Bev Tappan

Month: November 2015

  • MEMORIES: THE SNOWS OF CHILDHOOD

    THE SNOWS OF CHILDHOOD

    When the northeast wind drops a snowy

    Sail and drapes it over our backyard,

    And the halos of angel choristers glow

    All over the ebony bowl of heaven,

    I pull on my wooley snowpants

    And plant my boots in my father’s tracks

    To help shovel out our garage.

    Above a furry muffler and below

    A knitted cap, my cheeks are slapped

    Red as my Yorkshire cousins’,  who once

    Dug paths to the barn.  With a small spade

    I cut cakes as square as ice cubes

    And fling them onto ramparts over my head.

    My father and I sing Jingle Bells.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: BRINGING IN THE TREE

    BRINGING IN THE TREE

    Evergreens are prickly about being cut

    And carted into houses.  Like cat’s fur

    They give off sparks that set off

    Tempers.  Brothers deride

    Sisters’ choice of shape and height.

    Fathers curse at bulbs

    That flicker out.  Mothers fuss

    At bark and needles on the rug.

    But when the final icicle shimmers

    Into place and rainbow-colored

    Fireflies ignite in darkening branches,

    Satisfaction warms the air.

  • NORWICH YEARS: BACK COUNTRY TOURING

    BACK COUNTRY TOURING

    The waxless skis whisper behind our backs,

    Percussion brushes.  Our poles tap the beat

    On the edge of the drum.  Someone has emptied a sack

    Of diamonds over the thin crust of the snowfield.

    The perfect steps of a fox cross the trail

    Angling straight for a hare’s oval snowshoes.

    Here where lumber crews have clear cut the swale

    A trio of whitewashed peaks smokes into view.

    Sapling birch bark is gnawed into curls by moose.

    Bears have stapled claw marks up beechnut trees.

    In sun-softened snow our glides are long and loose.

    The downhill curves we take with thankful ease.

    We savor the last mile of the river’s edge,

    Remove our skis and cross the covered bridge.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: A RECOLLECTION

    A RECOLLECTION

    My father taught me how to fish

    Casting his lure to the pickerel weeds

    Where slender shadows would be seen

    That could make a savory breakfast dish

    When fried well coated with cornmeal.

    At other times we trolled for bass

    While I rowed and he trailed his line

    Baited to make a small mouth decide

    It could not let that target pass,

    A treat too tempting to decline.

    I learned to hold the quarry close,

    Slide my hand gently down the fins,

    Wait for the tail to cease to swing,

    Then softly work the barbed hook loose

    So that it could be baited again.

    At night the horn pout were our choice

    With bulbous heads and smooth black coats

    And sweet pink flesh we’d come to know.

    Their tentacles we tried to avoid.

    Our lantern brought them to our boat.

    My father and I were often at odds.

    I wasn’t the boy scout he might have preferred.

    I did not always heed his words.

    But I can cherish this memory now

    Of me at the oars and him in the stern.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: FALLING LEAVES

    FALLING LEAVES

    They lift and pirouette in the pulsing breeze,

    These brown and desiccated maple leaves,

    Dancing and leaping and twisting, a phantom crowd,

    Surrounding me and my car in a thickening cloud.

    They seem to have some message they want to convey;

    They seem to want me to stop while they have their say.

    I will slow my pace but I will not come to a halt,

    Whatever these autumn messengers foretell.

    Bare branches offer an unimpeded view

    Allowing the splendor of sunsets to come through.

    Snow-dusted branches also have their charm:

    Who strides on snowshoes easily keeps warm.

    At any time of the year I’ll keep journeying.

    The day has not yet come for tamely sitting.