Bev Tappan

Month: September 2013

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: A PAUSE BY A POND

    A PAUSE BY A POND

    We stop to sit awhile beside

    Our pond, the asters to admire

    (The royal purple, not the white)

    And note the scarlet-turning sumac,

    Hoping we may hear the flap

    Of slow-descending heron wings

    Or hasty mallard putting on the brakes

    And ruffling up the water, though

    We know our watering hole’s too small,

    And yearly getting smaller, to attract

    A southbound flyer not at all

    Deluded by our wooden replicas.

    At least we may sight the shifting V’s

    And hear the goodbye calls of geese.

    The fall migration’s underway

    And only we must opt to stay.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: BUYER BEWARE

    BUYER BEWARE

    I marvel how the trunks of dead and dying trees

    Are garlanded in fall with poison ivy leaves

    Gladdening the eye and asking to be gathered

    To deck a table for a feast in autumn.

    As coral snakes beguile like harmless cousins,

    Just so were ancient reefs adorned with sirens,

    Caskets with resurrection lilies beautified,

    And cereals with powdered sugar iced,

    And no-down-payment mortgages entice.

    Glittering like gold is worthless pyrite.

    Caveat emptor still is good advice.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: SQUAMSCOTT BIRCH

    THE SQUAMSCOTT BIRCH

    Barrel chested and brawny armed,

    The aged birch still stands

    Incongruous on the riverbank.

    They have fenced it in

    With posts and a metal chain

    To ward off scrambling kids.

    How many years did it take

    To put out all those limbs,

    One torn off by lightning

    Or by wind: the scar remains.

    It’s younger than the pines

    That sheltered shell diggers,

    But did it watch the big-sailed

    Gundalows barging bricks?

    It could not in its salad days

    Arrow skyward slimly straight

    But branched and branched again

    For what was near at hand.

    Hugely ugly, it calls

    Out to me.  It haunts my

    Memory.  It’s begging to be

    Made into a poem.

  • NORWICH YEARS:WINTER TRAILMAKING

    WINTER TRAILMAKING IN MT WASHINGTON VALLEY

    It’s the next thing to walking on water,

    Sinking snowshoes into drifts

    Of down almost out of sight,

    Lifting webbed feet easier than

    We thought but effortfully, white

    Ashes floating up like smoke,

    To take the next giant step

    On immaculate virgin territory.

    This cold day we see no  mouse prints,

    No trails of birdclaws like the tracings

    Of sandpipers playing tag with the tide,

    Only dents of icy missiles

    Windblasted into marble quilts.

    But look.  A raven evicted from pipe-frozen

    Flats above the treeline takes

    Lodging in a topless cage

    Of bare branches, querying us

    With raucous uncrowlike challenges.

    And by that wall a small red squirrel

    With straggly tail munches a pineseed

    Until we shift a pole and he

    Submerges into the briarpatch,

    Rockets up a hemlock and turbo-

    Drives across arboreal highways

    As silently as the beech leaves

    Flutter and scatter across the snow

    Onto our cross-stitched calling cards.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS:LOVE WITH OPEN ARMS

    LOVE WITH OPEN ARMS

    Isn’t that the song the sweet birds sing,

    Leaving empty nests like fruit on barren

    Winter trees?  Forget the crib and playpen,

    College choices and careers.  Feed

    Voracious appetites.  Push the young

    Off the edge.  Share the joy of soaring.

    As soon as you have seen them catch an updraft,

    Veer to the south.  Aspire!  Aspire!  Vacate

    Arboreal condos felled by passing winds,

    And leave the marble halls to earthbound types.

    Be vocal on the wing in wide migrations,

    Flying point or following with the flock.

    Our homes are fragile thatch.  Be briefly tenant.

    The air, the buoyant air, is our only element.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS:WILD GEESE

    WILD GEESE CROSSING

    My Lord, what a morning!  The clothes

    Flap in my face, stiffening as I pin

    Them on the crusted line.  Pine branches

    Toss snow all over the patio.

    Across the cobalt blown-glass

    Bowl of sky between the house

    And the mountain, a wedge of geese

    Have etched themselves arrowing north.

    Like squeeze toys they eject staccato

    Cries in the wind’s swelling fist

    That drift down to our ears, tinny

    As the notes of tongs on toy xylophones.

    Forty years younger I stand

    In a college classroom, teaching assistant

    To a gaggle of World War Two veterans

    Bickering over the symbolism of wild geese.

    Take your notebooks to the marshes and the mountains

    I should have told them.  Set your sights

    For the next four decades and then write

    The message of spring and fall migrations.

