Bev Tappan

Category: Poems

All poems

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: PACING

    PACING

    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.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: ON THE NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON

    ON THE NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON

    On the porch the women spoke

    Of goddesses and wonder.

    Behind the trees the moon arose

    In glowing orange splendor.

    From north and south and east and west

    They called for strength and power

    To meet life’s most exacting tests,

    Lighten life’s darkest hours.

    Then Luna, Goddess of the Moon,

    Rose queenly in the night

    To grant them her distinctive boon

    Of clear and healing light.

    She inspired them to journey on

    Casting impediments off,

    Aspiring to new horizons,

    Daring to venture forth.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: ENCOUNTERS

    ENCOUNTERS

    When I see the deer in the meadow

    I brake the car to stare.

    They seldom allow us to know

    That they like to forage there

    Unlike the wild turkeys who march

    Their rapidly fattening families

    Into suburban backyards

    Where feeders scatter down seeds.

    A handsome red fox used to score

    Always available dog treats

    At my son-in-law’s front door

    But we’ve learned to limit these

    Handouts to creatures untamed.

    When a moose steps over the wall

    We take the flare gun in hand

    To encourage him not to call.

    When a burly bear knocks on

    The window and breaks down the door

    We know we’ve made him too welcome:

    We know we’ve gone too far.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: THERE IS A TIDE

    THERE IS A TIDE

    The tide was high when we put in

    At Chapman’s Landing halfway down

    The Squamscott, and there was no wind.

    We thought the fisherman’s advice was sound

    To head downstream toward the Great Bay

    So when the tide began to ebb

    We’d be assisted on our way.

    We watched the heron overhead,

    Admired the osprey nest on shore

    And came in sight of the railroad bridge

    Through which the current was moving more

    Forcefully on its leading edge.

    While turning around to look behind

    One paddler broadsided the flow

    And we were suddenly shocked to find

    That she was swimming outside her boat,

    Her kayak firmly pinned in place

    Against two randomly rooted posts,

    Nailed by the current’s relentless pace,

    Weighed down by the water’s steady flow.

    Then it was that we recognized

    What tidal power held  us fast,

    That there would be no compromise

    Until we reached the sea at last.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: BABY-SITTING JENNY

    BABY-SITTING JENNY

    We stroll the park, popping snowberries with our fingers

    As I did when a child along the shady drive

    Of my best friend’s house.  We’re pleased to find

    Ripe Concord grapes hiding under leaves

    That vine the walls she loves to walk on.  In the canvas

    Swing her small bottom fits my hands

    Like a teacup as I lift and send her soaring.

    She is old enough to pump herself once

    She gets going.  We rescue a daring toddler

    Who crawled up the slide as a kitten climbs a tree,

    Unable to back down.  Faster than she expects

    Jenny rides the slick steel to a sandy

    Landing.  She tries it again.  We follow pigeons

    To the soda stand, and seagulls lead us to the beach

    Speckled at low tide with perambulating periwinkles.

    They single foot among the Irish moss and sea lettuce

    Where clusters of mussels congregate like Portuguese families.

    Seven geese drift by in a low-flying convoy

    Nattering about the scarcity of minnows.  Jenny splashes

    Ashore to dump her bucket on a sand patty.

    The day is opalescent and fragile as fine crystal

    Or the beauties she blows on her soap bubble ring.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: THOUGHTS ON A HORSESHOE CRAB SHELL

    THOUGHTS ON A HORESHOE CRAB SHELL

    Its carapace lies on the shore

    More ancient than the dinosaur.

    It spawned a hundred thousand roe

    A tasty treat, as Thai folk know,

    And food for heron, gull or tern

    Or any shallow water bird,

    A good arrangement all around

    To hold an overpopulation down.

    Phragmites, called the common reed,

    Can generate a million seeds

    Or send its runners all about

    To crowd its native neighbors out,

    Though grazing cattle can contain

    Its spread and keep the landscape sane.

    The pink wild rose stays in its place

    And does not seek to dominate

    While multiflora roses shoulder

    Their way around, forever bolder.

    What lessons can we humans take

    From other species’ use of space?

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: TODAY’S KAYAK

    TODAY’S KAYAK

    As we put in our three boats

    We feel the first few drops.

    It is too warm for raincoats

    So we push brashly off.

    Across the lily-padded cove

    A hectored heron flies

    Harassed by a persistent crow

    With persecution on his mind.

    The large dark cloud above us

    Then looses its watery freight

    And soon has sprinkled upon us,

    Refreshing on this hot day.

    Undaunted, we paddle onward

    Along the reedy marsh

    Hearing children’s voices behind us

    From the camp whose beach we passed.

    At the island we turn back landward.

    Damp but happy we’ll head homeward.


  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: YOUNG MUSICIANS

    YOUNG MUSICIANS

    Their slender fingers ripple over the keys.

    Their bows stroke the strings with graceful ease.

    Over complex scores their ungrayed heads are bent.

    Their unlined brows furrow with grave intent.

    Mini-skirted or tie-shirted, they create

    Music we oldsters gratefully appreciate.

    This tender talent so pleasing to our ears

    We know will ripen richly in coming years.

  • RIVERWOODS/TAMWORTH POEMS: GRATITUDE

    GRATITUDE

    Flame azaleas by the pond,

    Redbud blooms have come and gone.

    A house finch pair are nesting here

    In my blue spruce another year.

    May’s full moon is safely past:

    We’ll put tomatoes out at last.

    Down the lake my kayak arrows;

    Tadpoles swarm within the shallows.

    I thank whatever gods there be

    For good health and longevity.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: BELGIAN DRAFT HORSES

    BELGIAN DRAFT HORSES

    Huge and heavy-hoofed,

    Wide-eyed but placid Pete

    Gives me a curious look

    While slightly shy-eyed Fred

    Stares modestly at the ground.

    Patient, they stolidly stand

    As straps are buckled round,

    Collars and spreaders hitched

    And wagon tongues hooked on.

    Twelve tourists climb aboard.

    Our driver flicks the reins.

    Fred and Pete ease forward

    And then with a powerful trot

    They pull us up and onward

    Until we crest the hill

    And feast our eyes upon

    A long lake filled with isles.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: IN ABSENTIA

    IN ABSENTIA

    The first Monday in May

    Slid off the calendar.

    It mingled into Tuesday,

    Dissolved in thin air.

    The dentist could not reach me.

    He wondered where I was.

    It was an anniversary,

    A day of grief and loss.

    I could not bear to re-live

    The day my sweetheart died.

    There’s nothing that I would not give

    To have him by my side.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: SPRINGTIME IN THE NOTCHES

    Springtime in the Notches

    We should have known what April fools

    This winter was to make of us.

    It piled the snow up to our roofs

    While Arctic winds assaulted us.

    We looked in vain for signs of spring,

    For daffodils and crocuses,

    But now in May it’s happening:

    The woods are where the action is.

    Below these west-wind-blocking cliffs

    Beneath their blanket of dry leaves

    Shy yellow violets persist

    And Dutchman’s breeches are perceived.

    Where phoebes and song sparrows peck

    The squirrel corn plants its fruity roots.

    Wake robin trillium are on deck.

    Hepatica promises liver cures.

    Dogtooth violets belie their name.

    Spring beauties herald what has come

    At last, unnoticed, unproclaimed,

    Our longed-for time of procreation.