Deadline for submissions March 20th
Poetry by the John Hay Society
Selected each month and published in the InterTown Record
Winning poems are selected each year in all age categories and read at the April First Friday Event!
A HOUSE BEGINS
We start with a house, without a pretense
Small plot of land, a white picket fence
A garden green, with flowered yard
What more to want, it's not too hard
Sloped roof, to accommodate the snow
Many large rooms, wide windows to show
Cuisine well equipped, lots of food there
Well stocked wine cellar, flavors to spare
An abode well designed, as noted above
Warm family presence, filled with love
What we have now, is a comfortable home
Accompanied of course, by this lovely poem
W. D Tighe, New London, NH
A STEP BACK IN TIME
The gray shingled house has long stood untouched—
The home of my childhood in a time when play was innocent—
Full of imagination—make-believe in the fantasy world of small friends.
Teddy bear and my magic skin doll came for tea at a child’s table
Set with colorful tin dishes and tiny spoons.
Eager ears listened to my reading of the nursery rhymes
Pictured on the linoleum covered floor.
I wonder—if I were to visit the old house today—
Would the walls remember me?
Florence Wiltshire Millett – New London
HOUSING
In a tree
down from tree,
Savanna ground.
Animal skins
caves, dens
Neandersapians
mammoth skins,
mammoth bones
covered by skins.
Sticks, thatch, mud
round houses, long houses
tepees, wickiups, sod
on the range.
Hovels, huts, shacks
log, wattle and daub.
Bricks, lumber, steel
cape, saltbox, federal
ranch, Mc mansion
retirement, funeral
casket, cemetery
under the ground,
under a tree.
Robert Manchester, Concord NH
IT BEGINS WITH A HOUSE
You long for a home to call your own
a place to be you when you’re all alone.
Share with someone or two or three
filled with expression, a place to be.
Cook a meal and read what you want
rest or invite a friend to walk.
Watch out a window to see a finch nesting
gaze at the moon while it is cresting.
Wake at night and stare at the stars
crawl back to the warmth and lay under cover.
A place to come home to every day.
It begins with a house and becomes a home.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
TOO MUCH STUFF
It starts with the house
and then a garage
tools for the upkeep
and of course, the yard.
Lawn chairs and coolers
awaiting the summer
no matter what you get rid of
there’s still too much clutter.
How did it happen
with all this stuff?
The answer, of course,
you bought a house.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
Late in the Depression we camped in Vermont.
Touring northern highways Dad saw a house so sad.
House and shed, (camp, studio, vacation fun font).
We did get in, though spear-headed by Dad.
He was cautiously allowing only short forays inside,
Worried about rotten joists helped by leaky roof.
Outside the trim was in place, paint-less beside.
Deeds, ownership, history, taxes, necessary proof.
Went to town and inquired (Dad a newspaper man).
Title held by bank, price reduced, Dad much aglow.
Who would do a house inspection? Charlie can.
Mother pointed out the remoteness and said NO!
Dan H. Allen, New London NH
IT BEGINS WITH A HOUSE
Where our representatives meet
Unprotected from lies
That are repeated, retweeted, repeated, retweeted
Echo fear
Take shape as a creed
Dedicated to a false ideal
Fuel an armed mob
Incited to murder
Storm, plunder and loot the people’s house.
Officer Eugene Goodman stood alone
as the door to the capitol was breached and the mob
spilled into the corridor.
He poked and provoked the leader of the mob to follow as he
Ran in direction away from the open Senate door.
Provided the minute needed to secure the chamber.
Looked back and ran further with the mob in pursuit.
A black man, pursed by a mob, whose selfless response
Saved those elected to Congress from violence and gave fellow
Citizens hope that some will stand and face off hate.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
SOMEWHERE IN THESE REINCARNATE DECIBELS OF LIGHT…
Somewhere, in these reincarnate decibels of light,
Your dark-life-haunting is always a house….
This house, you never view from the outside; it
Is constant from its innards and beckons your bones.
Empty rooms, hallways, stair-flights—cellar-to-attic,
Attic-to-cellar, this house you fear the most, where
Every turn you tip-toe, you know you are not alone….
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton, NH
IT BEGINS WITH A HOUSE
A simple cape built in 1929 by Yankee carpenters
Who stripped boards from the foundation pour
To sheathe the roof which stands tight
On a snowy hillside
Sheltered from the north wind by pines
A view west toward the mountain
A caution light blinking at the intersection
A tidy Olmstead garden tended by volunteers
Visible from the front yard.
A town so unlike any I have known
An old root cellar held gray shelves of mason jars,
Lids, wooden boxes, metal pans and work gloves.
Until, a possum found its way in smiling
As it hung on the old beam
Prompting a tear down and new cement floor.
A fuse box with stacks of copper pennies on the lid.
Roof rake, snow shovels, snow scoops and rubber galoshes
End to end, two cars could now be stored
Out of the snow and wind
These twenty years in a quiet house have changed
Me and shaken me out of busyness.
Aware of the chattering and warble of birds,
Chipmunks scurrying along the stone wall.
Sunsets from my window.
