The sun was bright, the surf was high

As my daughter and her wife and I

Drove slowly along the New Hampshire shore

Among cyclers and bikers and pedestrians, more

Traffic and cars at the curb than I

Could remember seeing in days gone by

No doubt because it was Labor Day

And everyone wanted the summer to stay.

At Orient Point we took to a trail

And watched some distant yachtsmen sail.

We saw the cormorants flex their wings

While gulls pursued their wanderings.

The Isles of Shoals seemed beckoning.

I thought about that old time inn

Whose porch I once sat happily on

With a dear love who now was gone.

Ellen Schmidt Open Mike – March 21, 2022

• hosted by Dan Tappan
• The Trail Not Taken (with Apology to Robert Frost)
• A Reminder

Ellen Schmidt Open Mike – March 7, 2022

• hosted by Dan Tappan
• The Kancamagus Hike
• The Last Day of March

Mid -May we’ve paddled north down the Allegash.

Some snow still lies in mounds on the shaded banks

Though bobolinks will lilt in the Ranger’s patch

Near where we’ll pitch our tents at Long Lake camp.

A tiny bear cub paces on a fallen tree

Mewling for his no doubt nearby dam.

Ahead a heron flaps up frenziedly

Thinking to flee in needless panic from

Our curious but unmolesting gaze.

Among the reeds two moose lift dripping heads

To watch us while they chomp on watery hay.

Behind them a sly muskrat keeps to the edge.

The evening brings a misty rain and then

 A rainbow arches at the river’s bend.

Land of fjords and mighty glaciers

Waterfalls and lonely farms

You exceed our expectations

You have strangely winsome charms.

From the ice age still emerging

Northern lights fluoresce your skies.

Dog sleds cross your frozen valleys

Reindeer drink from holes in ice.

Skiers trek beside your railways

Down the slopes and through the woods

Hut to hut and town to town

Snow-connected neighborhoods.

In the summer’s ceaseless light

Gardens burgeon, crops erupt.

Sheep and goats and cattle graze

Widely on your mountain tops

Sentinel farms on fjords and highlands

Villages with stave church steeples

Glass-towered cities, bullet trains

                                                    Nordic blond athletic people:

Cognizant of all your virtues

We of southern climes salute you.

You see their statues everywhere

                                                     Those weird Norwegian trolls. 

Big-eyed, big-bellied and big-eared

They’ve popped up from their holes.

Perhaps that’s why on every road

And under every hill

So many tunnels have been bored

With more in progress still.

And even ships will soon descend

Beneath the hills and sea

To sooner reach their journey’s end

From gales and blizzards free.

Safety and comfort are the goals

Norwegians most esteem.

Convenience is why they tunnel roads

And drive with moderate speed.

Clad in our blue and white guesthouse kimonos

We sit at a low table

Where oval cups repose while tea leaves

Steep.  Calm as anemones.

We have drifted in steaming baths, shed travel

Stress with western clothes.

Lemon lilies smile by the television.

From cherry tree to river

Finch notes drop with white petals.

Kneeling on the tatami mat

The innkeeper’s wife and her maid pull sheets

Smooth as just fallen snow

Tight across fiery red futons.

Later we will stroll along the shore

And cross the bridge to the three-story pagoda.

]]> https://bevtappan.net/2017/01/05/norwich-years-the-inn-at-takayama/feed/ 0 1724 https://bevtappan.net/2016/07/07/cuba-poems-balcony-view/ https://bevtappan.net/2016/07/07/cuba-poems-balcony-view/#respond Thu, 07 Jul 2016 13:06:40 +0000 https://bevpoems.wordpress.com/?p=1334 Across the bay breezes

Ruffle the Caribbean waves

Sending their blessed cool

To my fifth floor outlook whence

I watch the Afro boys

Run and jump off the pier,

The sunfish sailors race

In a long leisurely line,

A huge pontoon under sail,

A ferry cargo-ing fares,

Bathers clustered in a shady

Corner of the hotel pool

And coconut palms a-sway:

It’s a “typico” Cuban day.

Blackbirds soar across

The al fresco cafeteria,

Alight on a plate of melon,

Dance on it,  pick at it

And squabble about it

Until the diner approaches

And we consider whether

We should advise the lady

That her fruit has been pre-

Tasted and appreciated.

At last pity prevails.

We warn her of her visitors’

None too sanitary intrusions.

She settles for an espresso.

]]> https://bevtappan.net/2016/07/07/cuba-poems-at-breakfast/feed/ 0 1318 https://bevtappan.net/2016/07/07/cuba-poems-mixed-memories/ https://bevtappan.net/2016/07/07/cuba-poems-mixed-memories/#comments Thu, 07 Jul 2016 12:51:54 +0000 https://bevpoems.wordpress.com/?p=1303 What lingers in my mind

Of my seven days in Cuba?

Flamboyant poinciana trees’

Scarlet spreadsheets overhead,

Umbrellas shading pedestrians

From the lasering tropical sun,

Smiles and shouts of “Hola!

Bienvenidos a los Americanos!”

A rainbow bridging a bay,

Skies at sunset orangey-pink,

The leisurely arcs of vultures,

A teal green, royal blue Caribbean,

Low hanging mangos and guavas,

The exuberance of syncopated song.

How many moons did we gaze at

From that first one in Craftsbury’s skies

That shone on the cross-country ski trails,

Showed the love light in your eyes:

On the banks of the Allagash River,

At our tent in the Everglades,

In the Lake Huron island campsite

Where our food bag was rifled by bears,

At a midsummer fest in Denmark,

In Aruba’s phosphorescent sea

And Saint John’s coral reefs.

Tonight when I looked at the moon

I yearned for the days that are gone.