The Big Question: Your poems for National Poetry Month

This is NHPR’s The Big Question! We ask you a question about life in New Hampshire, you submit an answer, and your voice may be featured on air or online.

April is National Poetry Month. Many of us celebrate in different ways, from reading our favorite poets, to going to festivals or writing works of our own.

So, for April's Big Question, we asked you to submit a piece of your own poetry.

Here’s what some of you wrote.

Poems have been transcribed and formatted as closely as possible to their original form.

Searching for my plumb line - Cathy Wolff

The rock wrapped in string,
found in a corner of the barn,
must have been someone’s
plumb line a long time ago.

I wish I could find my
plumb line – a sense of
balance, clarity, calm.

“Find your center,”
we’re told in yoga.

And I grind my stone
feet into the mat,
and seek my center.

But it eludes me.
I cannot balance
on one foot without
the wall’s help.

“Things fall apart;
the center cannot hold…”
wrote the poet.

I want to have
faith that there is a center.
That the world --
with the help of gravity –
can get things straight,
aligned, steady.

I don’t want to believe
the world is – like me –
hopelessly tilted.

Untitled - Doug Poole

A rare bird in flight
A fleetness of feather
Stalwart and strong
Regardless of weather

A reason for hope
When caught in the rain
A beautiful picture
When you're in the frame

Your gifts
One and all
You are eager to share
A fortunate station to be in your care

With our sun at it's zenith
Most radiant yet
I'll bask in it's glory
Til' the day that it sets

Prescience - Robert Lux

I hear the soft requiem of late summer crickets,
singing of the dying year.

Their bound helices speak this change.
In their music is stillness, hesitation, as if to stop…
a pause before the inevitable falling out of the year.

In time’s wake, I hear the boastful intensity of spring peepers singing their
anthem of optimism, of reincarnation. They, too, have their message…new
blossoms, skunk cabbage, vernal pools, of all beginnings.

Both ancient voices speak of change, one of pessimism, the other of optimism.

But it is the crickets’ song that pulls at my heart strings as years wane.

Far back, I can barely hear the peepers’ promising notes…distance isn’t a friend of kinship.

The crickets get my attention, they haunt me. They sing the nearby song.

Gaby Lozada

/

NHPR

We Sway - Jasper Salach

Sway with me
In Unison
Together
You and Me

Meditation of motion
In synchronicity
our family tree

A peaceful prayer
Soothing our souls
Washing over us

Back and Forth
From side to side
We sway

Like trees in the wind
We become one
With
Earth
Heaven

Defining Namaste

Rocking to the rhythm of
Indigenous drum beats
Swaying in and out
As the water does
At the rim of a lakes shore

Sway with
The thumping of our hearts
Swooshing blood flow
Life
Through our bodies

Back and Forth
Side to Side
Endorphins release
Calm settles in

Sway with me
You and Me
The splendid dance
Of Love
Expressing
Divine
Nature
Ourselves

Zoey Knox

/

NHPR

Untitled - Danielle Harrington

Sometimes the path in life can be full of rocks and boulders to climb over;
But have faith,
The meadow is just over the hill.

The sun casts her first light
And the trees on the shore burst into color.
The geese flap their wings in delight
As they stop for a break on their long journey south

Driving down the road in a wide open space.
The road curves ahead. A forest surrounds you.
It is thick and dark,
The eyes of the forest are upon you.
You feel a sense of enchantment.

Whispers - Rick Van de Poll

I can hear them in the darkest deep,
On bright and starry nights,
When the mind surrenders little sleep,
Yet the body is dead to rights.
Whispers, whispers, whispers.
At first they’re not quite loud enough,
Like murmurs of a stream,
But soon they take on a life of their own,
And direct my very dream.
It seems as if they’re talking in code,
And don’t quite want to be heard,
The traces of people who’ve gone before,
Can be summed up in a single word –
Whispers, whispers, whispers.
I’ve tried to join their diatribe,
And learn to talk in tongues,
But failed to find their hidden voice
Inside my breathing lungs.
No matter, they say, for they’re long gone
And no longer walk the Earth,
Yet how much wisdom have they realized
That we’ve all lost since birth?
Whispers, whispers, whispers.
A righteous man once told a tale
Of those who’ve passed on by,
He said they’ve learned to find their sails
And journey through the sky.
Cross heaven and even hell in turn
To ply the Milky Way,
And leave their mark on the starry urn
Of night before the day.
Whispers, whispers, whispers.
I greet the morn in solemn prayer
And end my waking dream,
My soul’s found favor in every layer
Of story within the meme.
That I may know without a doubt
That where I walk is true,
And therefore honor my forbear’s quest
To rekindle their voices anew.
Whispers, whispers, whispers.

