Memories Poems – Bev Tappan

RIVERWOODS POEMS: LOOKING BACK

Bev Tappan — Thu, 22 Sep 2016 21:06:30 +0000

LOOKING BACK

I see them now, the friends of my childhood.

We had the run of the Pine Hill neighborhood:

Out on the vacant lot swinging at softballs,

Called home by porch bells and whistles at nightfall.

Pauline was my first mate, found at age three.

Then there were Millie and Peewee and Jeanne.

We walked as a foursome to the Anderson School,

Played Cowboys and Injuns in adjacent woods.

Weekends and evenings older brothers joined in

For Kick the Can, Ringolivio or Sardines,

Scrambled on cliffs overlooking the hospital,

(Conveniently placed should one of us fall)

Or perhaps tried a game of croquet in our yard,

Rollerskating or biking or rainy day cards.

Those were Depression days, parents worked hard.

Those were our glory days, fondly remembered.

(Inspired by our Chorus’ rendering of “Song for the Mira”

REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: MY GRANDFATHER’S HOUSE

Bev Tappan — Mon, 25 Jul 2016 14:17:37 +0000

MY GRANDFATHER’S HOUSE

Under the hydrangeas on the front lawn

I played with little dolls, the ones

You cut dresses for out of sewing scraps,

Envying my cousins their sibling

Camaraderie. Blackberries bubbled

In pastures overgrown with birches

Where no wolves loitered and rose

Again at breakfast dewy with cream.

The linoleum was cool under feet admonished

To wear sandals. Sunlight baptized

The dining room and half an acre

Of canning vegetables and cucumbers

To be salt-layered in crocks. Roosters

With a glad cry woke me on the airy

Piazza where insects ticking on screens

Had lulled me to sleep. My humpty-dumpty

Grandfather brought four daughters and

Eliza Jane down from New Brunswick

To start a new century in a new land.

A master carpenter, he built their house

Commodious with indoor plumbing. My

Youngest aunt was married in the parlor

While I, a flower girl with stage fright,

Cried on the oak stairs. By that front

Window my grandmother’s cheek

Was granite under my lips when Aunt

Pearl led me to her coffin. “Let

Your vittles shut your mouths,” Grandpa

Advised his grandchildren at the table.

Every Thanksgiving the hydrangeas were brittle

Brown cotton candy on fragile sticks.

RIVERWOODS POEMS: A MEMORY

Bev Tappan — Tue, 12 Jan 2016 18:42:33 +0000

A MEMORY

A squealing pulley, flapping angels:

Wilbur’s poem recalls to mind

Sixty years ago in Maine

I fastened clothespins on a line.

At my feet a red-capped youngster

At my back the veterans’ barracks,

Sheets wind-whipped as they were hung

Fingers numb and face wind-slapped.

When I turned to find my son

He was nowhere to be found

Playing hide and seek with Mom,

Laughing behind our open door.

There is no price I would not pay

To live that life again today.

MEMORIES: THE SNOWS OF CHILDHOOD

Bev Tappan — Wed, 18 Nov 2015 02:02:58 +0000

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: A RECOLLECTION

Bev Tappan — Fri, 13 Nov 2015 02:33:55 +0000

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.

TAMWORTH POEMS: MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE

Bev Tappan — Tue, 25 Aug 2015 15:56:51 +0000

MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE

We have clickity clacked to the misty summit

Of New England’s tallest weather-wracked peak,

Cog after cog dropping into their sockets,

I accompanied by my kids and their kids

(Hoping we won’t slide back to our doom).

At the age of ten I first ascended the trail

That ran from the railroad base to the Lake

Of the Clouds to the tip-top and down the Jewel,

My mother in sneakers and black print dress

(The last ascent my parents tried).

But I got to know Mt. Washington well:

Repairing cairns in the Alpine Meadows,

Boulder-hopping down Huntington Ravine,

Traversing to Madison Hut and back,

And watching skiers bolt down Tuckermann’s.

I have grown fond of the ancient rock pile.

It was good to re-visit an old friend.

MEMORIES: BREAKING AWAY

Bev Tappan — Mon, 15 Sep 2014 00:04:50 +0000

BREAKING AWAY

One summer your daughter’s friends

Trucked their hot air balloon

To her annual potluck barbecue

And some of us held the ends

Of the ropes that tethered down

That globe as it filled with air

And struggled up to be gone,

To be off and away somewhere.

I feel you tugging the strings

That bind our hearts to yours.

Our bittersweet memories bring

Less comfort with passing years,

And our own ties that bind

Us to our youthful friends

Are severed one by one

As they too take to the air.

MEMORIES: TIME TRAVEL

Bev Tappan — Sun, 14 Sep 2014 23:54:42 +0000

TIME TRAVEL

As I cross the Connecticut line,

I am driving into the past:

Past Norwich, where in the city

Garden across from our house

A half cup, a handful

Of my young husband’s ashes

Are nourishing the roses;

Past the no longer new

Montville city highschool

Where I introduced

The first juniors and seniors

To Henry the Fifth and Macbeth;

Past the enlarged co-ed

Williams School on the campus

Of Connecticut College where

My classes of fifteen girls

Doubted the justice of

Hester’s scarlet letter;

On to the rendezvous

At a waterfront restaurant

Of Ledyard Center teachers

With whom I once taught reading

And took fall hikes in the Whites;

And here we all reminisce

With laughter and a few tears.

RIVERWOODS POEMS: COLLAGE

Bev Tappan — Thu, 07 Aug 2014 15:27:21 +0000

COLLAGE

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.

TAMWORTH POEMS: HANDS

Bev Tappan — Mon, 04 Aug 2014 23:15:23 +0000

HANDS

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.