange, golds and violent yellows
Igniting a fresh day which has happened a trillion times before,
But so new to us.
tom keegan, Bristol NH
LIGHT MELTS WINTER
I can see sun shining through
the woodpile. It is nearing the end
of February and cold. From the other
side I see the shadow of our morning
wood fire in the snow and I wonder what
the chickens are thinking as they look
up at me.
Light is thin. Sky goes on and on.
Shadows move as if alive, as if they
are a parallel universe with no color,
no blue jays puffed up against the cold,
no glow reflecting back from tree trunks
or into their delicate fingers reaching
for eternity.
From the window I watch as light
melts winter, dripping from the roof,
leaving brown patches across the ground.
Chickens tiptoe to find emerging bugs
and shift from one foot to another,
fluffed up feathers warming their
dinosaur feet.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
UNTIL NEXT ROUND
Farewell
mornings we open
our eyelids
and remain behind
them in the dark.
Thank you
for reminding us
how to balance.
Farewell
hours of dormancy
in snow and ice.
Thank you
for reminding us
how to be grateful
come planting
and harvest.
Farewell
hibernation-quiet
that hides wildlife
and keeps us home.
Thank you
for helping us
appreciate our lives.
Amber rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
WELCOMING THE LIGHT
Desultory landscape drapes the lonely night
in somber midnight sorrow,
Framing winter’s sedentary void
in velvet crape drawn shadow.
Lo, there is a whisper of dawn
neath heaven’s, diamond speckled skyway,
A solitary beam of God-sent light that separates the Earth from night
and welcomes then the day.
We wait for it to be, as if in infinite dream
neither light nor dark nor any in-between,
Then – suddenly it appears
the promised light of creation – God’s breath amidst our fears.
The world welcomes dawn in silent reflection
as promised by the prophets,
Once spoken loud and clear in darkness
now shines, across the universe.
David Balford, New London NH
SPRING
The sharp cold
No longer in bones
On the flesh.
It bites. It excites.
Anticipation.
Feathered friends
Calling
Seeking companions.
Listen and watch.
But it is the light that calls
Promising warmth, longer days
Bringing hope, a new season.
Warmth, face to the sun
Blinking, smiling
Welcoming the light.
Jane White, New London
Seedling
I am whole
Yet in the dark
Struggling against the shell.
Legs burrowing downward
To settle in the earth.
My strength abounds with urgency
Moving upwards to the surface.
There I emerge
Welcoming the light.
Jane White, New London
State of the Nation
The devil walks among us
His minions close behind
The goal to create chaos
The truth is hard to find.
The devil walks among us
Lies, hate and doubt
Despair, fear and dismay
Follow him about.
Our allies fear our chaos
Trust worthy we remain?
The world is silently watching
Mostly with disdain.
Good men are among us
Their heads are hung with shame
Is this the America we promised
Our children would remain?
Good men are among us
Their silence hurts us all
Speak out against the devil
The duty of us all.
The hopeful walk among us
Dreaming of a future bright
They hold our future closely
With hopes of welcoming the light.
Jane White, New London (3 poems)
DESPITE APPEARANCES
Snow last night—
We measure half a foot, and sigh.
Birds, though,
trace spirals through translucent clouds
and joyous, measure trees for nests.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
WRY TOAST
I reluctantly salute
this quaggy quaff of grit and gray
in its cloudy glass,
as your once-beaming eye pours rain again.
Old Sol, Here’s mud in your lie.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
GEORGE WASHINGTON – REMEMBRANCE
Farmer, gentleman, Founding Father,
Soldier, statesman, éminence grise,
He who served when called, when strength was needed
who volunteered to lead us forth.
Revolutionary, citizen, confounder to the King
Patriot general to his army, he suffered winter’s sting,
Leader of our infant nation, setting precedent
teaching those who followed after, how to be President.
That he might die for others to live
Is not a time for sorrow,
He spent his life, his time on Earth
for nation, for tomorrow.
Two centuries after he has passed
he’s treated with respect,
Recalling his example set
we follow it, lest we forget.
David Balford, New London NH
GEORGE REMINISCES
He sits quietly and ponders, rubbing his jaw
Thinking of the tales with something of awe…
‘How can my teeth – or serious lack thereof –
Become a topic of great interest’ he asks the above.
But God doesn’t answer, likely smiles at mans quirks
Knowing more important things are in need of his work.
George snickers at rumors of his teeth made from wood
Who would think that practical? No one wise ever would!
Consider them wet, warping while in his mouth during meals,
How ridiculously uncomfortable that would make him feel!
No, his dentist developed dentures with such consideration in mind
For use and for comfort - and let’s not forget what he could find.
Materials such as Ivory - a favorite – or brass, both the norm,
Or gold, when ocassions called for a smile and fancier form.
So as George sits reminiscing over the focus of his teeth
Little did he know the wrong stories that would keep
Through the years and become one of many inaccurate lore
Of things that were skewed in the telling and more…
Makes one wonder, at times, which stories are true,
And he considers this thinking how past tales always grew.
Historians at the time, oft wrote stories with their personal view
Not considering the need to be accurate when sharing “the facts”
Ah, time is a great teacher, examples or tales with so many extracts
But reminiscing again, we think of George Washington our first Pres. elect
Who for one, was also remembered for false dentures - but what the heck??
S. J. Little, Newbury NH
HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION
(Sonnet Assignment)
My name is George Washington. I am twelve
years old. It was a sad summer for me.
My father died and my grief I had to shelve
as much older siblings said, “mother, she
needs you.” I inherited hundreds of acres and
ten slaves, who I wanted to quickly free
but the plantation needed workers
to run it, a problem I could already foresee.
My formal education came to a halt
but my thirst for knowledge grew.
I was lord of the manor by default
yet self-education I did pursue.
So this summer I became a man
believing surely it was all in God’s plan.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
I REMEMBER…
Ah; Col. Tilghman,
the best of aides,
sharp with a pen,
yet, could handle a blade.
Ned was his horse,
clever and smart,
always listening,
offering a remark.
They’d get to arguing
the Colonel and Ned,
during long marches
like a couple long wed.
Many an hour passed,
as we moved at a canter
listening to the two
argue and banter.
Ned often won,
getting the Colonel’s goat
then he’d whinny,
a long horsey gloat.
I raise a glass to Col. Tilghman and Ned,
whom I hope to see again after I’m dead.
Douglas King, Newport NH
FOUNDING FATHER
George, a Founding Father, that is who I am,
yes, the first born nephew of Uncle Sam.
About the cherry tree, I cut down, who lies?
Crossing the Delaware River, afloat I watched the sunrise.
Needing people on our side, I commissioned the Culper Ring.
To lure the Brits from the coast it was I who ran the sting.
I led my troops in battle, at Valley Forge we froze
and starved, but held together to defeat our foes.
Birthing a new nation to welcome those who flee,
E Pluribus Unum, yearning to be free.
Patsy Barrett-King, Newport NH
GEORGE WASHINGTON REMINISCES ON THE CONSEQUENCES OF WAR FOR
AMERICANS
Washington’s breath freezes in the dark unheated cabin
Reason would have him surrender to disease and the enemy
He rallies his underfed, sick, ragged Continental army to do the impossible
Future American soldiers answer the call and paid the consequences
My brother’s ear was opened to remove a tumor winding around his acoustic nerve
A chochlear implant now conducts sound
His tumor was seeded in Viet Nam jungles, along water ways sprayed with defoliants
A remnant of war, that went to war with his neurons
His eyes now hear the ground and balance his body
He teaches himself to walk and move like a ballerina who fixes on a point
His neurons fire all day, keeping him moving, walking, cooking
Steel crania plates sound the alarm of high pressure, storm brewing
The hush of woods, fresh snow, swish of fall leaves transforms him
He becomes a kid
Exploring Lake Massabesic or climbing ledges of Tower Hill
No need for conversation that might trigger a stammer
Attention to detail and patience mark his days
Pen and ink drawings express his heart
His dog has become companion and touch stone
His pie crusts are browned to perfection folded over pheasant fresh from the fields
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London, NH
REMEMBER ME
I didn’t go away to school, maybe I didn’t want to.