A bell to mark the hour .
I long now for quiet spaces.
Simple choices.
Less.
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London NH
MINTY
Every great dream begins with a dreamer.
-Harriet Tubman-
Begin with a house on a wealthy planation,
in Maryland, then zoom in on the slave quarters.
Here my life began as Araminta Harriet Ross
the daughter of slaves. Cruelly treated, whipped
and struck in the head causing seizures during
the remainder of my life, I imagined my episodes
as spiritual visions that promised me a better life.
My parents called me Minty and part of me
will always be that little girl who saw her sisters
sold and taken away yet I watched my mother,
Harriet, fight to keep my brother on the planation.
She became my idol and I asked to be called Harriet
when I married a free Black man, John Tubman,
never expecting my name in history books.
I became a liberator of my people, guiding them
to safety, never thinking of myself as a hero
only doing what my visions portended.
Even becoming a spy for the Union forces
my main objective was freedom for my people.
My life’s journey gave me over ninety fulfilling
years and I died a free woman in New York
content that my life’s mission was accomplished.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
THE BONES OF THE HOUSE
The house bore everything within its bones:
murmurs at night, birth cries, prayers breathed
for strength, against despair, and for drought’s end,
for fruitful harvest, and for births—
so many births,
so many silent prayers, beside still graves.
The house heard crow calls at first light
the lowing of the cows, the horses’ neighs
the stirrings in the house, the men still yawning
as they carried the fresh water and the feed
out to the barn, the women, coaxing back
the slumbering woodfire in the iron stove,
measuring out the flour for the biscuits, cracking
rafts of eggs, retrieving bacon rashers
from the smokehouse, slicing through the slabs
of last night’s pie before they cleaned it all away,
before the dinner bell at noon, before
the men returned, laconic, ravenous,
sunburnt and glistening with sweat
to stoke their bodies for long labor with their horses
in the fields until the sundown, milking time.
Then grace, leftovers supper by lamplight,
the Bible readings, early bed, exhausted sleep.
The house held visions in its bones:
young children bursting from the wide front door,
streaming through long pastures to the one-room school,
the teacher keeping order and instilling
righteousness and awe with lessons
of our patriots’ valor, and of wonders far away.
The house observed the trimming of lamp wicks,
the tinkers come to mend the broken pots,
the grinders come to hone the tools, the seamstress
come to cut and sew the year’s new clothes for Sunday best,
with last year’s clothes now set for every day.
The Bones of the House-2-
The house knew everything: that chipmunks bred
their young beneath the porch and cats their kittens
in the barn. Through tall windows, it observed
the buggies go to fetch the mail and store-bought goods,
to carry family to the country church—
knew of the endless hours spent in pews, transfixed before
pre-destination, before blame—Alone, it knew
the well was poisoned, saw the typhoid’s toil,
and bore the grief pent in its bones.
It saw the buggies come and go:
knew of the parlor visits, churchyard graves.
Until at last, past shoulders squared,
defying pestilence and drought—past
brave veneer of pride, past shame,
past secrets stored away—
the house’s bones grew old, its rooms bereft
except for mice who claimed the larder’s crumbs
as one by one, the family left, transplanted to the town—
the livestock sold, barns empty but for feral cats,
the fields gone fallow, loosened shutters
clamoring against night winds that set
the house’s bones to shivering, to hollow ache.
In the quiet at the end, the squatters came
then fled to their next fate--
Behind them, untamed wildfire left
spent ashes of the house’s bones
that slowly drifted through bare fields,
beyond crow calls--to vanish in the rising light.
Joan T. Doran, New London, NH
I’m Rudolph the Red so listen up here,
There ain’t gonna be no snow this year.
Climate change has caused the old man worry
So this year we will pack up the bright red surry.
Gifts will now be left at the front door
cause the COVID numbers are starting to soar.
If your security system scans a masked man,
he’s leaving gifts not taking them man!
So put the gun down and please don’t shoot,
it’s 2020 and no one will give a hoot.
And don’t leave Santa no cookies and milk
a nice cold Corona is more his ilk.
I know you dudes want this year to end,
to finally become horrible legend!
So have a drink or two to turn your nose red,
then hunker down and go to bed.
So as I powder my frostnipt-nose
I’ll bring this rap to a hasty close.
Cause I’m a transgender deer,
see ya’ll next year with Christmas cheer!
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
I didn’t do it!” claimed Cupid to the rest of the herd.
My alibi may be weak, but this is absurd!
Blaming me for restrictions I had no part in making
Because isolation and safe distancing now make partaking
In the usual treats left for us on each Christmas Eve
Will be missing and you can’t really believe
It’s because my trait is uniting friends - don’t be naïve!
Just because I like bringing people together
Doesn’t mean I caused infections making folks feel under the weather.
I’m innocent I tell you - just a reindeer facing the new rules
And aware that our carrots won’t be left for us during this Yule.
So don’t blame me and realize that we all must do without treats
And hope by next year the pandemic will be beat!
S. J. Little, Newbury NH
I live in a small town
Pandemic is all around
Holidays are here, not easy to cheer
When there is so much fear.
