Bev Tappan

Category: Poems

All poems

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: MELTDOWN

    MELTDOWN

    This morning we woke to a black and white world:

    Cars and rooftops, walks and road

    Frosted in white.  Every deciduous

    Twig and branch, every needled bough

    Of pine and hemlock coated in snow

    Which the sunset last night gave a rosy glow.

    Midmorning the drops began to fall.

    Drooping pines again stood tall.

    Our windows were streaked with watery streams.

    Sunstruck icicles softened and gleamed.

    By noon the parking lot was bare.

    Winter was retreating here.

    We can’t yet call it an early spring:

    Let’s see what next week’s weather will bring.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: THE WINTER THAT WASN’T

    THE WINTER THAT WASN’T

    On February first the wind

    Leapt up in my face and opened

    My jacket, which I did not mind

    So balmy and soft was the air.

    It felt like the first day of March

    Roaring in, dissolving the snow,

    Summoning vultures whose harsh

    Cries raised my eyes to the sky.

    And so they continue, these warm

    Days with cold nights which cause

    Our maple tree owners alarm

    Lest their syrup season founder.

    Behind us the two warmest years

    On record and now a foreshortened

    Winter: it surely appears

    Our New England climate has altered.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: MOON MEMORIES

    Moon Memories

    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.

  • RIVERWOODS/TAMWORTH POEMS:The Woods in Winter

    The Woods in Winter

    When the snow blows up and sideways

    And a white mist fills the air,

    When spruces, pines and hemlocks

    Have donned white winter wear,

    When rocks in the mountain rivers

    Are circled by collars of rime

    And snow on the boulders’ shoulders

    Wraps them in capes of ermine,

    Then I must take to the woods,

    Set my boots on snow-packed trails,

    Follow the tracks of deer,

    Coyotes and snowshoe hares,

    Rejoice in the white open spaces,

    Respond to the call of wild places.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: A MEMORY

    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.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: TREES

    TREES

    In years past I’ve laid my hand

    On many a smooth-barked tree

    On many a mountain trail

    And looked up to shallow-rooted

    Pines standing stately and tall.

    Like Rob Frost I’ve envied the birches

    That bend under burdens of snow

    In graceful compliant submission,

    Then rise up again in the spring

    To shake their new leaves in the sun.

    Now it’s limb-lopped but upright

    Old skeletal trees that I notice

    On country roads or in paintings,

    Woodpecker raddled and ravaged

    By age that I chiefly admire.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: OUR ISABEL

    OUR ISABEL

    We named her Isabel Damaris

    For genial Grandma Belle Morgan

    And one of the Mayflower daughters

    Because she arrived on Thanksgiving,

    But Izzy was never called Belle.

    She played the French horn and soccer,

    Built furniture, threw Raku pots,

    Brought up a son with wife Beth,

    Computed systems analyses,

    And took to the woods in a tent.

    She went on to home-groom pets

    And cheer-lead her aging mother,

    Who gives thanks every year

    For Izzy’s affection and zest.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: OUR LAST ADVENTURE

    Our Last Adventure

    We took the icebreaker out of St. John

    With her Russian crew and Canadian chefs

    To explore the rocky coast of Labrador

    And mingle with the friendly Inuits.

    In Just spring on the tundra in late July

    The alpine meadows were in full flower.

    Polar bears were easy to spy

    And black bears lolling on grassy shores.

    We bounced on kodiaks into the shallows.

    Our guides carried rifles and went ahead.

    This far north there were no more roads:

    Villagers kayaked by sea instead.

    Mission churches, schools, meeting houses,

    Doctor Grenfell’s famous clinic,

    Hopes for renewable tidal power,

    Gemstones and carvings in the markets,

    You with your daughter, still able to hike,

    Relishing views from the sea-sprayed deck:

    I cherish these pictures in my mind

    Years after our Inuit plane flew us back.

  • MEMORIES: THE SNOWS OF CHILDHOOD

    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: BRINGING IN THE TREE

    BRINGING IN THE TREE

    Evergreens are prickly about being cut

    And carted into houses.  Like cat’s fur

    They give off sparks that set off

    Tempers.  Brothers deride

    Sisters’ choice of shape and height.

    Fathers curse at bulbs

    That flicker out.  Mothers fuss

    At bark and needles on the rug.

    But when the final icicle shimmers

    Into place and rainbow-colored

    Fireflies ignite in darkening branches,

    Satisfaction warms the air.

  • NORWICH YEARS: BACK COUNTRY TOURING

    BACK COUNTRY TOURING

    The waxless skis whisper behind our backs,

    Percussion brushes.  Our poles tap the beat

    On the edge of the drum.  Someone has emptied a sack

    Of diamonds over the thin crust of the snowfield.

    The perfect steps of a fox cross the trail

    Angling straight for a hare’s oval snowshoes.

    Here where lumber crews have clear cut the swale

    A trio of whitewashed peaks smokes into view.

    Sapling birch bark is gnawed into curls by moose.

    Bears have stapled claw marks up beechnut trees.

    In sun-softened snow our glides are long and loose.

    The downhill curves we take with thankful ease.

    We savor the last mile of the river’s edge,

    Remove our skis and cross the covered bridge.

  • REUTEMANN ROAD POEMS: A RECOLLECTION

    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.