  • MEMORIES: LILLIE

    COMPLIANCE

    (for Grandma Lillie)

    White and wispy as spun sugar, her hair

    Is still damp from the rollers, our arrival

    Taking her by surprise.  She sits on her porch

    In the only aluminum chair left, her doll

    Legs dangling.  Gravity has collapsed her

    One inch for each calcium-starved disc.

    Now she says she has no neck and cannot

    Wear the gemstone pendants we have given her.

    She hadn’t thought it would come to this, her porch

    Bare of furniture and philodendron,

    Her plants twisting heart-shaped leaves for the neighbors.

    Her sister says the nursing home is pleasant.

    She doesn’t know what to expect.  She’ll take an African

    Violet with her and a rocking chair.

    She’ll try to bloom where she is planted.  Her voice

    Is thin as the top note on a harpsichord.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS:FAMILY HEIRLOOMS

    FAMILY HEIRLOOMS

    Jewels like fireflies fluttering

    In the shadows of spruce and cedar

    Are recollections of yesterday’s children.

    Out of the corner of my eye

    I see legs dangling from beds

    Heads disappearing down stairwells.

    I hear five siblings faintly

    Slamming doors or crying or

    Giggling in mossy clearings

    They leave things for us to find:

    A size-three sandal once

    Red under a brushpile.

    These children today live nowhere

    Until a marble rolls

    Out from under a radiator

    Or my brush tangles in the dog’s

    Bush like a comb in waist-

    Long shining brown hair,

    Or sitting on the couch with a book,

    Making mouths at me,

    My granddaughter crinkles her eyes.

  • NORWICH YEARS: VALENTINE’S DAY

    VALENTINE’S DAY

    She buys herself carnations in the market,

    Pretending they were sent to her by someone

    Whose fingers read her body in the dark.

    For she who has no lover must invent one.

    Flowers have a brief and poignant time

    To lure the hummingbird or honeybee

    Or luna moth before they wilt on the vine,

    Sterile, unfulfilled and incomplete.

  • NORWICH YEARS: THE CURRENT

    THE CURRENT

    The third week of September the beach

    Is almost empty, but the tepid

    Water foams around her ankles

    Soothing as a jacuzzi.  Sand

    Rushes down between her toes.

    Wading out, she lifts one knee

    And then the other over the boiling

    Suds that try to push her back

    To shore until the viscous sea

    Transports her on undulating wings.

    She strokes out, watching the summer

    Scene reel past like the window view

    When the airplane taxis down the runway,

    Until she discovers she is a passenger

    Much too late to cancel her ticket.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS:OCTOBERFEST

    OCTOBERFEST

    The maples are jars of cherry-orange

    Marmalade.  I eat them with my eyes

    And then the  peach and crimson dahlias

    Flaring between cranberry candles

    In my sunlighted kitchen pass-through..

    The month of great expectations is not

    June or January but October,  the season

     When all things still are possible in the school year

    For teachers and for students.  That

    Was the month I wanted for my wedding.

    The torches of trees set my spirits on fire,

    Reflected in our pond or spread across

    The Appalachians like Indian beadwork

    Shadowed by southbound Canada geese.

    Someday I’ll make a fall journey to Japan.

    Sitting in stillness at the sea of sand

    And stone I’ll empty my inward space

    And take into myself  the plum red

    Gold embroidered hills of Kyoto.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: THE RINK

    A THANK YOU NOTE FOR THE CAST OF “THE RINK”

    Still high, stoned on nostalgia,

    I go into the parking lot

    Humming the theme song of the play.

    Like stage scenery, the sky

    Shimmers with crystal.  The moon

    Is a glitterball on a chain

    Where any father can pull it down

    For his daughter.  Look at Arcturus,

    A Hope diamond on black velvet:

    Follow the arc of the dipper

    And you can put your finger on it.

    Music and colored lights:

    Ghetto kids have overdosed on them

    Spacing on strobe beams and

    Hard rock nuclear blasts.

    Ma and Pa have split,

    Riding roller coaster rainbows.

    They have outgrown magicians,

    Circuses, carnivals and state fairs.

    They’re outward bound for Xanadu.

    Tickets are only a dollar a minute.

    I can remember circling

    In the warm New Hampshire honey-

    Suckle -scented night,

    Skate wheels clicking like a locomotive

    On the tracks to Monterey,

    Round and round the roller rink,

    Silky in my rayon dress,

    Hoping a boy would smile at me,

    Proud of my lace collar.

    The jukebox played the Beer Barrel

    Polka round and round

    Until the lights dimmed for “Couples Only”

    And I rejoined my parents.