Tamworth Poems – Bev Tappan

TAMWORTH POEMS: WHITE MOUNTAIN ART

Bev Tappan — Sat, 22 Oct 2016 09:40:54 +0000

WHITE MOUNTAIN ART

The artists stayed in grand hotels

Leaving in payment for their keep

Saleable oils or watercolors

Where light flickers through lacy leaves

Bounces off rocks and sheep or cows

Gleams on waterfalls and soars

All unconfined to the mountaintops.

Always something catches the eye

In the foreground – a red coat or a dog.

The trees are finely drawn and shadowed.

You can tell weather by the clouds

In skies of varied blues and grays.

These pictures are easy to live with.

Small as postcards or too big to hang

On parlor walls, they hide themselves

Murky with dust in farmhouse auctions.

Today we point the lens at the mountain:

Snow flocks the firs on high ridges.

The alabaster peaks are carved

Chrystal sharp by the cold blue air.

Among the hardwoods a smoldering fire

Of fall foliage lingers – beech,

Birch and the last of the sugar maples.

Catching the eye in the foreground, framed

By telephone poles, lettered in gold

Is the sign of the Up Country Saloon.

TAMWORTH POEMS: A SHOW OF COLORS (Autumn, 2016)

Bev Tappan — Fri, 21 Oct 2016 20:06:29 +0000

A SHOW OF COLORS

At first we thought the lengthy drought

Would quench our usual fires of fall

And we would enter winter without

Our annual foliage spectacle,

For many of our trees went brown

As summer neared its torpid end

And leaves dropped serely on the ground.

What else could this sad sight portend?

Some say that trees can communicate

By underground telegraphic systems.

Perhaps they sent word to their forest mates

That the time had come to show resistance.

So our maples were able to concentrate,

Condense their chromosomes and atoms

And flare up in a blinding last display

Of death-defying radiant patterns.

TAMWORTH POEMS: REQUIEM

Bev Tappan — Sun, 02 Oct 2016 21:16:28 +0000

REQUIEM

The skeletal tree

By the roadside, in the meadow,

That seemed to greet me

When I drove into town,

Its jaggedy branches

Held stoically high

Whatever the chances

Of windstorm or ice,

Gave me courage to face

My ninety-plus years

With a modicum of grace

And a drop of good cheer.

But today it is gone

And I can’t help but mourn.

TAMWORTH POEMS: EARLY WARNING

Bev Tappan — Tue, 20 Sep 2016 16:45:26 +0000

EARLY WARNING

For all you leaf peepers who know

To come up to the Whites in October,

You may be too late for the show.

Our maples are reddening early.

Leaves and needles are brown.

It is only late September, but

We are suffering from a drought.

Some branches are already bare.

By the time most of you get here,

We may have no vistas to share.

Is this the promise of the future?

Has the time come to mourn the maples?

That is a most depressing picture,

And for spring sugaring it bodes ill.

TAMWORTH POEMS: NOSTALGIA

Bev Tappan — Mon, 05 Sep 2016 20:01:25 +0000

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.

TAMWORTH POEMS:THE WOODS IN WINTER

Bev Tappan — Mon, 18 Jan 2016 21:35:17 +0000

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.

TAMWORTH POEMS: PINKHAM NOTCH SEPTEMBER 2015

Bev Tappan — Tue, 29 Sep 2015 15:09:53 +0000

PINKHAM NOTCH: SEPTEMBER 2015

It hurts my heart when I discern

Our flaming maples brown-edged and sere

At that ebullient time of year

That brings the tourists to our region.

And birches’ withered yellow leaves

Are curled and dropping from the trees

Depressing my spirits seriously.

The Appalachians I have loved,

Famed for fall foliage brilliance,

May not deserve a second glance

Without their scarlet Redcoats.

I’m glad I won’t be here to read

That chapter in their history.

TAMWORTH POEMS: WHITE LAKE

Bev Tappan — Tue, 22 Sep 2015 17:48:43 +0000

WHITE LAKE

It’s like dipping our paddles in glass

So clear is the water, so pristine the sand.

We watch as reflections glide past:

The pines and the hemlocks in orderly ranks.

Three loons are reflected as well,

The mother and father with chick in between.

Soon they will hear the South call

And singly take flight to the beckoning sea.

A migrating monarch drifts by,

One of an army toward Mexico bound.

And what is our path, you and I?

Do we too respond to the warm siren’s sound?

Or must we accede to the cold,

Settle down in our comforter blanket of snow?

TAMWORTH POEMS: A TIME TO REAP

Bev Tappan — Mon, 07 Sep 2015 19:38:36 +0000

A TIME TO REAP

A waterfall of crab apples spills

From the tree beside our driveway:

Christmas tree ornaments, scarlet balls

Calling out to be jammed or jellied.

“Do not waste us,” they cry. “Do not leave

Us here hanging to rot unsavored.”

And at church a farm wife rises

To offer her truckful of apples

For cider, for canning, for pies.

This has been a bountiful year.

The branches hang heavy with ripe

Fruit ready to gather, to reap

The summer’s production, a time

For thanksgiving, for counting our blessings.

TAMWORTH POEMS: MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE

Bev Tappan — Tue, 25 Aug 2015 15:56:51 +0000

MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE

We have clickity clacked to the misty summit

Of New England’s tallest weather-wracked peak,

Cog after cog dropping into their sockets,

I accompanied by my kids and their kids

(Hoping we won’t slide back to our doom).

At the age of ten I first ascended the trail

That ran from the railroad base to the Lake

Of the Clouds to the tip-top and down the Jewel,

My mother in sneakers and black print dress

(The last ascent my parents tried).

But I got to know Mt. Washington well:

Repairing cairns in the Alpine Meadows,

Boulder-hopping down Huntington Ravine,

Traversing to Madison Hut and back,

And watching skiers bolt down Tuckermann’s.

I have grown fond of the ancient rock pile.

It was good to re-visit an old friend.