Bev Tappan

Category: Natural World Poems

on plants and other wild things

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: ON THE LAST DAY OF MARCH

    ON THE LAST DAY OF MARCH

    The wind has wielded a brush and comb

    To tease the clouds in all directions

    Extracting fragile transparent film,

    Wafting it over an azure canvas.

    Stubborn diminishing drifts of snow

    Persist in sullen sordid ranks

    Along the gravel encrusted roads,

    Reluctant to cede their prominent place

    However much we wish them gone.

    Meanwhile the red capped finches have come

    To check out the top of my tall blue spruce

    The site of their last year’s nest and brood,

    And the first two turkey vultures arrive

    To circle above the neighborhood:

    I will lift up mine eyes for signs of spring.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: BY A BROOK IN MARCH

    BY A BROOK IN MARCH

    Our micro-spiked boots crunch

    On the icy trampled-down snow

    As we scramble over the drift

    Thrown up by the highway plow.

    We’re next to the Wonalancet

    Brook which feeds the Swift.

    Today it’s flowing handsomely,

    So close to the coming of spring,

    Around and between its rocks

    And logs, all whitely domed,

    All smoothly frosted, silent

    Except where it chatters on shoals,

    Intent on its seaward journey.

    In the forest beside us loom,

    Caped in regal white furs,

    Majestic glacial erratics.

    There beside the trail

    We see the blurred old traces

    Of hoof or paw or claw

    Leading down to the lapping water.

    We pass an ancient tree trunk

    Riddled with woodpecker drills.

    We’re approached by a feisty red squirrel

    Who blithely bounces onward.

    At the bridge we make our turn

    And retrace our steps to the car.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: THE WEIGHT OF WINTER

    THE WEIGHT OF WINTER

    The spruce is still bowed down by snow

    Below my north-facing window.  Its limbs

    Droop sadly, unable to bear the load

    Of yesterday’s twenty-four hour storm.

    Yet across the road the pines have risen

    Branch by branch, shaking off their burdens

    As sun and breeze set them free until

    They stand tall again, undiminished,

    Proud to have weathered another of winter’s

    Relentless assaults, green and regal.

    I think how much difference a little sunlight,

    A little warmth, can make in a life.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: THREE HIKERS AND A DOG

    THREE HIKERS AND A DOG

    A flash of orange bounds across our snowshoes.

    Checker, the black and white Australian shepherd,

    Wearing his lustrous “Hunters, don’t shoot me!” coat,

    Checks up on us as we crunch along White Lake’s shore.

    We watch him tree a saucy squirrel not at all

    Fazed by his leaps and sharp impatient barks.

    Our eyes are drawn to jagged cavities drilled

    In the trunks of pines by woodpeckers after bugs.

    We hear a raven’s hoarse foreboding croak

    And note the jumbled prints of skittering voles.

    Here where the track accesses the shore we take

    A shortcut over the lake.  Checker says “Hey!”

    To an angler who’s driven his truck and fish shack

    Onto the ice but reports, “No dice!” for a catch.

    Halfway around we reach the beeches.  Our poles

    Break free of entangling brush whose name we can’t

    Recall.  We learn the dog has a checkered past:

    Rejected by his siblings, he was the outcast,

    The runt about to be dispatched, but love

    Has prevailed.  He’s now a lively obedient rover.

    Nearing our cars we are brought to a halt.  A mountain

    Bike with snow tires stops our forward momentum.

    We understand Checker’s anxious barks.  We feel

    These forest paths were meant to be trodden by feet.

    Out of the west a wall of darkness dispatches

    The sun and a wintry wind assaults our backs.

    We are just in time to retreat to Rosie’s for lunch,

    Safe from the blast of a fast moving polar vortex.

    Checker curls up for a nap in the back of the van.

    It’s time for next week’s outing to be planned.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: HANGING IN THERE

    HANGING IN THERE

    The flashy flaunting maples

    Have had their say and oaks

    Now hold their tawny sway:

    Orange melanged with bronze

    Mingled with hints of green

    The eye is pleased to linger on.

    And so too do slim beeches

    Add ocher notes to the scene,

    All joining in fall’s final fling

    And in no hurry to let go.

    Skiers will find leaves lingering

    On branches laced with snow.