Writing was hard. I wrote in my Sketchbooks, learned
by copying Virginia law and translating from French
110 Rules of Civility and Decent Behavior.
I kept a journal of my comings, goings, weather, but
nothing really of myself, my hopes, my dreams.
Years pass and I do other’s biddings. My father
died when I was eleven.
I went from practicing the curls
of letters to sending men into
battle in ten years. I did not
chop down the cherry tree.
I did escape to the fields to
fish and hunt and I always
wished to return home. Yet
when I was called, I went.
Yes, I owned slaves but treated them kindly.
Yes, I ‘bought’ Indian’s land, yet I sought
their wisdom. I felt the need
to own more, to do more.
Many people have said I was
wise, courageous, kind, selfless.
I was appointed to my first post at 16,
served in war, in government, and finally as President.
I don’t think I was necessarily
more qualified or did a better job.
I just kept going, kept taking on
more responsibilities.
I kept many things to myself: the pain
of my teeth, the sadness of no blood heirs,
my individual beliefs, my dyslexia—Hamilton even
wrote my farewell presidential speech.
I ask you to remember me
for my love of family,
and duty to country.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor, VT
WASHINGTON’S TESTAMENT
I did not say
what we had given you was perfect—
I did not say
our words were carved in rigid stone—
I did not say you would not struggle,
nor you would not face profound divisions.
I did not promise you, beyond our yearning hope
for what a borning nations’s dreams could realize.
But I did say,
Through unity, we triumph.
I did say,
Extremes enslave.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
Janus, I seek answers from your forward-face,
The God who presides at all life’s gates -
I don’t wish to look back, except to learn…
So what is ahead and which way do I turn?
Do I choose wisely, as we oft hope in our visions?
Can you offer a direction to guide my decisions?
With eternal wisdom please help with this solution,
What in heck should be my New Year’s resolution?
Sandra J. Little, Newbury NH
Fixed upon the cusp of New Year
lies a time tween now and then,
Tomorrow’s in the hands of cosmic Janus
vowed to no one, once again.
On New Year’s Eve we all resolve
to do things better, to make life sane,
Our good intentions come up short
when soon we run against life’s grain.
But it’s within us to shape change
for better future days,
We must look back to look ahead
to mend our foolish ways.
The great god Janus is example
looking forward from the past,
Now it’s time for new resolve
let’s make Olympus that will last.
David Balford, New London NH
Ring out the false
Ring in the true
-Alfred Lord Tennyson-
Oh two-faced God of duality,
soul mate to my Gemini spirit
in our kingdoms of plurality
we rule entrances and exits.
Beginnings and endings keep us busy,
knowing when to open or shut gates,
making hard life decisions easy
but hard for those we call our mates.
This month of January named after you
slams the door on the previous year
throwing open the portal to start anew.
Beginnings and endings cause us no fear.
Transitions are something we gladly bear
whether peace or war journey in the air.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
Why are these excavated ruins
Hung with fading stars?
Why are these surviving wraiths
still tethered to dark earth?
ii.
The gloved and laden hand
Keeps moving, pointing upward to
The flaring sun, the fate-pocked moon
Not pausing to set scores in rows.
iii.
Patient evergreen, surviving near
Earth’s crumbling walls, ash-tainted,
Stunned by shock of missile’s glare
Then mourning ruins in still afterlight.
iv.
O Elpis, bearer of fresh hope,
From earth’s pinions to the uncaged skies
Bear us who wander, through the Janus gate
To where the newborn phoenix rises.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
It is that mystical twenty-four hours
when old becomes new, yesterday turns
to today, as I leave behind and gather again
like Janus in the ancient Roman countryside,
I am turning backwards and forwards. I imagine
your strong hand guiding me across the threshold
as I wait for the bell-ringing hour, as I call across
winter fields, joyous yet fearful of the new year.
I know you are the god of duality. How can I have
birth without death? A future without a past? You are
young and old at the same time, looking behind
at the last year while you walk into the present.
To you, Janus I raise my glass.
I honor this passage. You are
guide and mentor, gentle yet
insistent. I call to my future,
‘Happy New Year’
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
Exit---Enter
Womb World
Begin End
Await Awaited
Sunlight Darkness
Joy Sorrow
Laughter Tears
Love Hate
Gain Loss
Forward Backward
Spring Winter
Arrive Depart
Exit---Enter
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH
In charge of intersections,
He was the first traffic engineer.
When it came to moving people,
Janus could always keep them clear.
Soon the crossroads were over crowded,
and people began to shout and fight,
Janus kept his cool, however,
and installed a traffic light.
This worked until the baby boom
even he began to doubt.
But inspiration struck
and he created the first round about.
Doug King, Newport NH
On New Year’s Day we look ahead,
but, also we gaze back,
on everything that we have gained,
but, also on the lack.
Wisdom in the living of
another year of life,
yet, the loss of those held dear,
a mother, husband, wife.
Our challenge to endure the fire,
forging opposites to one,
the driving force of gale winds,
and, yet, behind the sun.
If we stay the course set forth
by the eternal sight,
the sky above will birth the dawn,
no matter depth of night.
Patsy Barrett-King, Newport NH
Steamy 6:00 am at the Deli in the dark
Speaking in fragments the owner gestures to the cook
Hands her a sesame bagel, motions cracking an egg and gives her sliced cheddar
Coffee fresh from the drip pots floods my mug
Dried oak leaf hides under the mat
Spots from the spotless rinse blur the rear window
Two pair of tinted driving glasses equal less than one pair of plain lenses
Which giggle of the gear shift gives me extra traction, S, LD, SD?
Trade tractor trailers on I 84 for sheer cliffs on the winding Taconic
Leopard print gloves ease the tension of holding the wheel
Warm tendrils of heat fan over the seat
Jewels of sweet garnet wait in my cup holder for the ride
Wanderlust in my heart
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
I'm confused.
Which way do I turn-
To hear her heavenly Irish voice or stare at his heaping, pitiful walk?
As she sang her voice imitated all of natures pleasures and sweetness.
Her words not hollow but filled the air with meaning
A human voice that conveys past joys that invoke tears in bystanders eyes.
Across Archway St. his walk was jerky, unbalanced, disjointed,on the edge of tipping
backwoods.
Shuffling along as a good arm reaches for some imaginary, continuous rail.
A human body so twisted only a mothers love, keeps him from falling down.
Her songs so sweet it soothes the mind.
His courage so ingrained it inspires a struggling soul.
Peace comes to both between the bright and dark days of living.
Trust and truth blossoms in their hearts to live and survive.
tom keegan
Bristol NH
Nose Dimming, shoulders slooped
A sigh churtles thru his drumming lips
He turns his gaze
Tired eyes scan the others
Now grandsons and granddaughters
Of the Great Illiads: Blitzen, Comet, and Dasher
Memories of Great Rides in the Sky
pass thru, and he lifts his head
A soothing smile as he nods
It’s for Santa to choose
Douglas C. Windsor, Georges Mills NH
My nose doesn’t shine as brightly
and my knees can barely bend
the vet bills are getting costly
and I fear my career must end.
The skies are not safe any longer
since they shot down that spy balloon
and GPS technology is not stronger
than being guided by the light of the moon.