Dan Tuohy

/

NHPR

Grieving and Mercy - Lynn Chong

He's an old, bearded man
Truck is old, dented, much-used
His vehicle I see
From my vehicle -- we
Both leave from
Grocery-shopping

I'm drawn -- this is, yes, political!
Stronger for his outraged
Large, black letters on red
Bumper sticker
Covering most of the tailgate
Leaving, engine on, on knees

Trump and MAGA
Are dangerous
And immoral -- he's crying out!
Leaves, prays, drives around
Sobbing to think: his loved
Grandson gone to war

In days when news is
USA military flights
Shot down over Iran -- he --
My grandson's life -- a leaving?
At risk -- I cannot --
Lose the light-of-my-life, NO!

On our Easter weekend
Importance of family
God's faithfulness & promises!
To cross generations
My stem is not to leave, to
Die young, but live on -- please?

Out My Window - Jim Salmon

DAWN
Smoke rises from Dolloff Cove and is set afire
By streaks of sunlight bursting through pines and birches.
A northwesterly zephyr ripples the water.
Lenticular clouds surf the lee sides of Cranmore and Black Cap –
A fair weather sign.
A shy stately heron wades along the far shore, away from human habitation.
He returns to the cove every spring, but has no mate.
Once a mother moose swam across at first light with her youngling alongside.
A bear, a fox, a fisher cat, tread this wooded shore,
And beavers build their houses here.
They say an otter lives in the marsh, though I’ve not seen him.

MIDDAY
My ancient sloop digs her port rail into the chop
Driven by a fresh southerly breeze this fine August afternoon.
Kayaks, canoes, fishermen, and motorboats pulling tubes of kids
Are the daytime residents of Conway Lake,
But they’re mostly gone by Happy Hour.

DUSK
The skiff glides eastward across the lake toward Scribner’s Point,
propelled by rhythmical heaves at the oars.
This night I’m lucky to catch the full moon just as its upper limb crests the horizon
Then frees itself from earthly contact and ascends like a gas balloon,
Glowing as if lit from within.
To the west the Moats are in silhouette, backlit by the sun’s embers.
The celestial canopy gradually populates itself –
First Venus, tracking in the sun’s wake,
Then Jupiter, then Cassiopeia and Ursa Major.
Polaris takes its station above the pole
Where it has guided mariners for millennia.
I see no other boats, just me and a solitary loon’s mournful call.
Forty-three years have slid past my keel since I dropped anchor in this habitat,
Yet I am the interloper –
A temporary resident sharing space with its aboriginal owners
Who will live here long after my ashes have been scattered across its waters.

Dan Tuohy

/

NHPR

Desk - Lorraine Arbore

Another day has come to an end
Students have returned to their homes
I sit in the quietness of these four walls
I reflect
A new day will soon begin
Bodies will once again occupy my place
A place they will claim as their space
Tommy, hungry for learning and knowledge
Alex, full of energy needing to be unleashed
Maddie, dwelling in her alone world
Kate, dreaming of what to wear and the fun she’ll have at the school dance
Oh the things I have seen, I have heard and I have felt
If only I could speak
Joey is hoping to make the football team
Steven feels abandoned and fatherless
Johnny senses boredom creeping in and wants to be challenged
Sadie feels anger and pain from abuse
Sammy invisions his life someday as a doctor caring for young children
Oh the things I have seen, I have heard and I have felt
If only I could speak
Carl struggles with God and his own beliefs
Kyle has “ants in his pants” and feels so confined
Patty doesn’t feel as smart or as pretty as the other girls
May struggles to hold back her tears because she misses her mom who has passed
I sit in the quietness of this room
Where learning sometimes takes second place
A new day will soon begin
Sounds of footsteps
Voices chatting
Bodies will be occupying my place
A place they will claim as their space
Today, I too, will learn
If only a desk could speak.

