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April Poetry

Updated: 3 days ago

Ode to the Penultimate Snows

By Allison Cummings

When snow days still the city, we

goggle balaclavas to glide in grooves,

carve snow caves in nine-foot drifts

to hide in white hush, pack snowballs

to ambush siblings,

or sculpt ghosts in scarves,

skate above black lakes bearing tracks

of Ski-doos, fishing shacks,

and midnight dear

sniff the glittering

wind sifting through a crystal palace

of birch and fir

swaddling the stumpy ruts

of summer swear in sastrugi ridges,

fattening apples and quince,

sub-zero slowing the adelgid chewing

a steady path north.

Inside, frost feathers the windows

Each side of the solstice,

mirrors the hemlocks’ lace at dawn.

In portraits and paintings, we freeze winter’s

evanescent splendor like birthday

photos of elders our grandchildren

will not know or mourn.

The Beauty of New Hampshire

By Padraig Scallon

New Hampshire is a beautiful state

With lots of old and new roads to take

The road slopes through the mountain side

Where moose and turkey are easy to find

But the most beautiful part is not the view

But the power of friendship through and through

Friendship is a powerful thing. It’s in the minds of everything.

Friendship is also a powerful tool. It’s how I met a girl from school

This girl is smart, funny, and kind

I’m so glad our lives have intertwined

Now when I go to school I know

My friendship with her will only grow

I’m glad she’s my friend, oh yes, that’s true

Because friendship’s the beauty of New Hampshire too


By Skylar Cook

Yellow grass playing peek-aboo with the fresh snow,

Patches turning green,

Squirrels running through trees,

Mama birds preen their young,

Soft winds blow,

The sun beams slowly beat down,

Hot air warms my face,

Ice melts, and water rises,

Moist soil in between my toes,

This is spring in New Hampshire


By Penny Morhardt

Sunrise over tree tops

Rising up again

The horizon blooming with the colors of life

Wake up and feel the past behind you

The days of future laid out

For your world is beautiful

Morning and sunset

You will rise like the breeze on a moonlit night

And flee like a graceful dancer

Leaping, fluttering, on roads of pure hope and love

Hoping you find your way through the beauty of

New Hampshire

Rising with the Sap

By Monika Cooper

You would not call them blocks, those obscure streets

Where people live. Their driftings trace the hem

Of Manchester. I drove there once at dusk

My windows down, in the sleepy perfume

Of gardens and the insects’ dreamy jaw

And passed a house whose screen porch angled round.

The only lamps yet lit were deeper in.

It seemed a friends’ or family gathering.

A young girl, like a shadow through the screen,

Lifted her chin and tucked her violin.

I never heard the note and so it’s stayed

And lingered with me ever since, like smoke

From homestead stacks or purple lilac haze.

I had the silence of the violin

Before the flourished bow awoke the string.

An art you practice is an art not lost.

Here every season recollects far times

And roads less travelled keep faith with the past.

This Spring, I’ve driven past and watched the smoke

From piled deadwood, smokers, sugar shacks

And felt tradition rising with the sap,

Something that never died alive today.

Look up and read the signs. Our ancient friends

And enemies return. Much farther North,

Scientists watch a pair of mating wolves

That think they keep the sunlit glades alone.

And I myself have caught not one but two

Eagles aloft, at play with altitudes

And circles that don’t touch, while far below,

In full orchestral thunder and white burl,

Negotiating countless crevasses

In massive sides of mammoth granite blocks,

Bate the great waters of the Amoskeag.

Church on Piper Mountain

By Christopher L. Dornin

Our village church

Had a balding minister,

A white- haired congregation

And a two-part choir.

All of them are long dead.

We sometimes gathered in a high

Place far from the road.

Its vestries of blueberries shivered

Low to the rock in generations

of moss. We took the elements

up the climb to a granite throne

that faced the wind shadows

of Lake Winnisquam. A hawk

in slow, primal glide

circled the infinite vaults

of the nave. The nails that bound

together the worm-lettered

beams of a wilderness cross

rusted into feathers. We sang

a cappella in pews

sculpted by the Ice Age.

A man with a cane led

Us down the easy trail

To our altered lives in the valley.

Lucky Snake

By Sara Backer

Weeding – despair. Too late

To rescue my daylilies

from months of crabgrass,

pigweed, common couch?

I pull close to the root,

like tearing hair,

a careless giant’s grassy hair,

matted with vines and thorns.

Sticky with sweet, I stoop

to clear some breathing room

and call the lilies’ names:

Shadow Play, Cold Harbor,

Ruffled Apricot, Pink Pearl.

Between dead stalks, I find

a snake skin, white and dry

and whole. Two feet of pattern,

perfect – until I lift it. Oh,

little snake, I never saw you,

never knew you lived

here, too, but I am glad

to find the self you shed,

reminding me of all the good

that lives invisibly

as I am as invisible as you.


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