Bev Tappan

Category: White Mountain Poems

  • Bev reads at ESOM – 8/22

    August 29, 2022

    Ellen Schmidt Open Mike, August 29, 2022

    • hosted by Dan Tappan
      Mount Washington Poems
    • Repairing the Cairns
    • A Mountaintop Experience

  • Bev read at ESOM – 4/22

    Ellen Schmidt Open Mike – April 4, 2022

    • hosted by Dan Tappan
    • Timing is Everything
    • A Backward Glance

  • Bev reads at ESOM – 3/22

    Ellen Schmidt Open Mike – March 21, 2022

    • hosted by Dan Tappan
    • The Trail Not Taken (with Apology to Robert Frost)
    • A Reminder

    Ellen Schmidt Open Mike – March 7, 2022

    • hosted by Dan Tappan
    • The Kancamagus Hike
    • The Last Day of March

  • Bev reads at ESOM – 2/22

    Ellen Schmidt Open Mike on February 7, 2022

    • hosted by Dan Tappan
    • Winter Backpack

  • Bev reads at ESOM – 10/21

    Ellen Schmidt Open Mike on October 18, 2021.

    • hosted by Dan Tappan
    • White Mountain Art
    • A Show Of Colors (Autumn 2016)
    • On October 12th

    Ellen Schmidt Open Mike on October 4, 2021

    • Dan Tappan host
    • A Recollection
    • My Grandfather’s House

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: REFLECTIONS

    REFLECTIONS

    The lambent sun burnishes Cannon’s cliffs

    As we draw near Franconia Notch and then

    The rock slide screes are sparkling as if

    A Titan’s eyes are focusing on them.

    Past the verdant vacant ski slopes, Echo

    Lake, the “Old Man-Reimagined” park,

    Over the top of the notch we gladly go

    To reach our destination before dark.

    Would that all our trails might emerge into light

    And not be dangerous or fraught with gloom.

    Let all our journeys be to mountain heights

    Ever toward the heavens, not the tombs.

    Then might our little lives be richly blessed

    Unfettered by fear and warmed with happiness.

     

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: WEATHER REPORT

    WEATHER REPORT

    The storm descended from the north

    Across the Presidential peaks,

    A dense envelopment of fog.

    Who knew what havoc it might wreck?

    Small leaves at first began to shake.

    Then tall trees bent and slowly swayed.

    A thick mist swallowed every shape.

    The rain came down in a raging cascade.

    This storm by Zeus’s fist was hurled

    But its tumult soon did pass us by.

    A rainbow over the glen unfurled

    And blue bits did return to the sky.

    Some miles to the south another town

    Was caught in the fury our vale was spared.

    Trees were uprooted and power was lost.

    For their well-being no deity cared.

    But we for whom the rainbow shone

    Know that their fate could have been our own.

     

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: CHOICES

    CHOICES

    The wintry wind whipped at our cheeks

    Teared our eyes and misted our glasses.

    Before the end of the driveway we meekly

    Turned in submission to its lashes.

    It’s no day to venture onto the slopes:

    Lifts won’t run be running in these blasts.

    So much for our high school senior’s hopes

    Of trying the Notch’s challenge at last.

    Instead we head for the nearest mall

    Load up on soda, popcorn and nachos

    And find a film agreeable to all

    Where the weather is less ferocious.

    Sometimes it’s better not to try

    Against all odds to do or die.

  • TAMWORTH POEMS: WHITE MOUNTAIN ART

    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: EARLY WARNING

    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.

  • RIVERWOODS POEMS: LOOK TO THE HILLS

    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.

  • 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.