Untitled - Bill Toomey

Softly on a wind in spring,
your voice attracts me like a song.
The lofty limbs in silhouette,
the smallest twigs your sing through,
and all the mountainside
is turned into a harp
that plays in me as it plays in you
as we sing as folks will do
upon a wind in spring, a song.
Alleluia.

The Liars - Nick Ellis

I wait with dread like
fledglings crying out
along a limb – their hopes
hungering liars, with mouths
agape beneath the tree.

What fate will suffice
more than this does
for me?

Antique sedans rust red
among the understory,
the fine silt bedecked
in a mantle of quartz.
So begin the liars:

“What a mess of flesh,
What a hull of dingy gaskets!”
Laughing.

The hopeless unsung bird is
wildly fearful of death.

Truth be Told - Len Weldon

For you who seek
Freedom and Equality
Truth be told

For you who seek
Equity and Justice
Truth be told

For you who seek
Public office
Truth be told

For you who seek
Public trust
Truth be told

For you who seek
Your highest self
Truth be told

Truth be told
For without truth
All is lost

South-End Boys: 1967 - Mike Landroche

Once, Laconia boasted a real Main Street,
a legit boulevard starting at
LaFlamme’s Bakery, at the lights,
where the six of us
begged bags of broken sugar cookies
from a beaming Granny LaFlamme.

Up the street, Woolworth’s Five and Dime
faced off against JJ. Newbury’s,
dueling lunch counters and stools
that spun us around and around.
The Colonial Theater opposite the cobbler’s shop,
and the drugstore, ran Saturday matinees like
The Swiss Family Robinson, for a quarter.

Bill’s Diner jukeboxes
wafted “Mack the Knife”
after church on Sundays
two blocks north to the railroad tracks,
splitting the city in two --
Cadillacs, and spring vacations --north,
tin lunch pails and work-day overalls -- south.

Black and white police cars,
filled the Church Street
parking lot, across from a magnificent,
Romanesque, library, with its granite
face, brick turrets, stained glass, and heavy oak
tables and chairs.

I will live there one day,
I thought to myself,
whenever I would fly my lime green
Schwinn Sting-ray north
through Laconia’s Main Street,
beach towel loose over my shoulders, cut-off jeans,
baseball bat and glove in my left hand --
snacks and backpacks were not a thing then.

Older boys in greasy jeans,
not yet driving cars,
too cool for the Opechee Park beach,
cigarettes dangling from their sneering
lips, lorded over swings and
the giant slide, always
burning hot in the summer.

We’d steer clear of those boys,
abandon our bikes in the sand,
race into the lake, where lifeguards
taught younger kids to motorboat,
Cyanobacteria -- that wasn’t a thing either.

We’d hang there, splashing each other,
replaying scenes from the previous night’s
episode of Batman,
pretending not to notice the boys
In greasy jeans.

We’d towel off and pedal to
a late-morning pick-up baseball game
against the Pleasant Street boys
on a field of hardpan, where, one night,
in the second inning
of a Pony League game,
my 4th-grade appendix burst.

I crouched behind home plate, the umpire’s cigar
breath filling the space between me and the batter.

My brother pitched.
I blacked out,
I’m told.
The ball hit me in the mask.
The runner on third scored.

Later that fall we’d sit at our desks,
In Mrs. Loomis’ 5th-grade classroom.
She’d roll out the black-and-white television
after lunch, capitulating,
to her south-end boys’ pleas to watch
the World Series.

The Red Sox lost game seven
to the Cardinals, 7-2,
ending our impossible dream.

Dan Tuohy

/

NHPR

An Ars Poetica - Hannah Kanfer

I can’t believe there was a time when you weren't a poet.