And the hiring rules have gone crazy
with initials all over the place.
Its not that I’m old and lazy,
but did common sense we misplace?
OSHA now has rules for safety listed
in every reindeer stall
and now they have insisted
on foam bedding to soften any fall.
And DEI has entered the picture
which means I might have to hire a cow.
Bucks can no longer be a sleigh fixture
I may have to hire a cat to meow.
Albie, the Albino deer would just glow,
but choosing him I might be called racist.
Bouncy would put on a good show
but censors would probably erase it.
And then I have to deal with LGBTQ
so as not to be labeled homophobic
and in the case of a certain doe a few
would label me transphobic.
See, Randolph, has had top surgery
now called Randy, a doe with antlers removed.
Will Santa accuse me of perjury
or will the she pronoun just leave him confused.
I think I’ll just keep adding to my
Individual Reindeer Annuity
for guiding Santa through the night sky
using my ATM at stops in each community.
And if anyone calls me too old
they will definitely be labeled ageist.
All will do as they are told
and for that I will be called a dictatorist.
So taking all this into consideration
I think my retirement should wait.
I am proud of my occupation,
so that’s the final word, not up for debate.
TTFN (Ta-Ta For Now)
Rudolph
(AKA Dianalee Velie Newbury NH)
We are in the season of Christmas.
Do you hear the silence in the falling snow?
Have you taken time to hear the angel’s song?
Perhaps, you are too busy to let their message
Touch your heart.
Listen quietly, and do not miss the birth of the
Tiny babe born in a manger for a bed.
Do you hear the soft cries of the infant?
Do you hear the brays of the donkey that
Carried the babe in the desert to the stable?
Wherever you are celebrating Christmas,
Remember the lost and the broken.
Spread your love to those who seek peace.
They may not have seen the ‘Star’ in the
heavens or heard the song of the angels.
MERRY CHRISTMAS, ONE AND ALL!
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
I did not retire nor was I laid off!
No board can control, fire then rehire me.
I have been sent by Santa on a mission to China,
to negotiate a deal of great importance.
The pandas have left The National Zoo,
the children are begging for their return.
Be patient, I’m hoping to get them back.
I am doing my best, but the world is complex.
Mandy, a stuffed panda will be yours this Christmas,
Joey, possibly a stuffed elephant.
Real elephants just don’t fit down the chimney.
Parents, a visit to the zoo may be a good idea.
To all of you waiting for Christmas Eve,
look to the sky on a starry night.
A trail of lights glowing brightly is NOT Starlink,
it’s my shiny nose leading Santa’s sleigh.
Remember, as long as there are stories to tell,
Songs to sing and wishes to make for the future,
I will be here.
That’s not fake news.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
T’was once I led them round the Earth,
Santa’s flying tiny reindeer,
Hauling toys through nights so cold
my bright red nose turned frosty blue.
High through night sky into the heavens
nothing to guide our way,
No GPS, no AAA, no radar screen to lead us on
just the magic of love guiding Santa’s sleigh.
There were times I‘ll admit
that daylight came too soon,
But never did we fail old Santa
deliver gifts by a Christmas moon.
Eons later I’m slowing down
my magic’s lost its spunk,
Old Santa’s lost a step or two
It’s time to pack my trunk.
It’s off to lovely Florida
to soak in some sunshine,
It’s time to let the younger set
bring gifts for Christmas time.
David Balford, New London NH
(After the Animagic movie by Rankin/Bass,
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, 1964)
Rudolph wakes up sore
to another blizzard
brewing outside his cave.
It is his seventieth birthday.
Clarice is sound asleep
beside him, dreaming
tomorrow’s dreams.
He thinks back to Hermey’s
dentist-retirement party,
his brief elf-speech of:
“I’m done with teeth,
I’m going prospecting
with Yukon Cornelius!”
And Santa’s jolly news:
“Ho, ho, ho! I’ll never retire!
I am immortal after-all.”
Rudolph’s nose begins to glow
like a lightbulb-of-idea;
he whispers in eureka:
“That’s it! I quit!
I miss being a misfit.”
And settles back down
to kiss his doe on her nose.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH
Gather ‘round my friends - Comet and Blitzen,
Come over here Donner, Cupid - where’s Vixen?
Dasher, Dancer and Prancer – all of you guys.
I have some news that will be quite a surprise.
See, I told Santa this morning and he was most shaken
That this is my last Christmas Eve run that I’ll be a-takin’.
For years I’ve been on-call should the weather dictate
That I’m needed to guide you so Santa wouldn’t be late.
With my red nose glowing bright I always led the way
For Santa’s epic evening flight with his loaded down sleigh.
But years have passed and now my nose is runny, not bright
And my legs are sore the next day… well, even that night!
They aren’t as steady as they once were – something I hid,
But last Christmas Eve on a few rooftops I went into a skid.
I thought about this all year long and finally, this decision’s made
My IRA is well funded and my plans are now laid.
I’m quitting, retiring to Aruba to chill in the sun,
Sipping frothy umbrella drinks - never having to run!
So, farewell my good friends, I bid you goodbye
And hope all your flights are in a clear sky.
As Santa says each year on his flight
Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!
S. J. Little, Newbury NH
If there would be no snow this year
no wassail bowl, no cup of cheer
no silvered tinsel, jingle bells
no glad noels, no ringing knells
No Tannenbaum, no Rudolph’s light
to lead the sleigh through foggy night
no candy canes, no gingerbread
no cookie crumbs where elf men fed—
If, too, the silent nights are gone
as missiles shatter eastern dawn
near Bethlehem, that little town--
instead of peace, despair rains down.
What then is left with trappings done?
How is the hope of Christmas won?
How can we bind up all the rifts?
Where is the sharing, what the gifts?
Beyond fierce strife, love’s stars still blaze:
they open hope to human gaze—
We can still see, through new-born grace
God’s light in every human face.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
Plastic Jesus lies among
the garish elves and ghoulish angels
and I feel ashamed to be a part of this
Christmas commercialism.
When Gene Autry sang
about me I became alive.
Then the hokey movies and
I was just too cutesy.
I can’t stand any more of this.
This is it. I’m done. I retire!
I’ll go back to the North Pole,
drink hot chocolate by the fire, maybe
help Santa and the elves make children
who actually believe in us happy.
But if you don’t believe,
actually believe we are real,
then you won’t see us,
you won’t hear the bells
jingling softly as we fly across
the Christmas Eve sky.
If you’re still listening to me
near the end of my story, I think
you indeed know the true
meaning of Christmas.
Watch the bare trees awaiting snow,
branches open wide, like arms. Pines yearn
for their Christmas adornment. How quiet it is
while the soft flakes fall, how they sparkle with joy.
Although the world is not quiet now,
not everywhere filled with beauty,
here I find solace in silence.
My Christmas lights are stars,
gifts, my blessings counted.
I pine for kindness,
gentleness,
Peace and Love,
Rudolph
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
How we give
Matters not
Humans feel
Compelled to give
Something of ourselves
Over and over
Giving dares us to
Reach out
Share a wrapped package
With shiny bow
Walk together through
Snowy woods
Love as much as our hearts
Can hold
Join hands in
Friendship
Spilling into a
Pool of giving
Flowing from one
Smile to another
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
PERCHANCE THANKSGIVING
Four centuries now since they first came here
Pilgrim foot upon our shore,
Leather shorn with metal buckle
seeking refuge from the storm.
Hungry eyes that sought advantage
migrants from an unknown realm,
Looking first to find their shelter
looking then to claim our own.
We first saw them cold and hungry
helpless wanting outstretched hands,
Needing help for their existence
seeking food from bounteous lands.
