Bev Tappan

Category: Friendship Poems

Bev is a social being

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: THE AGING BRAIN

    THE AGING BRAIN

    I don’t recall your face

    And yet you know my name:

    This is a frequent lapse

    In my senescent brain.

    A “stranger” smiles at me

    And waits expectantly.

    What will my answer be?

    I smile effusively.

    Or I will make two dates

    For the same calendar hour

    When a single destination

    Is all that’s in my power.

    Or the “crossword” that I know

    May still remain a blank,

    So tantalizingly close

    Outside my memory bank.

    I fear the day will come

    When I forget my name,

    Forget to return home

    Because I’ve lost my way.

    But I will brightly smile

    And answer eagerly,

    Remembering all the while

    That once you smiled at me.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: A CHANGE OF MOOD

    (With thanks, as always, to R. Frost)

    I know how Hester must have stood,

    Branded with shamed ignominy,

    And why she took to the woods.

    Public humiliation can be hard

    To take, but on the other hand,

    I have found sympathetic friends

    And shared my woes with them:

    “I didn’t expect to see YOU here!”

    “Well you can leave if you want to!”

    Their laughter dissolved my embarrassment.

    I now can tell myself, “Get over it!”

    (3/30/14)

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: TOUCHSTONE

    TOUCHSTONE

    I was delighted to discover that

    The big blue-handled soup bowl

    With its fat sergeant major,

    Wavy kelp, squid and scallop

    Shell, was made in Kuaui.

    Dear Lynne: with all her household

    Goods she has endowed me and now

    She has willed me her son’s memento

    Of island bliss: the fierce Na Pali cliffs

    Over-watching white sand beaches,

    Bright-feathered Jungle Fowl

    Parading the streets, kayaking

    The Wilua River and then trekking

    In Tevas to the Sacred Falls,

    Dramatic over-looks in Waimea

    Canyon, admiring the green beans

    In the Kuaui Coffee Company groves

    And then sampling the sacred brew

    That even now recalls Hawaii.

     

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: TIME OUT

    TIME OUT

    What better than falling snow

    To cover yesterday’s scars,

    Make the clock run slow,

    And quiet our racing hearts

    Giving us leisure to pause,

    Permission to sit still,

    Cherish the chance to withdraw,

    Watch the curtain fall.

    In this welcome hiatus,

    Secure in a warm room,

    We can appreciate

    The morning’s several boons:

    Coffee, the morning news,

    A crossword puzzle nailed,

    An email from a friend,

    Tax papers finally mailed.

  • NORWICH YEARS: AERIES

    AERIES

    (For Jim and Loraine)

    Some people live in glass houses

    And watch the arabesques of waves

    Along the shore while making harmonies

    Of baroque bassoon, flute and harpsichord,

    Or talk of politics and architects while spider

    Webs of city lights outshine the stars.

    Having climbed peaks and photographed

    The ancient sites of arts and wars,

    They perch their homes on canyon walls

    Softened by swirling mists that flow around

    Pines, cedars and jagged vertebrae

    That sharpen mountain spines.  These happy

    Few have made their lives a work of art

    To share with friends and students.  They

    Like Hawaiian dancers hold the sun,

    Moon, rain, stars and wind in their hands.

     

     

  • NORWICH YEARS: ANNIVERSARY GREETINGS

    ANNIVERSARY GREETINGS TO OLD FRIENDS

    As young marrieds we shared a tent,

    Pine-needle scented, beside Lake Erie.

    After supper we took long walks.

    Moonlight bleached the green out of the grass.

     

    Between New England and the Mid West

    Letters wove a cat’s cradle of news

    Across the miles, harpoons trailing explosives.

    We transmitted the years of our lives.

     

    We have pedaled leaf-dappled bike paths

    Into Van Gogh”s light-blasted landscapes,

    Reddened our mouths with Antwerp raspberries

    And spiraled on soprano notes around St. Paul’s.

     

    Watching children and parents disappear

    Beyond opposite bends of the river,

    We raft the whitewater, exhilarated,

    Savoring the swiftness, the infinite variety.

     

  • NORWICH YEARS: EXCHANGE

    EXCHANGE

    They had to raise their voices to be heard

    Above the hoarsely caroling ghetto box

    Exuding Christmas atmosphere for senior

    Citizens.  The food was their concern:

    Roast beef with cheese on buttered bread would not

    Have met with Doctor Pritikin’s approval.

    They recollected chickens fed on grain,

    Scalded in iron sinks of farmhouse kitchens.

    She told of pitting dates and cracking walnuts

    With her sister after school and slicing

    Maraschino cherries for the cornflake-

    Dusted cookies known as cherry winks.

    He responded with his memories

    Of fingers stained by black walnut shells

    And pricked by nutpicks prying out the smoky

    Bits his mother folded into clouds

    Of sugary egg whites called divinity fudge

    That melted on the tongue like snow in summer.

  • SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE: ANNIE

    LA HIJA GRINGA

    Annie helps the shoeshine boy.

    They have long talks in the garden,

    Where a boy she does not know

    Hands her his heart on a string of beads.

    She invites Amaro and Carlos to

    Experiment with swimming in her pool.

    They borrow trunks from her father.

    Over an endless box of Ritz,  Amaro

    Confides he sometimes feels left out.

    So does she, Annie tells him.

    They dance long hours at the disco:

    Annie and C.C. with Mosco, Lechuga

    And all the Jackals, who laugh

    When they call her Arana (Spider).

    Sometimes the boys urge the girls

    To dress up.  Annie prefers jeans.

    But at the Halloween party she wins

    Second prize as Ana the Banana.

  • NORWICH YEARS: JULIA

    JULIA

    She speaks as always without preamble

    As soon as I lift the phone:

    You are watching the MacNeil Lehrer Hour?

    The Polish inflection is strong.

    Yes, of course, I would not miss it.

    I’m very proud of your son

    I answer, but she has already hung up

    And hurried back to observe

    What else our Congressman will say:

    He is rejecting Contra aid.

    That morning we argued about his views

    While correcting voter lists.

    She’d brought the boy to this country

    And put him to work tending cows.

    Small and talkative as a wren,

    She hustled around the office,

    Warning me never to trust the Russians

    Who imprisoned her and myriad

    Others.  She sends clothes and food

    As she helps the homeless here.

    Still she understands that I,

    A nuclear freeze advocate,

    Primarily dread the holocaust

    Star wars would generate.

    She makes me chopped liver sandwiches

    And gives me good advice.

    I bring her cranberry relish.

    We share so little and so much.

  • MEMORIES: HELENE

    AN OVERDUE NOTE

    (For Helene)

    All right, Helene, here is a poem

    About our salad days as wives

    Of graduate students, housed in adjacent

    Twenty-foot trailers next to the

    University stadium.  “On Wisconsin”

    Energized our weekends.  Saturday mornings

    Over cups of coffee, I asked you

    What it was like playing clarinet

    In Phil Silver’s All Girl Orchestra,

    And envied the separate vacations you

    And your husband took to visit relatives.

    You tried to make me read Karen

    Horner, for whom I think you named

    A daughter.  You were the first and most

    Liberated woman I’ve known.  We’re talking

    Now about the forties.  You asked me how

    I grew my hard shell.  I counted all

    The closed doors in my parents’ house.

    When we had children, your four,

    My five, your milk and affection

    Flowed like sap.  You were not

    Strict about toilet training.  You

    Were as self-fulfilled as a redwood

    Sheltering sprouts.  They tell me when

    You died of breast cancer, you made

    The parting bearable for all your brood.

    You were always ahead of me, Helene.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: RUG HOOKING

    RUG HOOKING

    Three women, warmed by a wood stove

    And cactus blooming in springtime, handle

    Soft wool.  One thumb and finger, unseen

    Beneath the burlap, locate the next connection.

    A dowser’s stick or well bucket, the hook

    Goes down and brings up particles of water,

    Petals, greenery, clouds or sky.  A starling

    Flaps at the window, puzzled by plants in pots.

    She streaks the race and toss and curl of wave

    In wind, the sail tilting, seagulls diving.

    Medieval women weaving tapestries,

    Nuns embroidering altar cloths, or frontier

    Wives quilting Texas stars, they talk

    Of coming wars, sickness, healing herbs,

    Babies, retirement plans and children’s destinies.

    The pup, a fluffy mushroom, sniffs and sneezes.

  • FRIENDS: SERMON BY OUR FAVORITE HERETIC

    Sunlight dyed crimson by the lead-limned folds
    of the master shepherd’s cloak
    Turns auburn the coiled braid of the harpist
    Leaning gently into her royal
    Instrument inlaid with vines, a Corinthian column
    At its prow. She weaves us melodies.
    The stained glass sheep listen, eyes
    Downcast or mesmerized, feet
    On apple green astroturf. HOw sweetly
    Jesus leads his flock.

    But what is this we hear? What heresy assaults
    Our ears? The seed that Origen
    Implanted ran rampant like kudzu or bittersweet when
    Rowed ashore by Murray, who was
    Blown off course and washed up in New Jersey
    Where crazy farmer Potter’s
    Chapel waited for an anti-Calvin to unbolt
    The gates of Hades and harrow
    Hell and escalate sinners to God’s coffeehouse.
    Not obedient sheep.

    But randy goats, fauns, satyrs, Pan’s
    Unspeakable obscene ilk were
    All invited to a divine live aid
    Amplified synthesized concert
    After, of course, some brief retraining in the basics of
    Remedial ethics: Miss Manners’
    Finishing school for psychopaths, terrorists and sadists
    With rehabilitation guaranteed.
    Verily he would never insult us by calling himself
    Pastor to a flock of sheep.