Maybe that’s what I regret the most,
the thing I take to the grave,
the years lost to a love so patiently waiting.
A love like a child awoken from a nightmare
to a warm hand on their back.
A slap across the face, red and hot.
A parent holding up a report card
and a mouth eclipsed downward,
I’m not angry, just disappointed.
Coming home to a surprise party.
Coming home to find the locks have been changed.
Playing magician.
Taking a finger to the back of the throat
and wringing your heart like a hand towel.
The missed flight.
Writing the same letter for 27 years.
Playing executioner.
Ten dollars stuffed in a coat pocket.
Playing for keeps.
Telling it all
on my own terms.

Ineffable - Bryan Cassidy

I feel that every word,
Every poem I write
May bring me always,
To this one

A golden meadow at first light
Sparkling in dew
A salt marsh
Uncut, not planted
Though every day, every year
They awake and they sleep

Seeping in, a tide winding
To greet this meadow
I am pulled in similar ways

For so long I’ve seen
An older me in the distance
Walking up to my chest
In this golden meadow

With arms brushing the timeless
I am bent, crooked, hobbled

My body stained in a tideline
Smeared in gray
Weathered as a bench I am writing from
Heading East into the dawn

What a way to go

This presence of
Golden delight
Leaving behind an open book
Embracing the ineffable

I already wrote my will
When you all wonder
When the Heron swoops,
Unfurls their wings and floats away,
What that might feel like
I’m telling you I felt it
When I folded and enclosed

A living testament

I’m not talking about assets
But the grace and gratitude
For being here amidst all of you
To hold that in its magnificence

For when the Oak leaves fall into the marsh
I am going to shamble after
That old man in the distance

Because that’s what scares me the most,
Not dying,
That I could walk out now into the meadow
Young and able
With my fingers pressing into the cordgrass
I’d be born again

Full of wonder
And a tide still seeping in

A testament that wrote
That I loved you
And I wouldn’t waste a minute
Letting that be known

This testament
That is living
Is ineffable

Time to Bloom - Paul Friedrichs

Dan Tuohy

/

NHPR

Chorus of the Frogs - Eleanor Lonske

Bullfrogs pontificate, never interrupting,
While distant woodpeckers rap, and
Song sparrows urge maids to drink tea.
Chipmunks stagger, gorged on acorn mast,
While twittering barn swallows dive-bomb, and
Cat belly-crouches through enemy lines.
Limp sails sigh, a lawn mower coughs,
While rain clouds smother the anemic sun,
And crows squabble over the remains of the day.

I Consume Multitudes - Jon Wesick

Are baby boomers problematic?
Very well, then. I delight in your scorn.
I shun choir, pep rallies, and letter jackets.
I am a night owl, a free thinker.
I consume multitudes.

My bones, my every atom of flesh
formed from Swanson TV Dinners:
Salisbury steak, chicken Parmesan,
turkey with sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy,
enchiladas with rice and beans,
baked at 350 degrees for 30 minutes
and served in aluminum trays
unless I crave lasagna, which takes an hour.
Chex mix, cheese curls, Reese’s peanut butter cups,
Vernor’s ginger ale

I hear celebrities talking
when Ed McMahon bellows, “Here’s Johnny.”
When Carnac the Magnificent wears a turban
big as a truck tire, When Art Fern warns,
“Do not take the Slauson cutoff”
When stage lights gleam from Don Rickles’ dome
When George Carlin gives tonight’s forecast - Dark
When Peter Ustinov strokes his beard
When Bob Newhart staffs Dial an Atheist
When Buddy Hackett, Alan King, Dick Cavett,
Shari Lewis, George Segal, and Florence Henderson
charm and amaze between commercials.
Who is Corbett Monica, anyway?

Hurrah for science fiction! Long live the monster movie!
Pivot the rabbit ears! Tune the TV to UHF!
This is the nuclear physicist. This the exobiologist.
These sailors pilot a nuclear sub while the sky burns.
This paleontologist finds dinosaurs in the Amazon.
These geologists discover civilizations under the Earth.
This crime fighter flies a jetpack. These robot assassins explode.
This Englishman invented anti-gravity paint.
These aliens control astronauts’ minds.
This family survives a nuclear war.
This energy-hungry robot tears down power lines.
This alien offers Earth salvation.
Will a test pattern and national anthem
finally send me to bed?