That first winter we did feed them
taught them how to plant and fish,
Showed them how to build their lodgings
all they needed, all they wished.
When disease they bore befell us
We withstood it, many cried,
Our Great Spirit told us “help them”
though it cost us, many died.
When first harvest came upon them
their great leaders summoned us,
Sit and visit, share our plenty
came we did to show them trust.
When their people kept on landing
numbers growing with the years,
Looking for their own ascendance
looking past us unawares.
Soon we struggled with our neighbors
just to keep our native land,
But their numbers kept arriving
took our nation from our hands.
David Balford, New London, NH
THE VISITING POET TALKS TURKEY
On this rural college campus in New England,
an hour of my writer-in-residence time
disappears watching students pet
a wild turkey. This bird causes controversy.
Some students exclaim, make her the new school
mascot, others chant, kill the beast, it’s lost its flock
and sounds so lonely. On this they all agree.
Her haunting warble pleads for the company
of peers as she sits for students and professors,
who form a line of pilgrimage to kneel beside
her and stroke her sable down. Something
holy is developing in front of the dorms today.
She loves the attention, trusting everyone,
even those who want to put her out of some
purported misery; an insignificant battle
of universal proportions, a turkey war
escalating quickly. Who can a turkey trust?
I must leave tomorrow, this crusade
between good and evil continuing while
I mull over my conundrum, wondering
if they will feed her turkey food and keep
her as a pet or will she fall to the contingent
of hunters who seek her demise. Oh, it’s only
a turkey you say, but I knelt before her in homage.
I saw the sadness haunting her eyes, as if she knows
she will be sacrificed, gobbling up our love
and affection like a saint. I hope she finds a warm
bed in which to sleep, eventually reunites
with her flock and overcomes her adversities.
She is the soul of the young student looking
for a place to sleep at one in the morning.
She is the soul of the gay Mormon student
who has left his assembly. She is the soul
of the student recovering from near fatal
injuries against all promise. She is my soul.
Maybe I should transport her to a new
flock near my home. Maybe she has just
fled, an overpowering Tom. Her
feathers do look a bit ruffled, you see.
These issues scatter like grain in my brain,
overwhelming this poet. I need to cook this
through with a colleague, whose door
I knock on after extending my benedictions
before the turkey. Excuse me, I whisper,
can we talk turkey for a few minutes.
But, I am stopped cold turkey realizing
I am interrupting her holy lunch hour
as I am asked, “have you eaten lunch,
if not, would you like to share my
turkey sandwich?” I stutter and utter,
“thank you, I think I’ll pass,” as the first
flickering thought of becoming
a vegetarian flashes through my mind.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
THANKSGIVING FOR THE TRUTH OF THINGS
I could be a bird, I’m up so high
the lake from here is just a distant
snake of blue stretched
at the feet of mountains rising
from earth’s depths like sculpted waves.
First snow marks distant ski paths,
up above, the sky is strung
with clouds of vaporous pearl.
This distance, and this perfect peace
clears vision for the truth of human scale:
We humans are not lesser gods, that
in our wish to order everything
we should make the world a battleground
inflicting devastation on our own—
Beyond far ruins, Eden is still here—
We are not gods, but fleeting humans,
members of each other.
Through the truth of things
that we can see when we rise high enough,
we can be thankful for the good that is—
and we can forgive each other for not being gods.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
SECOND-THOUGHTS OF AFTERMATHS
Nothing compares to a forced apology,
be it from your own tongue
or the lurking spite from another’s.
It is similar to the blessing of food
that you know tastes horrible
or know well, its inevitable outcome.
We are grateful creatures, more or less.
If not in honesty, then radically on
this Rubic’s-Cube of a crowded planet.
All the while, there exists a thank you
unsaid somewhere…could this be in you?
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
ACCEPTANCE
We start
Silent
As bits of
Dust
Bursts of
Dust
Stick
Pulses
Builds
Cells
Systems
Spin
A world
Our world
Alive
Inside out
Outside in
Learning
Love
Connection
Survival
Hope
Despair
Where do I belong?
I walk slowly
Toward setting sun
My skin
No longer fits
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London, NH
THANK YOU, I THINK
After my Mammogram I said thank you, I think to the technician. We both laughed.
Thank you for all of our wonderful rain, I think. Thank you for the exercise doing autumn chores,
I think. Thank you for opportunities to learn from my mistakes, I think. Thank you for keeping
me humble, for deflating my ego, for bringing me back to reality when my head is far far away,
and for teaching me so many lessons, I think.
I think I want one thing when someone knows I really don’t, really shouldn’t, really couldn’t.
Am I thankful? Yes! Thank you for all I have, for all I am, for keeping me out of my own way. I
will think about all of my blessings.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
I PUT ON MY MASK,
When I go to town
No one needs to see me
in my night gown
They ask why so lazy?
They stare and frown
Are you crazy!
I take off my Mask
When I get home
My pups don’t ask
They know the real me
Where ever I roam
They greet me with glee.
They know me to the core
No matter what I wear
Smelling a treat from the store
Loa Winter, New London NH
JE METS MON MASQUE SEULEMENT POUR
L’ENLEVER
(I Put On My Mask Only To Remove It)
A half century now since first I donned the mask
that rested loose upon my face,
that hid the child I was still then
in search of who I might become.
It felt like someone else’s skin as well it might have been
it was not mine, not yet,
though soon it felt at one with me
like it was mine, myself, my very being.
Still who was this person in uniform
and who was he supposed to be?
Was he soldier, student, worker, thinker, preternatural being
and where was he headed in someone else’s skin?
The mask I wore for four long years
through war in foreign land,
throughout European nations where people saw my face
but did not know my name ?
The mask fell loose to earth, removed with end of service
as leaden prototype
to be replaced by other masks
that would in time be taken.
David Balford New London
AUNT SOPHIE’S HOPE CHEST
now closets all my past identities,
masks I put on and took off happily
celebrating years of joyous Mardi Gras
and Halloween festivities. Aunt Sophie
had given up hoping yet her memory
remains trapped with the costumes
I now fold: the red cape and dress
turning me into Little Red Riding Hood
or the satanic evil lure of the devil,
the black cape and dress that made
me feel like a praying nun or a nasty witch.
The possibilities were endless,
a green tunic making me fly like Peter Pan
or jingle like Santa’s rowdy elf.
I pause before putting the stack of unused
KN95 masks into this chest, hoping someday
they will become merely scary props
for a HAZMAT getup in the future. But my
optimism is tinged with fear. While
anticipating the next chest opening
will be delightful, what if this trunk
is opened desperately seeking the medical
masks because somewhere in some lab
a canister was opened, like Pandora’s Box,
unleashing new horrors around the globe,
to be worn by terrified pandemic statistics?
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
MASK
I’m pondering masked things:
The ambiguity of a closed door.
Brick wall, a proper face to passersby
that screens hard silences within.
Lawn lying greenest
where effluence stagnates.
Remembering, too, a mantled face:
opaque as roseate marble,
self-sculpted by a well-schooled chisel
disguising inward things—
impervious to outward scrutiny,
marble eyes turned inward.
Behind that mask, I sense a boy
still hiding underneath dark stairs,
still hounded by incessant blame.
I doubt a closet ever could be fortress
strong enough to brave that blame,
or mask sublime enough
to liberate that child.
Now, on the full-grown man
the chiseled mask stays firm,
still concealing inward things,
still closeting that little child,
forever masked in his disguise
of impenetrable stone.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
MASKS ARE…
A costume.
What’s Halloween without a disguise?
Painted faces are fun but covering
our face is mysterious.
We can smooth our face
into a blank expression, masking
emotion, hiding in plain sight.
Can you tell what I’m thinking?
