All poems
NOSTALGIA
We look at old time pictures
To see how thick the ice
Once froze to hold our fish shacks,
How deep the hole to pull the pike
Or perch or pickerel through.
Those were the days when snow
Would drift up to the windows
And we would hire men to clear
The porch or sun room roof.
The yearly dogsled races
Were held on Winnepesaukee.
There was cross country skiing.
Snowshoes were more than ornaments.
Old photos show how it was.
KARMA
I never planned a future.
I never envisioned a life.
A series of doors opened up.
Like Alice I scurried through them:
Accepted college tuition,
In Wyoming encountered a husband,
Spent two years in Lima, Peru,
Helped to erect two houses,
Taught English classes and reading,
Had five outstanding offspring
Who now keep an eye on me.
I did not pursue my destiny.
My star led me on like the magi.
A MORNING MISSION
This morning a smoking sea
Of fog enveloped my friend’s
Adirondack lake cottage.
The straggly tips of lonesome
Pines poked out of the mist.
Through glassy water we paddled
To reach a secluded cove.
My friend was on a mission:
She carried her cat’s ashes
To lie in a pristine place
Among the wild inhabitants
Close to the sacred stone
Marking her son’s grave.
LOOK TO THE HILLS
I was feeling blue.
I was feeling glum.
My big 9-0 birthday
Had recently come and gone.
The years that were ahead
Suddenly looked too few.
I headed for the hills
For a more uplifting view
But the hills were wrapped in mists.
And yet the morning after,
Patches of sky shone through.
I recalled a lyric line:
“I’m gonna live until I die.”
And I felt my spirits rise.
THE ART OF THE POEM
Oh I could probably pen
The enigmatic page:
“In the shattered mirror
At the window I see crows…”
Op Art is all the rage.
As every critic knows,
Poetry in plain style
Is rather juvenile.
But I would sooner share
The loon song on the lake
Or a stand of birches,
One moment that may make
Its mark on the sands of time
In rhythm and in rhyme.
FAMILY REUNION
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.
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.
ON A SUMMER EVENING
Atop the Exeter town hall
Our Lady of Justice
Back-lighted by sunset
Holds high her scales
And weighs the brassy
Marching strains
Of the Exeter town band
As we in our lawn chairs
Watch the frisking children
And smell the popcorn.
A pair of Mexican Hairless
Dogs parade by.
The band segues
Into a medley of waltzes.
ON DEPARTING
We should leave this life
In a burst of glory
Like a Roman candle
Or a red maple in autumn.
On fire is the way to go,
Then a handful of ashes
In the children’s flower beds.
No grieving over
Goldengrove unleaving
But the promise of spring
Buds unfolding.
Across the bay breezes
Ruffle the Caribbean waves
Sending their blessed cool
To my fifth floor outlook whence
I watch the Afro boys
Run and jump off the pier,
The sunfish sailors race
In a long leisurely line,
A huge pontoon under sail,
A ferry cargo-ing fares,
Bathers clustered in a shady
Corner of the hotel pool
And coconut palms a-sway:
It’s a “typico” Cuban day.
AT BREAKFAST
Blackbirds soar across
The al fresco cafeteria,
Alight on a plate of melon,
Dance on it, pick at it
And squabble about it
Until the diner approaches
And we consider whether
We should advise the lady
That her fruit has been pre-
Tasted and appreciated.
At last pity prevails.
We warn her of her visitors’
None too sanitary intrusions.
She settles for an espresso.
What lingers in my mind
Of my seven days in Cuba?
Flamboyant poinciana trees’
Scarlet spreadsheets overhead,
Umbrellas shading pedestrians
From the lasering tropical sun,
Smiles and shouts of “Hola!
Bienvenidos a los Americanos!”
A rainbow bridging a bay,
Skies at sunset orangey-pink,
The leisurely arcs of vultures,
A teal green, royal blue Caribbean,
Low hanging mangos and guavas,
The exuberance of syncopated song.