Sleep? Who needs sleep
when Mr. Big breaks James Bond’s finger
and a shark devours Felix Leiter’s arm
in the yellowed pages of a fifty-cent paperback?
When a lunar prison colony revolts,
When an earthling, raised by Martians,
makes Jubal Harshaw his water brother
When Lazarus Long inhabits a woman’s body
When nuclear war catapults survivors
into a dystopian future

As for you, sleep,
you belong in daytime.
While I slumber, I leave
parodies of childhood pop culture
as laughter and courage
will be good health to you.
But I will not sleep now
for Captain America, Incredible Hulk,
and Mighty Thor cartoons
begin at dawn

Wildfire Light - Alysse Cleasby

The smoke haze
Breathes memories
Of a golden hour night
The light
Right on our backs
A breeze of tomorrow catching our hair
Hints of red and gold ablaze
In the trees of our mind
The knots of our hands
The rooted system we are weaving with our looks
A drink of water
From the reservoir of every inhibition
Until we run dry together.

We meet to stargaze
This desert we've created
Survey a fire storm summer
The damage of cracked limbs, twisted trunks
Distorted by the heat
Of two bodies in motion
This petrified forest, surprisingly easy
To navigate
With every windfall still in perfect, precarious position--
Do not touch, do not breathe!
Bowed shadow of charcoal bone.
Lead me through blackened arches
Let me shudder at the strength of the shape, of the feeling
Of the fragility, now
Hold me while we walk these coals...

Tonight, we want a campfire. So I
Dig for flames
Mine for embers,
half-life of timber,
Tinder
When the afterburn
Is the only fuel
Left.
Only my fingers burn this time.

About that cousin with the brain injury - Christopher Barry

Winter Driving - Jan Heirtzler

Twilight white of just-set sun on snow
Earth and sky fade through hues of ultraviolet gray
Stretched apart by silhouettes of pine-straight and oak-gnarled forest
Black water seeks its level, sending tendrils bending around fallen limbs

Our headlights forge straight shadows where the road curves, icing drifted banks in diode blue
Living room windows become beacons set back by hard-plowed drives
Empty barns stand sentinel by their farmless houses
Until it's town again, LED-frosted and snug with its stories of bundled lives

Our pocket of warmth finds its way home
Another hour for the driving log
Another step on your path from childhood
I don't say it now, but I love you
I hope the quiet drive lets you know.

Dan Tuohy

/

NHPR

The Crickets - Joseph Perez

We play the songs of the summer night. We’re the crickets. If you listen to us for a few measures we will play a tune that you are sure to like. Dressed in black, we hunch over our taut violin strings strumming a staccato melody of the darkness. Amid the leaves, twigs, mold and decay under the mountain laurel, we dance like arthritic old witches chanting an off key cantata.

We are the pied pipers of summer memories. We were here a thousand years before you were born and we will be here a thousand years after you are gone. The world is full of suffering and loss and you have had your piece of it. We are here to give you a small piece of its joy. Do not fear the dark. Come, dance through the corridors of your mind to the sound of our shrill symphony of nature.

What lyrics would you like us to put to our strange dark cannon? We could play a tune of your youth when the world was full of dreams, adventures, and mysteries. We could make you recall your first love on that summer night when you were young. We could strum a few bars and you could see them looking into your eyes and smiling. You could smell their hair mixed with the scent of the flowers of the night. We could make you remember the longing ache. Anything that you want. Choose your tune.

Perhaps you would like us to recall the night that you looked up at a star filled sky and realized that the universe was vast and mysterious and you were a part of it. We were there when you felt that sense of awe and wonder. We have accompanied that aria many times. Would you like to hear a few bars of that again?

Do you remember when you played hide and seek with your friends in the heat of the early evening? Do you remember when the air turned cool and you walked home in the dark? Do you remember the beat of our melody as the fire flies flashed in the tall summer grass?