A protection from dangerous chemicals.
To perform surgery.
To rob a bank.
It’s time for a facial.
I’ll have the mud mask.
And finally for our
most beloved reason…
COVID-19.
Their on.
There off.
There on.
We love/hate
everything
about masks.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
MASK WITH CARE
The chosen elder
speaks the sacred words,
carries the mask with care
to the new initiate.
Well-practiced before the ceremony,
the young man
bows his head in acceptance.
The elder adjusts the mask
to the face,
lowers his eyes,
and feels the god
descend.
The masked initiate
steps into the line of dancers,
carries the god to his blessed work.
Nancy Marashio, New London NH
Peace
Today, my friend, your heart is heavy.
Your grief shows in masks of sadness,
Your body’s tool to hide the reality of
Human frailty within us.
You have endured months of a loved
One’s illness, and find yourself
Grasping for answers — a need
For calmness in your soul.
In the quiet of life’s journey there is
Peace for you, to be found in the loving
Memories you hold in your heart.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
WHAT WE WANT
appears in dreams
compels us to fly
Dreams push back
We resist
Mask our fears
Falling past yesterday
Tomorrow
Today
We
Drift
Afraid
Pray
to land
to stop
Spin
Suspended
Awakening
We want
more
Close our eyes
Knock on the door
of our consciousness
face early morning mists
Search for waking
A dream whispers
Enough
You are enough
Your world is enough
Now is enough
Grab its tail
Before it scampers away
Leaving only a shadow
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
GUITAR MAN
Upon the stage, mahogany hollow body Guild slung low from calico colored shoulder
strap, meaty fingers pinched tightly upon a brown phenolic
Fender pick, in search of chords paying tribute to Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry, Buddy Guy
and others.
Strumming tragic sounds that tell of life in pained anguish and
in search of better days,
vibrato harmony floats over waters that he sails
against blustering head winds buffering his success,
a shuffle dance move livens musical poetry that
trembles from his anguished lips
like tears from long pained, weeping eyes.
Now he reaches the bridge in measured stride to
lift his spirits to the nether world,
where relief is found in the living blues
that tell the story of who he transformed to
after a life of sorrow and pain.
David Balford New London
SUNSET
From A Musical Composition by Carl Beverly
It begins with a small beat
from deep within
rough bark as
leaves are turning
slowly yellowing
into the colors
of fire as
grasses waving
brown across late hayed fields
flowers gone to seed as
waters finding the stream
flowing into more waters
smoothing ancient river rocks as
winds pass over
towing clouds along the sky as
birds sighing from treetops
preparing for flights south as
fog is lifting to reveal the mountain.
We see deer stepping
into the meadow
seemingly unafraid
gathered into groups of does with fawns
the buck watching from behind trees.
An orange glow
seeps into the air
into the trees
into the grasses
into the coming season
of quietness and rest as
we too enter
these darkening woods as
leaves are lifting
from branches
and littering the ground.
We can now see
clearer into possibilities
our lives decluttered of
pretense or the need
to hide behind
a fabricated
facade.
Autumn is its own
honesty as
the sun and
the season fades and yet
it is not time
for sadness
all has come
and gone
and come again
over and over.
The ending is
it’s new beginning.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
DAYDREAM
Gravity holds my feet to the ground
but more often I’m up in the clouds.
Imagine the power.
Just wish it.
Take a walk in the woods,
spring to a treetop.
Drop acorns and pinecones below.
Breathe.
Change to a leaf, float with a breeze
sing with the birds, buzz like a bee.
Soak in goldenrod nectar.
Breathe.
Come back down,
No one is around.
Reverie is over.
Breathe.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
ONE VERY SPECIAL LITTLE BOY
for Oliver
I’m floating on a cloud of happiness
I’m swimming in a river of joy
All because of the sweetness
Of one very special little boy
He entered the world way too early
With a strong determination to live
This tiny little munchkin
Has so much love to give
His smile lights up the universe
His laughter makes angels sing
His hugs could heal the planet
With all the pleasure he does bring
The extra gene he possesses
Must be one filled with lots of love
For truly we do believe
He was sent from our God above
I’m floating on a cloud of happiness
I’m swimming in a river of joy
All because of the sweetness
Of one very special little boy
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
SEARCHING FOR A DREAM
Looking up on the darkest of nights
Listening to crickets sing
What wish will starlight bring
Searching for a dream
Troubles stretch as wide as I see
In a world, so sad
But there's peace under these stars tonight
Searching for a dream
Is there hope hiding high above
Waiting to be found?
Will it glow and light the night
Or will it come crashing down?
Humbled by infinite galaxies
This earth, the breath I breathe
I pray for this world to finally see
And save our children';s dreams
©Carl Beverly, 9/11/23 Warner NH
SOMETIMES THE SMALLEST THINGS TAKE UP THE MOST ROOM IN MY HEART
Joy slips into quiet spaces
Announcing herself with tears
Tears as I hold silk strawberry strands
Imagine feeling my mother’s hands
Hands in my thick dark hair
Separated, perfectly woven
Woven between generations
Love seeps into our time
Time to bind our hearts in a motion
Of braiding
Braiding my granddaughter’s hair backstage
My thoughts drift
Drift through time
Weaving strands around her halo
Halo of smiles as she jumps down from her perch
Fluffs her white toile skirt lightly
Lightly pads on ballet slippers to
Find her Angel candle
Candle of her excitement kindles love
I revel in the joy I feel
Feel warm as I listen to the strings
She’s waiting in the wings
Wings flutter in unison
She assumes position ready to dance
Dance joy into my heart
Twirl light within my soul
Soul harboring her spirit
Illuminating the grey December afternoon
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
IF THE UNNAMED SONG HAD WORDS
“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops- at all-
- Emily Dickinson
Sense my presence beside you
Feel my touch through your hair
I’m alive and I’m with you
I’ll always be there.
In the fern-crested byway
In green reach of the tree
In the moss-cushioned forest
I always will be.
I will sing in the rainfall
I will grow with the grass
I will roam the red desert
I am where your feet pass.
I am in the lake’s ripple
I will follow your sun
I hide in deep thickets
where tiny paws run.
My wings are above you
Through the most savage storm
Though the cold winds surround you
I will still keep you warm.
This poem was prompted by Carl Beverly’s musical composition, Unnamed Song.
Keep you warm
Keep you warm
Keep you warm
Through the storm
Through the storm
Through the storm
Keep you warm
Keep you warm
Keep you warm
Keep you warm
Through the storm
Keep you warm
Where the sun blends with shadow
In the sky where stars nest
In the firefly’s sure beacon
Is where I will rest.
I will follow you even
Through the rainbow’s bright frame
I will follow you home
I will sing you my name
I will sing you my name.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
SLINKY
Sleek and graceful
portable, extendable
I can stretch and wiggle
walk and jiggle
spring over and over
head over heels.
Everyone loves me,
you will too.
Meet me at the bottom of the stairs.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
HANDS
I’ve lost my beautiful hair
blue as the summer sky, but
someone saw me beneath the water,
and I am resurrected.
Granted, small hands don’t push
me in the little pink stroller anymore.
No one speaks to me in that sweet
sing-songy voice.
Ah, but she let me fall
and other hands lifted me up.
So, I sat in the front garden until
rude chickens tried to eat me, leaving
me upside down in the dirt, nasty birds!
Then new hands dusted me off
and stood me in a flowerpot.
As I enjoyed the blooms I felt
a tickle. All at once flowers began
growing out of my head much
prettier than plain blue.
Now my hair is rainbows,
and my hands are outstretched to you.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
ODE TO MY KITE
O, you of dedicated backbone,
Outstretched arms
Bright diamond wing of paper
Balanced by your bow-tied tail—
By yourself, you lie inert—
What do I you find in you
Beyond your scraps, your form?