    A tip of the hat to tenacity!

    Why not prolong the final bow?

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: WILDFIRE SEASON

    WILDFIRE SEASON

    As summer ends we keep our eyes

    On the ground for signs of fire.

    Blueberry bushes blush unseen,

    Sumac turns to red from green.

    Scarlet ivies start to wreathe

    Tongues of flame around the trees.

    In the bogs swamp maples flare

    Showing off their autumn wear.

    Corner woodlots then ignite,

    Captivate us with their light.

    Yellow beech and tawny oak:

    In morning mists they seem to smoke.

    In the end we lift our eyes

    To blazing hills and mountain heights.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: THE FIELDS OF AUGUST

    THE FIELDS OF AUGUST

     

    The table is spread with Queen Anne’s lace.

    Tapers of goldenrod glow in place.

    Modest mauve milkweeds meekly bend.

    Ranks of red fescue soldierly stand.

    Intrusive loosestrife shoulders in,

    A powerful purple infiltration.

    With binderweeds along the edge

    Creep flowerets of yellow vetch.

    This scene that I am driving by

    Is easy on the passing eye.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: THE SUPER MOON

    THE SUPER MOON

    On August tenth the full moon rose

    As close to earth as it ever comes

    And lit the sky with a rosy glow,

    An aspect as rare as it is handsome.

    On that same day a minister came,

    Newly invited to our pulpit,

    And said that he was not so vain

    As to be guided by fateful signs,

    But that he hoped to bring some light

    To help us define our destinations.

    Let us hope that propitious moon

    Illumines the journey we are on.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: EARTHLY DELIGHTS

    EARTHLY DELIGHTS

    Those who have waked to the loon’s querulous cries

    And listened to the wind in the white pines sigh,

    Watched the gray fox walk his casual way

    And moose shake the water weeds out of the lake,

    Startled wild turkeys into sheltering trees,

    Waited for the bear and her cubs to leave,

    Lain in the field to applaud the borealis,

    Savored the syrup of Northeast sugar maples,

    Chatted with the chittering young porcupines,

    Admired beaver families’ dam designs,

    These happy few have enjoyed our earth’s delights:

    They will exit smiling into the infinite night.

    (July 2014)

  • ICELAND POEMS: THERE BE DRAGONS

    THERE BE DRAGONS

    Beneath the Iceland ice cap

    Sleeping dragons lie

    Dreaming of the day when

    They once again will fly.

    And while their dreams are pleasant

    They lie in restful ease,

    But in a fiery nightmare

    Their hot breath starts to wheeze.

    So in the month of April

    Of the year two thousand ten

    Eyjafjallajokull

    Awakened once again.

    The melting ice above him

    Flooded the coastal streams

    And added to the outburst

    Their blinding, boiling streams.

    The earth shook with his movements

    As he rose to his knees

    And lava flowed like red blood

    In rhythm with his keens.

    Until he launched a geyser

    With his desperate dragon roar:

    A tower of tephra boulders

    That tumbled toward the shore.

    As his fire at last abated,

    He sank down in despair

    With just some final hiccups

    Of blue haze in the air.

    But his neighbor Holuhraum

    Has now begun to stir 

    So Icelanders are watchful

    For new tremors in their earth.

    And they keep the ancient adage

    In the forefront of their minds:

    Do not disturb the universe,

    Let sleeping dragons lie.

  • ICELAND POEMS: LUPIN LAND

    LUPIN LAND

    They call you Iceland, but to me,

    You are the land of the light-flecked lupins

    Lapping liquidly up from the sea,

    Flowing like lava on slopes and banks,

    Softening the once-rough lava beds,

    Cooling the once-hot thermal earths,

    Injecting beneficent nitrogen,

    Fixating fine and friable soils.

    Their petals are blue as the glacial flows,

    Tinged with the white of glacial ice.

    Like the ancient Norse, they’ve arrived to stay.

    They’ll hold their ground, come what may.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: THE COLOR YELLOW

    THE COLOR YELLOW

    Forsythia’s buttery bursts

    Glow in  the cloudy gray

    April rain, and willows’

    Key lime fingers sway

    In the watery atmosphere.

    I’m on my outbound way,

    Gladdened by hosts of daffodil

    Suns on a dismal day.