Shall we play one of our favorites accompanied by the sound of the wind in the pines? Do you remember how you felt listening to that rondo for the first time? Did it frighten you? Did its beauty give you hope? Did you feel time passing? Did you sense your place in the ages? Or was it just a strange haunting sound of the dark like our off key dirge? It doesn’t matter. You will like one of our hits.

We could make you remember people who broke into a smile when they saw you. People who didn’t want to change you. They could sit with you for a few moments in the dark refuge of the night. We could fill you with sweet memories of them. Any lyrics that you like. It’s all part of our melody of the night.

If you like to gallop through the midnight forest holding the reigns of your imagination in one hand and waving the other hand at the diamond sky, we are the harmonists for you. We can make you believe that you have lived other lives in ages past. Can you smell the moist earth that covers a world dying and being reborn? Close your eyes and listen to the harmonics that have echoed through eons of time. Do not be afraid. We are only minstrels with a sense of humor as strange as our cadences.

We played for you on that golden moon lit evening that you always remember, but don’t know why it was so special. And we played for you on that hot summer evening before the heat lightning came. We have played for you so many times. We can play those tunes again. Any tune that you want. Just step out into the summer night and listen. Make the most of your musings, hopes and dreams as your mind reverberates with our shrill melody. For one day we will dance and play our staccato tune on the earth above your bones.

Hope - Zoe Nathan

Story of Confidence - Judah Nathan

My Grandmother’s House - Lin Van Allen

“You are the apple of my eye” my grandmother would say.
When our car pulled into the driveway
she burst through the back door, hurried down the steps,
and threw her arms open wide to greet me.

Her screen porch was a haven on hot South Jersey nights
where we ate Italian hoagies with mysterious meats;
mortadella, capicola, soppressata salami splashed with oil and sprinkled with oregano,
where we drank iced tea thick with sugar and tart from fresh lemons,
where the freezer was full of ice cream.

I slept three stories up where the floor was painted red and the bathtub had feet,
and the mourning doves cooed at dawn from the tree outside the window seat.
In the morning I’d come down to cinnamon buns from McMillan’s Bakery,
sticky with syrup and heavy with pecans and patted with melting butter.

In my grandmother’s house all was well with the world
where I had no doubt about the love for me. I was the apple of her eye.

Pats 25 Jets 22 - Hans Mundahl

After review,
The ruling on the field,
Stands.

We screamed then,
Tens of thousands of us,
Losing our collective s***.

You crushed me
In your man arms,
So different from the bub I remember.
So hard I could barely breathe.

“We won!” you screamed.
“We won!” my reply.

But what I really meant was,
‘I love you.’

And maybe also,
‘I’m sorry.’

The All of It - Susan Varn

Like a sizzling day at Hampton Beach,
the field is packed with clover.
Clusters claiming every inch.

I can’t help looking
for a stem with four leaves
to set my day on course.

Some mornings I’ll find one, once six!
And then there was a rare five-leafer….
But most days a zillion threes.

This seductive gig is scan-as-I-stride.
No fair to stop and scour,
(although that never yielded anything).

And so it is, early this October day,
until a circling hawk pulls my eyes up
from the small to the all of it.

The Waking of the Walking Dead - Peter C. Langella

From his tiny lips
They heard
Bombastic lies
Stumble out like drunkard’s spew;

Watched a tiny hand fuse
Motley pins to virtual maps,
To set topography ablaze
With icons of blasts.

Looking against the stars
And moon-bathed sky,

They saw crimson
In billowing shrouds,
Falling cinders illuminate ruins,
Black Death glow below char.

They watched America’s symbol
Fade to dim;
Saw it stomped and ripped
To tatters and scattered
Under a blowhard’s unholy din.

Dan Tuohy

/

NHPR

I Will Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Robert Nichols

A Stone upon the Cairn - Susan M. Giusto

There in the trees, speak the mists,
Wanting to know how the sun smiles.
Seeking the road as it turns and twists,
Going on this journey for many miles.

Sailing to a harbor still unknown,
Where rumors flow of great delight.
Yet scandal hides an ugly tone,
A charlatan casting darkness, upon the light.