I tether your shape to my energies
Run with you until you taste
earth’s drives that strive for sky,
Feel you born and borne into your life
Watching as you dart and dive
Pulled wildly between sky and earth
As you strain to surf the surging streams
To claim your place aloft
Above mere earthbound things.
You are your own victorious banner,
Leading me to turn my yearnings—
Oddments, once, in errant winds—
To diamond dancing in the sun.
.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
ACTION HERO COME TO LIFE
I’m G.I. Joe with the Kung fu grip
I live in a cardboard box,
with cellophane window and action scenes
my glare is tough as rocks.
I can jump and launch grenades
watch me as I tumble,
pull my string I’ll bark commands
make the mighty humble.
When mom comes home, the boss is back
“Clean up now son” she edicts,
the boy takes orders from above
it’s time Mom’s word is heeded.
I’m back in my box alone again
till once again it’s time,
the boy and I will conquer all
when Mom returns, we toe the line.
David Balford, New London NH
THE MAGIC IN TOYS
A three-year-old child hugs his teddy bear
To feel loved when he is afraid and needs
The present ‘bad’ to disappear.
Every night, little Jennie gets her dolls ready for bed.
She kneels beside them and holds their hands while
Praying ‘’Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.’’
Whom am I to say there is not life in a toy?
When a toy brings magic to the heart and makes
A child’s eyes smile – you may have found the answer.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
MY BOYFRIEND WAS A MAGIC 8 BALL
With the whiff of the pool hall on his black satin shirt
he came home late and said little.
Where have you been?
Better not tell you now
An impenetrable sphere with only a small window into his soul,
he always left me wanting more.
I touched him. He was smooth and cool as usual
but the smell was new,
cigarette smoke and a whiff of perfume.
Do you love me?
Ask again later.
Not what I wanted to hear.
Talk to me— about our future! I shook him hard.
Outlook not so good.
Angry, I dropped him on the hard floor.
He was unfazed, used to the hard knocks of the pool cue,
but the window between us closed.
He took his magic and rolled.
Where is he now, you ask?
At a table in the pool hall where, my sources tell me,
he sleeps in a rack
nestled beside a cute striped nine.
Cynthia Knorr, Strafford NH
THE TOY SHOP
Listen to me, all of you,
we only have the hours
between midnight and 4 AM
to come alive and I am tired
of all this strife. Life is too short.
I am Chatty Cathy, your new president,
having taken over when Old King Cole
resigned due to old age and a touch
of dementia. These are my new mandates:
From now on the wooden soldiers
will have to take down their red-block
blockade and stop marching into mayhem
against the GI Joes and their blue, Lego
barricade. This ridiculous fighting over
shelf space must stop. As the purple
peacemakers say, we are all part
of this same childish, petulant, toy world.
The Madame Alexander dolls
have formed a coalition with the Barbies
and we intend to withhold any contact
with the boy toys. It worked
for Aristophanes in his play, Lysistrata,
and it will be enforced here until
all this warring stops and peace
once again settles into the Toy Shop
when the door is locked up tight
and everyone is alive for the night.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
PAPER DOLL
Defined by costumes of correctness
my slick cardboard body waits.
Poised, dressed and ready,
I join my child in play.
I am limited to the imagination of my animator.
No tools, books, or pens to build my future.
My ephemeral life allows her
to learn kindness.
I teach her to dream,
To create her own world.
To reach inside herself,
To live with joy.
What does her future hold?
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
TEDDY WITH THE COLD NOSE
(FRIENDS FOREVER)
We met when you were two years old
I, an unwanted replacement for your
Very first teddy bear, named Teddy
First Teddy’s demise brought on by
Your two years of baby spit up
You met me with toddler’s suspicion
My foreign fur and toes and nose
Not what you’d grown to love
You put me to your baby tests
Of taste and touch and smell
You named me most descriptively
As only a two-year old could
My rubber snout so cold and nice
You named me with your tiny finger,
Teddy With the Cold Nose
In time, my daily life was spent
Tucked under your chubby little armpit
Or dragged behind you on the floor
Or tucked beside you in your bed
Days with you were lots of fun
We toddled, sang and played and
Had had tea parties with your Mommy
Tiny cups of tea and cookies
(For just us three close friends)
I lived to hear your stories
Laying side-by-side at night
No space between our faces
You told me everything you knew
My cold nose against your warm one
Years came and went
With life’s many ups and downs
We weathered changes big and small
But always, we would end the day
Snuggled up together, safe and sound
Sorrow came to call as well
It’s when we needed each other most
A hard part of being a grown-up
How come we can’t be kids forever
Carefree and skipping rope?
When the Mommy of our tea parties
(For just us three close friends)
Grew ill and died and took her hugs
I held you like I did when you were two
We could taste each other’s tears
Because I was crying, too
Life moves on and there is much
To still to do and talk about together
Each of us a bit frayed around the edges
You and me as lifelong friends
And when our final chapter comes
We will do what we two friends must do
When you are done, then I’m done, too
I’ll put my cold nose next to your cold nose
No words will be needed in the end.
Catherine A. Feeney, Dutham NH
OUR SKIES
I know well the skies at night.
I have spent quiet evenings on my patio.
I have sat for hours gazing at the stars’ light.
I look in wonder at the mystery of the skies.
I have stood atop high peaks in awe of the heavens.
My eyes long to see their beauties’ prize.
I have heard the skies’ thunderous music in the night.
My hands have touched the rain dancing on my garden.
How well I know the sun’s promised light.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London, NH
AMITABHA, AMITABHA, AMITABHA
High on the mountain sits the grand golden Buddha
and a temple of monks who seek enlightenment chanting
his name on their path to nirvana Amitabha, Amitabha.
Under the ground the dragon lies sleeping
lulled by the singing he hears from on high.
There is no quaking, shaking or fury unleashing.
When the sun is just right the buddha shines bright.
The farmer looks up and bows his head low.
If you listen closely you hear him say quietly Amitabha, Amitabha…
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
Note: A 7.7 magnitude earthquake erupted in Puli, Taiwan lasting 30 seconds on September 21, 1999
EYES ON THE SKIES
Superman called an emergency meeting
of all the flight capable cartoons;
Peter Pan and Tinkerbell greeting
Dumbo and Poppins with red balloons;
Red for the new danger in the skies,
from a missile launched like a harpoon
at a Chinese balloon with spying eyes.
But unfortunately they also brought down
a hobbyist’s balloon causing many sighs
making our defense pro look like a clown.
So all you toons stay out of the air,
its better if you just sit here and frown.
The joy of flight with never a care
will be yours once again I promise
after this terrifying mistaken scare.
Our government will now rely on science,
and look twice before they shoot,
on this we will test their reliance.
But if you think my warning is moot,
and you want to soar high on the breeze,
carry this sign, DON’T SHOOT!
Pretty, pretty, pretty please.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
MISCOMMUNICATIONS?
How many times, in my 47 years,
Have I been ridiculed and caught
Gazing at the skies with a few tears?
People stop and look for the sought
Only after gazing at me, at first.
I believe curiosity cannot be taught.
I either explain, whisper, or burst
Of a flock, or single bird, or rainbow.
Too often people do not get my thirst.
Sometimes they pause, enjoy the show.
Mostly, I suppose, I am the odd sight;
Bound by a beauty they do not know.
EYES ON THE SKIES
Look into the midnight sky
Jupiter kissing Venus
First time in years it’s happened this way.
Jupiter Kissing Venus
Way up in the heavens
Like Romeo and Juliet romantic and in love.
