Category: Riverwoods Poems

THE OPENING GAME

On the cribbage board your hands,

Your big and bony masculine hands,

Move your pegs, your red pegs,

And my unwomanly sturdy hands

Want my pegs to follow

But the cards do not cooperate.

Instead I tell you how my sled

Slid into the sunken garden.

You tell me your father died young

But yours was a kindly stepfather.

And now my blue pegs come up

To yours and we move in tandem.

ON SWASEY PARKWAY

The seagulls cloud around her

As she tosses the day old bread.

They swoop and dance and flutter,

Ring bills, gray and white breasted,

Clustered around open water

At the shore of the arctic expanse

Of the seldom frozen Squamscott.

She tells me they know her well,

Crowd up when she appears,

Friends with lively welcomes,

After her bakery days.

She once had a dog companion.

Now winged ones keep her company.

I tell her I will bring bread

The next time I come to the waters.

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.

COLD COMFORT

I heard that flannel nightgowns

Are no longer to be found

In Target or in Wal-Mart

So I looked to Amazon

And luckily they still offer

In every size and color

A plethora of nighties.

From autumn into spring I

Snuggle into scarlet flannel

Bedecked with caroling cats

Worn over lycra tights.

Nothing there is more comforting

On cold and cheerless nights.

OUR SARAH

On the night you were born the snow had fallen all day,

Drifting, walling us into our house on the hill,

And since we knew that you were on your way

We waited and prayed for the plow which did not come.

As dark approached we thought to ride the toboggan

To meet with a cab on the road at the foot of the Heights.

Of course the plow did finally come in time

But that is how I think of your arrival:

A flight straight into our hearts over whispering white.

And that is why I think you were the child

To try a skateboard, parachute out of a plane,

Ride on your Yamaha into the White Mountains,

Run your half-marathons and keep up

With your fast-peddling husband on mountain bikes

And hundred mile road races, and why

You still keep moving, living life on the fly.

BALD EAGLES

Today my heart leaped up as I

Beheld two monarchs of the air

Circling over White Oak Drive

In search of errant squirrel and hare.

As their black wings sailed on the wind,

The sun lit up white heads and tails.

They made four sweeping rounds until

They headed north for our Great Bay.

The Bay’s their winter habitat

With osprey, loon, black duck and grebe.

We’re glad to have our eagles back:

They awe us with their majesty.

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?

THE SOUND OF POETRY

(Inspired by the Concord Inn Open Mike Program)

A song is meant to be sung.

A poem is meant to be said:

Here are the ways I’ve gone,

Here are the thoughts I’ve had.

Vignettes along the road,

Bits of scenes remembered,

Sightings from my window:

A poem is meant to be read.

Music of assonant words

Strung like the notes of a bird,

Joined in a measured tread:

A poem is meant to be heard.

(October, 2014)

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.

WE ARE NOT ON THE LEVEL

Clambering up slippery slopes,

Avoiding obstreperous rocks,

Teetering on edgy brinks

On this over-the-hill hike,

We’ve summited our local Everest,

Mounted steep fire tower steps

And gazed with a mild surprise

Over hills and lakes and skies.

Now sprawled on boulder benches

We eat our ten o’clock lunches.

A mild breeze stirs our hair

While Nancy sketches us there.

Wind-bent pines lean toward us.

A redtail circles over us.

THE SCENE AT SWASEY PARKWAY

See how the shifting wind

Caresses the marsh grasses

Across the Squamscott River,

Bending them this way and that,

Scaring up little brown birds

Chased by the shadowy wave,

While unconcerned, on the water,

Dozens of ducklings circle

Around their mallard dams,

And cormorants sleekly swim,

Slip below the surface,

And bill up wriggling fish,

Eliciting jealous squawks

From two competing ring bills.