Bev’s poetry turned to song – with Izzy Td

I wish that once more we could walk

Across a wintry parking lot

And I could feel your ungloved hand.

We reveled in a northern land,

Planted our skis on snow-packed trails

And snow-shoe’d over hills and dales.

I wish we could be comrades again.

When pines with snowy mounds are bent

And ice shards crackle underfoot

And overhead a raven croaks

Then I imagine I can see

Your ski tracks up ahead of me.

It hangs in the closet

A comfort to see

And helps me remember

His arms around me.

There’s a faint smell of campfires

In the soft fibrous wool.

He loved to chop kindling

When evenings were cool.

That brown checkered topper

I sometimes put on.

It feels like reliving

Sweet days that are gone.

I can see it ahead

On a  cross-country trail

Or a snowshoeing path

On the old Battlefield.

I’ll never discard it,

His lumberman’s jacket.

On the river bank

I look for you

Where the poplars bend

And our green canoe

Hangs under the eave

Of the little shed.

On the grassy heights

Of old battlefields

Where the purple knotweed

Now invades

I trace the trails

Where we once skied.

As your daughters voice

Old family songs

My heart responds:

I sing along.

]]> https://bevtappan.net/2016/08/04/riverwoods-poems-family-reunion/feed/ 0 1404 https://bevtappan.net/2016/04/05/riverwoods-poems-placements/ https://bevtappan.net/2016/04/05/riverwoods-poems-placements/#respond Tue, 05 Apr 2016 18:11:42 +0000 https://bevpoems.wordpress.com/?p=1144 PLACEMENTS

I’ve grown accustomed to this space

These two big rooms I shared with you

Where in the parking lot they face

I see compadres come and go.

We shared small places, you and I

Two-person tents on river banks

The back porch of a double-wide

Youth hostels where we flung our packs.

But we shared larger spaces too

The canyon’s depths, the river’s run

The prairie’s breadth, the ocean’s blue

The broad earth was our living room.

Now you have sought a distant star

While I am lightly tethered here.

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.

On the first day of August I taste

My first ear of garden-fresh corn.

Not a single sweet kernel is wasted

And soon the whole earful is gone.

But with tears in my eyes I recall

A man who, perceptive and slow,

Savored each delicate morsel

As he nibbled his corn row by row.

He split measured logs for our stove,

Swung his ax in unhurried arcs

And moved our canoe with sure strokes

To reach our next campsite by dark.

Now as I hasten my days,

Willing the hours to pass,

I long for his deliberate pace

And the will not to live life so fast.

Whenever you are near

Laughter rises up in me

Like sap in a maple tree.

Whenever you are here

Words tumble out of me

Like coins in a slot machine

When somebody hits the jackpot.

And though I know I ought

To avoid this beckoning eddy

And steer into calmer waters,

Bubbles rise in my champagne

And age no longer trammels me.

Old birds have leave to sing

However short their spring.

Pieces of our shared past

Drift softly in my mind,

Flutter like shaking aspen

Leaves in the autumn wind:

Otters on the French River,

Haleakala’s silver swords,

Sea anemones aquiver,

Beaver woodcutters at work,

Red spires in Bryce Canyon,

Deer on a frozen lake,

A herd of honking sea lions,

Phosphorescence in our wake.

Shifting images coalesce,

Merge in a misty scene:

Bright moments of our happiness

Weave in a fading dream.

They all called him handsome,

But it was not his face

I loved, though he was comely,

And his smile could erase

Any hint of gloom

That ever lingered on

In any darkened room.

It was his hands I loved,

Strong and long-fingered,

Hands that gripped an axe

With purpose and affection

To cut our yearly firewood,

Hands that drew the hoe

Between the beans and cornstalks

And arrowed our canoe

Around the foaming rocks

To where we had to go

To reach our evening campsite,

Hands that pounded tent stakes

To secure us for the night,

Loving hands that gave me

Memories of sweet delight.