Like Romeo and Juliet
Two lovers high among the gods
Locked in cosmic embrace for all to see.
Look upon the midnight sky
See it twinkle in icy cold delight
While we rush headlong through our lives into eternity.
David Balford , New London NH
EACH SMALL BREATH I BREATHE
I look above on nights alight with stars.
My eyes are filled with awe. Tiny lights
in sky so dark, so silent, so alive it jars
my mind awaketo the wonder and yet unites
me with the ancient wisdom of life beginning.
I look beyond my pale face to sights
only imagined, to time never ending,
to all that was and all that will ever be.
My feet are here, in the grass, with life ascending
into the darkness, the vastness of space above me.
The mystery lies in each small breath I breathe
into the night sky. I look on humbly.
Jennie Pollard, Pollard, Windsor VT
EYING THE SKIES
How long since you opened yourself to the skies
to perceive new prospects, to set yourself free
to let go of limits, to open your eyes—
To brush away objects, and simply to be
to wander, to wonder, to follow the light
with no destination, but solely to see
No limit to distance, no ceiling to height
no orders, no measures, no borders to dread
it’s all there before you, it’s all in your sight.
It’s what comes before you, what might lie ahead
it’s origin, vastness, it’s endless, it’s tide
still flowing, a question, what might be instead—
Your mantle, protection, your magnet, your guide
your arrow to heaven, your arm and your bow
your spaceship, your treasure, what you hide inside
That follows your vision to where you can grow
through showers of wonders, and wide rainbowed skies
you’ll sever your tethers to what lies below
Then see what the owl sees, and know where he flies—
while you may be wingless, you’ll learn how to rise,
feet skimming the earth, eyes soaring the skies.
WHAT EYE HAS NOT SEEN
Hide unseen inside the eye
emitting measured mite of light
to bridge the reaches of the sky
And pierce the clutching veil of night
while swathing circling spheres in swirls
and spinning visions of delight
Eye’s light released through darkness hurls
A lens refracting what it finds
Revealing treasures: diamonds, pearls
Strung through black velvet, chiffon-lined
And hung in infinite confines
Known solely to the endless mind
There is no word, there is no sign
That shows the universal truth
Where human eye and truth align
Embroidered in vast grand design.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
EYES ON THE SKY
Each of my ancestors on my tongue
In my heart
Woman warrior unsung
Who dared to set sail without a chart
Across continents flung
Little education but she was smart
Child over her back slung
Stoic as the seas tossed
Silent hymns for strength she sung
To escape the Great Hunger, oceans she crossed
Eyes fixed on a new sky
In steerage weeks were lost
SHHH, do not cry
Life will be better
She refused to die
Clung to hope in the crumpled letter
Address for Our Lady of the Holy Rosary*
Wrap tight in Ma’s sweater
(* a mission in NYC dedicated to provide aid to Irish Immigrants)
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
QUERIES FOR AN OLD YEAR GONE
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
--Charles Dickens: A Tale of Two Cities
What about the year just past,
what voices stay, what voices fade?
What words are gone, what words will last,
what difference have those voices made?
What voices stay, what voices fade?
What words will sprawl across the wall?
What difference have those voices made—
will we recall those words at all?
What words will sprawl across the wall,
foretelling's we won’t talk about?
Will we recall those words at all
or will they drown in depths of doubt?
Will we save treasures from the dross?
With some words gone, will some words last?
Will what we glean be gain or loss?
What about the year just past?
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
BEST & WORST
Politics
Religion
Inflation
Weather
World Affairs
War in Europe
Covid Pandemic
Climate Change
Southern Border Crisis
Take your choice
With Carl Sagan's
Blue Dot philosophy
We are insignificant
Five billion years
Good and Bad
Best & Worst
W. D. Tighe, New London
RETROSPECTION 2022
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….
-Charles Dickens-
That persistent plague appeared to pause
but new variants developed daily.
Family health issues, aches and pains,
appeared minor in the face of wars
devastating humanity. Could this be
happening, still? While we joyously
watch our teenage grandson become
an outstanding man and our special
needs four-year-old nephew view his
world with complete joy and laughter,
violence and division pushes its ugly
face into our consciousness. There is
no where to hide except in the loving
moments with family, friends and nature.
This past year we wrapped happiness
around us like a comfortable blanket,
chose to be enchanted by billowy snowfalls
and majestic sunrises not the fatalistic fear
of what a nuclear fallout would entail.
But yet, these words creep onto the page
peeking out of our subconscious as we pray
for peace, unity and harmony on this planet
we share, this tiny orb in the vastness
of space we lovingly call our home.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
2022 – BEST AND WORST OF TIMES
Seems like only yesterday, end of year came round once again
bringin’ tidings of better days ahead and the end of that pandemic.
Course, once again we all got fooled into thinkin that things would change
that life would be better somehow, then I can’t say how just now – maybe never.
Things got bad in early winter of ’22.
That damned fool Biden’s gonna drive us all into the poor house
but that Covid bug seemed to wane and most of us went back to livin’
like we used to – before we were forced to stayin’ indoors like moles or snakes
or some other wily rascals.
Then we lost the Queen. Old Elizabeth II was the only queen most any of us ever knew or cared to know.
She was some game old gal. We knew her when she was just a child princess destined to rule the British Empire when her daddy died and left her to rule when still a young woman. Then her son, Prince Charlie took over as King at a time when most men are deep into retirement. I wish him well – he’s gonna need it.
There were lots of interestin’ things that happened last year – oh, you wanna’ hear em’?
The U.S. Mint announced they had selected a list of notable American women to place on the face of quarters – that’s a first they say. Then old Pope Benedict XVI won’t be sayin’ Mass any time soon and Jerry Lee Lewis won’t be bangin’ on his old piano either. They say a fella name of Meat Loaf won’t be singin’ his crazy songs this side of the Pearly Gates neither. Kinda makes me wonder where we’re all headed. Maybe next year will be better – though I doubt it will.
David Balford , New London NH
THE MYSTERY OF TIME
Last year’s calendars have closed their pages.
Here comes my choice again - lighthouses, or birds?
I hesitate to write my first entry on the January page.
It’s emptiness stares at me, and leaves me to wonder
What games life is holding for the future?
In retrospect, the game of Covid wounded many as
Others of us heard the call and masked and vaxxed.
We wept, hoped as we played the game.
Happy are we to say good bye to the old year,
Now a chapter for the history books.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
FEATHERED EXCUSES FOR 2022
Golden losses, as “nothing gold can stay:”
My ten-year-old buff rock chicken, and
Bob Manchester my poet-friend—
A dawn here and a gilded-sun setting
Behind mountains there, a beloved aunt
years and miles-between…gone.
Other times were like celebration-confetti,
Colorful and cheerful at first then,
Once exhausted, there is the mess to clean.
The good thing about gold is that it returns;
In the smile of a newborn in April, and
In the fur, eyes, and purr of a newly-met cat.
Bring on newtimes, there are no excuses.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
TIMES REMEMBERED
After class Dr. Gotlib invited her to lunch
surprised her with the announcement
she was a finalist for a full university science scholarship
Dr. Gotlib smiled, "One more hurdle Kate;
meet with Dr. Johnson”.
What was she supposed to say?
Kate had never had an interview with a professor.
What did he know about her?
No one in her family had a college education.
Dr. Johnson chatted on the phone
motioned for her to sit facing him
smoked his filtered cigarette
stubbed it out
lit another
continued shouting into the phone.
Kate looked at the walls of books
Felt comfort from the smell
of smoke that reminded her of her father.
Dr. Johnson hung up the phone,
turned his yellowed grin toward her.
"Let's get to the point.
You are a smart girl.
We both know that.
You'll get married as girls do.