WE all are having hard times
Blaming won’t solve this crime
No time for weeping or sleeping
I feel more alone, no family is near
I wear a mask and keep my distance
Rushing out to get supplies, I take a chance,
Rushing home, to husband I’m losing
New challenges everyday, every wound oozing
No time to write or paint or play
No time to lend a helping hand to others
But I still worry about my sons and brothers
Today, I saw a deer print in the snow
Maybe the best part of this grey day
From this dark hole, I search for a small glow
Of warm light, I know it is here
I know it is here, I want to stay
Loa Winter, Newbury NH
On Dancer, on Prancer
So the story goes
Urge those Reindeer
Through the snows
With a full sled
Laden with toys
For all the children
Girls and Boys
For Santa Claus
The bells do ring
It's holiday time
Let's all sing
The tree is decorated
The night is still
Merry Christmas to all
If you will
W. D. Tighe, New London NH
A rare silence is the peace — a peace the world
Competes with in its struggle to breathe tranquility
In this time of Christmas — when long ago —
A child lay in a manger bed amid donkeys and lambs.
A lone holly berry shivers in December’s cold —
Our season of hope to brighten the silence of Christmas.
Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH
Santa’s the boss, he’s the man with the beard
who delivers the toys, you might have heard
if you’re good you get something, but not if you’re bad
that’s the way it goes, don’t be mad.
I’m second in command they call me Rudolph
my nose is red, hey, just get over it.
I’m first in line on Santa’s sleigh
here are the others and how they sway.
Dancerand Prancer like to hang with the stars
Comet’sright with them, a streaker for sure.
Dasheris fast with a crush on Vixen
Blitzenlikes eggnog and is known to nip some.
Cupidloves Donner, but I am a loner
still waiting for a reindeer who likes my persona.
The elves have been working and need a break
the list is long for goodness sake.
We are ready to go so stop that chatter
start making those cookies, hey, we all like chocolate.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
Not talkin bout death
Not talkin about pain
Everyone suffers
Won’t hear it again.
Everyone gains when
They eat chocolate.
Chocolate, chocolate that’s my song,
Milk or dark salted with caramel
Kisses or bark it’s all I’m wantin.
Used to be vanilla when I was young
Plain and simple that was my song.
Then I switched to cherry, chips and cream
Saw the light and that was my dream.
Life got complicated things got brittle
Made a switch and it made things simple.
I’m talkin about chocolate,
Dark, light and salted.
Crunchy to the teeth, creamy to the taste,
Bitter sometimes but never a waste
Talkin about chocolate.
Mary Blohm, Newbury NH
I’m staring out the window and I’m feeling kinda low
The icicles are dripping down onto the soggy snow
I remember “It’s December!--but it doesn’t feel the same
‘Cause this is 2020 and darn’ COVID is to blame.
You say your morning’s lonely—and you’re lonely in the night
You’re lonely every afternoon—yo, hope you are all right.
You’re sick of all the masking—and you’re sick of eating beans
you’re sick of black and white and gray instead of reds and greens.
I won’t look out the window—all that soggy frozen stuff
I’m gonna play some music—even “Rudolph” is enough.
I’m gonna bake a fragrant cake-- jot you a Christmas card
and send you wrapped-up packages—and love—that isn’t hard.
Let’s all go out and find a tree and light it red and green
and put it in the window for its beauty to be seen.
And then from every window there’ll shine a vison bright
as all the world rejoices still—in miracles of light.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
The reindeer are refusing to saddle up and do their task
Cuz Santa absolutely won’t comply and wear his mask
The reindeer explain the viral reality they all are facing
Come on, oh Christmas Dude, just imagine contact tracing!
Reconstruct a Christmas Eve of a Covid Santa bringing gifts?
No mo’ ho-ho, homie, we’ll be antler-deep in global rifts
But Santa is determined to present his well-known face
And the reindeer are refusing to vacate their parking space
Rudolph intercedes and pokes his (red) nose in the matter
Rudy knows he must do more than compliment and flatter
Convince the guy in the Santa Suit, “Mask up before the flight!”
He does what comes most naturally, for Rudy hates to fight
Rudy convinces Santa to wear a mask adorned with bling
Santa sees he now looks like a young and dapper thing
Santa’s vanity in tact, and reindeer ready to take flight
We hear our blinged-out Santa sing, “And to all a good night!”
Catherine A. Feeney, Durham NH
(the answer is blowin' in the wind)
(Bob Dylan)
At the corner of a busy intersection the faithful gather.
Still. Asking drivers, honk your horn, and waving
flags and banners into the wind of traffic as if to wipe
away reality. Walking down the street to a quiet
neighborhood, headphones on, Cesaria Evora sings
em busca di um futuro. An old man with very long
clippers cuts up small palms, and behind an empty
house sits a lonely pink Our Lady, her shell protecting
her from the late morning sun. The poem about houses
on a Florida street, abrupt in the middle, was only a
pigeon to carry a message in its epigraph and the last
line. Those words by a long-admired artist who now,
like Esau, sells his rights, his songbook, for use in
selling cars, soaps or shoes.
Bob Manchester
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