Etched a moment in a life portrayed,
Should offer a gift to clear the sorrows.
To heal the heart that was betrayed,
Give back the time stolen or borrowed.

Bend the light and fold it good,
Weave a new pattern to be cast.
Walk the path to things that could,
Wash the pain and erase the past.

Use the sunrise to inspire the will,
Garner the strength during this time to relearn.
Follow the shadows as they move to something better still,
Place another stone upon the cairn

Dan Tuohy

/

NHPR

WAITING - Robyn Anne Piper

You.
Yes. You.
You who live life waiting.
Waiting for what? For death?
You should try it my way.
I'm living in reverse--
Savoring the sweet memories of my future,
Constantly surprised by my past.
I recall findly my death,
And anxiously await my birth.
I even remember you,
Whom I have not yet met.
You.
Yes. You.
You who lives life waiting.

A Black Filly Discovers Night - Roberta Visser

Once when spring was young
with light so clear the sky was powder to purple-grey blue,
a filly dropped onto the grass
wet with birth,

then, pushing, lifting herself up, stood so black,
not even her eyes or nose were truly noticeable,
so black, not even the dark bark of the broad chestnut tree
further down the field could match it.

Through days of long sunlight, the filly studied water flowing down
the culvert over small-leafed plants and gurgling over stiff oak leaves
caught on a rock. She noticed circles of blue-green lichen on an old stone wall,
and leaped in tall grasses copying the rabbit scared from its nest.

When it was dark, her mother, a tall mare, would tell her to look
through the opening in the barn roof to see the stars – specks of steady light
and some that seemed to fade and flare. Every night, watching, watching,
the filly fell asleep under their silence.

Once, a round moon cast a white light that lit up the clouds sailing near it.
The filly stared at the moon’s glow, its soft eyes, its ‘O’ shaped mouth, then lay down, dozed, but did not sleep. Opening her eyes to look up again, she saw the moon was no longer there, though the sky still held its grey-white light –

she lifted herself up and walked through the barn door left open
to let in a cooling breeze. The air was moist, the grasses as if spot lit.
Her shadow, no matter where she walked, fit among the long
shadows of the maples bordering the pasture. Above, each star’s light

seemed to be swept from one to the other as if they were whispering
some important news. Her mother had come out to find her standing alone
and silent in the stretch of field. The mare snorted while raising her head
up and down.

“Night,” said the filly as her mother came near.
“Yes. Night,” replied the mare.

Casting Upon The Waters - James

Mist on the river from breeze slowly clears,
And there in the riffles so gently appears,
A fisherman - in water up to his thighs,
With arms in smooth motion casting some flies.
His hat quite sun faded and vest well a-lured,
Contentment on face ever peaceful and sure.
Waders tight-cinched, he stands at the ready
Probing a pool in a moss-collared eddy,
Patiently waiting for some hungry trout
To bite at his nymph and quick set about.
The nice bamboo rod he flexes with pride,
He made it himself - and the lures also tied.
Studied yet prayerful, alone in this bliss.
A day good as worship when one gets to fish.

Remember - William-Bernard Reid-Varley

When the human who’s come to seek healing
Becomes just gender and age—
And notice of a new admission
Just another monotonous page—
When vital cadence becomes just a rhythm
And a heartbeat no more than heart sound—
Remember the thrill that surged through you
When the life-giving pulse you first found.

When your name is o’erburdened with titles
And your brow bears the wisdom of years—
When your footsteps are heavy with knowing
And you are the first of your peers—
When you have become the lore-master
And your wish is now others’ command—
Forget not the fear and the trembling
When you first offered assessment and plan.

When you’re no more perturbed by the passing
Of a soul emplaced in your care—
When you mark it no deeper nor longer
Than a chill in the cool autumn air—
When the final exhale of departing
You note simply as agonal breath—
Remember the undying hour
You first were entrusted with death.

When you throw the long coat o’er your shoulders
With no more thought than a cloak in the rain—
When its meaning has faded with memory
And wearing it becomes just mundane—
When reverence to routine surrenders
As years beyond number do flow—
Remember the weight of the white coat
When you stood on that stage long ago.