I am not giving this scholarship to a girl.
I need to give it to a young man
who will work in the field.
I wish you luck.
Good afternoon."
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
“THE BEST OF TIMES AND THE WORST OF TIMES”
Would Dickens be surprised to know
our times are very similar to
his times?
To seek
and to hide
and to pretend it didn’t happen.
Comfort in that soft old sofa
and abandonment
and fear.
Red sunrises, red sunsets
and stealing
and greediness.
Rainbows revealing all color, all light
and tornadoes hiding in the night.
Our faces shining with candle glow
and no water, no heat, no power.
Around our table sharing a meal
and inattention to reality.
Having enough
and having nothing.
Kind words
and wars.
Caring for your loved ones,
giving to those you don’t even know
and people hurting people.
Planting a garden, a tree
and watching as birds disappear
and drowning our seas with trash.
Holding a dying person’s hand
and squeezing the trigger
and releasing the bomb.
Being alone
and being lonely.
Remembering
and dismembering
and forgetting.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
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 November, Newbury NH 03255
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.
Don’t know who this is but it is worth sharing!
NOVEMBER WHISPERS
I hear the leaves
whispering amongst themselves
as they dress for the fall party
of how the cloud churns
a whirlwind of life in the brittle
field grasses and yellow ferns
weaving in their waving
to the sparrows and geese
feathers rustling breezes
of goodbyes to nests snug
in the trees who shrug
off their colorful gowns.
I would think that color
has gone, but no, it drowns
in the cooling soil
or rises into the sunset night
into the warmth of light
at our old wood stove fire
stirring pinpricks of desire
the new moon glowing gold
until sunrise red and orange
hovers in the morning cold
delicate then vibrant
reminding in murmuring
whispers of the promises
of returning.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
NOVEMBER
November whispers in the valleys and woodlands,
A month of subtle teasing on a warm day
Here and there to hold its surprises for a later time.
Gone from the hillsides are the brilliant colors -
An artist’s dream to paint, replaced
By the stark, steel grays of forest growth.
November teases with one tall zinnia stalk
.
Yesterday, the 8th of the month, my last pansy
Sang its swan song – a sad reminder of death
Who keeps it’s promises in silence.
Cold winds hint of winter’s long journey into darkness
While we wait impatiently for the slowly increasing
Rays of light - our hope for spring.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
WHISPERS
The November wind whispers to the lone
remaining brown, brittle oak leaf, time
to let go of the tree and drift serenely
to rejoin the earth with your predecessors.
Your days of glory are recorded: the fragrant
blossoms of your youth, the soothing feel
of your shade in the summer with the chirping
of singing birds, the breathtaking beauty
of your autumnal splendor and currently
the life sustaining acorns you have deposited
to feed the animals all winter while you rest.
Like the woman who rested under your boughs
living one hundred and three years to see her green
eyes alive in her great-great grandchildren,
so will you see your youth in the fresh April buds
as life continually reincarnates love and beauty
when the sensual, seasonal winds whisper their cues.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
NOVEMBER PERSONA
The month of November starts in one of two ways
New Englanders expect neither and just wait out the days.
It can be fair and balmy - an Indian Summer
,
Or roar through the hills with lightning and thunder.
Sometimes it’s snow blowing around us too soon
The mountains get coated making Mt. Sunapee swoon.
But who is to guess, and for many why do we try
To figure out what is in store for us from the sky?
The Farmer’s Almanac predicts, but it’s oft very vague
What may happen ‘ore spring but there‘s a time lag.
Readers often forget the comments written in there
As we deal with weather both bad and fair.
It sometimes sneaks in and just whispers a spell
Casting our fate for the season as if one could tell
What winter will be this year, if we just listen well -
It may tell us what’s coming - whether heaven or hell!
SJ Little, Newbury NH
NOVEMBER WHISPERS
it’s November
the time that speaks of summers lost and winter’s long cold gentle slumber,
Brisk autumn whispers speak of changes in the wind
that harken me to days long past and times still yet to be.
Springtime breezes that spoke of new beginning
for insect, bird and beast
that spawned warm summer days of flowers, leaves and hay
now speak to us of winter’s sting and slumber time at last.
It’s November, the time of remembering
souls who’ve taken leave
from this world
to the next.
I hear the rush of swirling leaves propelled
by winds that crash through trees and
forests creaking, groaning, gnashing in the night,
anticipating winter’s frost and daytime’s dwindling light.
By David Balford New London, NH
NOVEMBER WHISPERS
The birches look better wearing leaves
November gossips under a gun-metal sky
the maples are nothing without colors
and the oaks reveal their trunks brazenly
flailing arms empty of acorns, November
complains to the firs, so willing to weave
their needles with every passing wind.
November mocks the milkweed
for birthing seeds and sending them out
on silken wings to root where they will
taking no responsibility for the next
generation, but sighs her welcome to the incoming tide of dark eclipsing
more than its share of the sun each day.
November murmurs and moans, greedy
for cold, for snow, restless for night, but
unable to sleep, chasing clouds, whipping
up white caps while just as eager for ice
to lock down the lake. What is it that
November seeks in her infinite whispers?
Her only promise that winter is coming.
Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH
NOVEMBER WHISPERS
Grey November skies hover over the Merrimack River,
brightening the red brick of silent mills
.
This valley warmer than her home in the Berkshires.
Damp chill.
No snow.
I was born into a clean slate of world
ready to be busy in Peace.
1947 turned inward,
toward what was left of families gathered,
sharing a meal without the need for ration cards.
Real butter from Kennedy’s
No fake wartime butter she squeezed between plastic sheets
until the color capsule turned it cadmium yellow.
Maybe even a bit of lard to make the crust
for Gram’s brown bag apple pie.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
NOVEMBER POEM
I must pay more attention to my clock,
my whisper-time, my greetings and closures.
Are there better terms for concludes or closes?
I hear you, my gone-darlings, my loves,
knowing your language in dreams—
when it seems too late to save you, you return.
Is this a gift or a curse, to know beforehand?
I have learned that there are no goodbyes—
there is no rest, but continuous whispers.
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
BAMBOOZLED AGAIN
I whisper to the ferns that this is their last gasp.
Choose! Either succumb to the inevitable now,
or lay down, soon to be defeated?
My rake hovers above.
They say nothing, they have no choice in their outcome.
Curled fronds still grasp for some scant sun.
Reaching for a shovel I pot as many as I can to bring inside.
Silence from the peanut gallery.
Repeating the seasonal time loop the temperatures plummet.
The unchosen crumple to the Earth, compost at best.
Bamboozled again just like Charlie Brown.
AARGH!
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
NIGHT WATCHMEN
Before the cats were here
our house had mice—
you’d hear them running
in the walls at night,
their tiny footsteps whispering
a thousand signals
through the dark. I felt
invaded by these tiny mites
of fur and vigor claiming space
I couldn’t reach.
And troves of seeds appeared,
secreted on the linen shelves,
a sweater gnawed to shreds
to line a tiny nest I couldn’t see.
And, too, those minute mucks
amid the fallen crumbs.
I sighed, and I would swear
the house sighed too, as if
the mouse encroachment
were an itch it couldn’t scratch,
and in the night, I’d hear the floorboards
crack and snap, the complaints
of uneasy bones.
Now that the cats have come,
the walls at night relax,
for all the house’s bones at last
are held in velvet paws.
Now, on most nights, those little
settling noises through the house
are coming from safeguarded space
and sound like purrs.
Joan Doran, New London NH
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.
(stanza break)
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
PURPLE POLITICS
Purplejjkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjljlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjlkjljlkjlkjlkjlkjklj
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
PO Box 872 New London, NH 03257 1-844-564-2787