Emily Quirk

/

NHPR

Missy's Day - Mary Pelchat

Here I am alone again,
She is gone for the day.
I find myself alone again, I have no choice but to stay.
I lay on Her bed,
I find Her scent reassuring.
Although I'm alone, I find myself purring.
I'm feeling a bit hungry,
I'll check out my dish.
Just what I thought... She left me some 9 Lives fish!
I'll sit by the window,
get myself a nice warm spot.
I know She is usually home by five on the dot.
Wait a minute, with my Meezer ears,
I hear a loud noise.
It's that stupid dog, she's chewing on my toys!
With my Meezer-like grace,
I stalk the dog with caution.
If she hears me approaching, I won't have much option.
I attack the dog
with Meezer-like speed.
I scare that dog so bad she actually peed!
My job here is done,
the dog left a puddle.
Now when She gets home guess who gets cuddled!

The Swallow - Thomas Meredith

I thought I glimpsed beyond the trees
A swallow soaring in the breeze
A certain harbinger of spring,
A graceful swallow on the wing

Or was it just imagination,
Wishful thinking, hallucination?
A forlorn leaf torn from a limb
By a bitter winter wind

I know well that spring will come
Surely before my life is done
So yet a swallow I may spy
A simple wish before I die

the basket - Adele V. Sanborn

high in that tree something woven
twigs and leaves pulled tight
a basket
nestled among branches darkening with rain
i wonder who was in there
a family of crows? a scurry of squirrels?
gone with summer
the wind won’t say what left in the night
only the hollow still watches

Mom’s Wedding Ring - Joy Roy

Perches on my finger
A circle of life
Sparkling like the sea
Mesmerizing, unblemished gold and silver
A little band
Of memories

For 30 years
Since the loss of Mom
This ring has sailed
Through thick and thin
Delightful hikes
Splendid swims

Fingers caress it
Move it around
Up and down
To and fro
In circles through life

One day
Students heard
“Ding, ding, ding!”
And the ring
Disappeared

We scoured the floor
On our hands and knees

My heart sank
Scared out of my mind
“Careless fool!” I thought to myself

Days went by
Each with a sadness
A hole in my heart
An emptiness
The loss of my mom
My heart heavy
Spirit low

Months flew by
Black clouds still hovering over me
No ring

One day
In the heat of summer
Cleaning out a classroom
Rustling construction paper
Births a clanging noise

Lo and behold
A ring
My mother’s ring
My ring

Tears fell like a stream
Rolling over the hills of my cheeks
Salty taste flowing into my mouth

Mom’s RING! My RING! THE RING!

My Mother’s Wedding Ring sits on my finger

Now and forever more.

TREELINE - Tara Marvel

swept low by the ever bursting wind
this is the edge where the taste
of frozen mountain cranberries
is acrid but sweet as the fine fragile
call of the white throated sparrow
the smell and feel of mist,sweat and spruce
tests all the senses past the acute
the heat of the climb rends my bones molten
fused by a gust at the brink of the trees
in the moments vibration between being and action
the consequences here are irrevocable
as mica embedded in quartz
the spread of space, the relentless air
at last the loss of self is no loss

Ode to a White Pine - Meme Exum

To overwhelming crookedness
You stand straight
To countless vapid motivations
You exemplify fulfillment of purpose
To complex moral decay
You offer an interconnected system of life
To exploitive destruction
You counter as a gracious host
To all with the capacity to change
Your example, our priority
May it help rearrange

The Rain - Giovanna Roy

The rain is but a cleansing of the heart
Though many have rejected nature's rite
A rinsing, moving everything apart

For we who rage, our pain a razor dart
It signals calm, and clarity of sight
The rain is but a cleansing of the heart

We dread our storms when clouds are gathered dark
We long for heavy burdens to be light
A rinsing, moving everything apart

It comes like gentle strumming on a harp
Repeated water notes, reflecting light
The rain is but a cleansing of the heart

So when the sky is etched with umber mark
Embrace the blissful, clean symphonic art
The rain is but a cleansing of the heart
A rinsing, moving everything apart

Editing assistance from Sara Plourde and Dan Tuohy.