Speaking With the Wind

Speaking With the Wind
by Robert Manchester

This is a witches day.
Haze dancing just above ground,
silent sentry crow.

(Robert Manchester is a Troubadour reader from Bedford, NH)

Evening Song

Evening Song
by Michael Copeland

I remember the evening bird singing,
as I sat quiet alone ‘neath her tree,
all of the beautiful melodies
that she had once sung to me.
I remember the evening bird flying,
and soaring with rhythmic grace,
high over treetops and grain fields
to alight in her usual place.
I remember the evening bird courting,
while I watched and was awed at the sight,
of simplicity in nature around me,
and her meaningful nuptial flight.
I remember the evening bird mothering,
with a gentleness all mother’s possess,
Fussing and feeding and scolding
and protecting her brood in the nest.
I remember the evening bird aging,
and hopping from fence post to tree,
slower but wiser in her old age,
It seems she’d been following me.

(Michael Copeland is a Troubadour reader from Derry, NH)

Hound’s Paradise

Hound’s Paradise
by Charles Bria

On one summers dog day late
Hotter than a sun baked slate
Thirsty trees lined up straight
Water sprinkler rainbows hydrate
Effortlessly through rows she bounds
The playful hound’s paradise found!
Following along her masters steps
Off to hunt the orchard depths.

(Charles Bria is a Troubadour reader from Sanbornville, NH)

VIOLETS AMONG STONES

VIOLETS AMONG STONES
by Jessie Salisbury

Field stones and weathered bricks
Shore up the wall between porch and garage –
An untidy heap of unrelated objects.
Violets grow there uninvited,
Purple and white in bright profusion,
Finding nearly invisible soil among the rocks,
To put down roots and thrive from spring to spring.
A bright yellow celandine,
Early this year, blooms among them,
Another uninvited guest;
A sun-bright spot against the clapboard wall.
A stem of two of dame rocket,
Whether pink or white as yet unknown,
Will soon replace the violets,
And other showy natives
Will come in time.
Opportunists, my son says.
Perhaps, but they sometimes thrive in apparent nothing
As we all, at times, must.

(Jessie Salisbury is a Troubadour reader from Lyndeborough, NH)

LAKESIDE

LAKESIDE
by Cora Chapman Arthur

Ripples propelled south
by invisible fingers
shore-bound trees, sighing.

Dawn joins me
clad in her grey dress
blending with distant lavender peaks,
a pastel still-life.

Across the channel
a flag waves at me
in a flurry of stars and stripes.

Down the lane
a chipmunk dozes atop a “no trespassing” sign
he neglected to read.

A mother duck and her small charges
glide along
murmuring to each other.

A lone gully, flying low,
decides fresh water is for sissies
and moves on East.

Lakeside heaven
where solitude
restores balance.

(Cora Chapman Arthur is a Troubadour reader from Concord, NH)

THE HOT SUMMER SUN

THE HOT SUMMER SUN
by Robert Wisniewski

Gotta get my cleaning done
Before the red hot summer sun
Heats up my day and drives me away
That hot summer sun

To the river we will run
Just a dog and her chum
To splash and have fun
In that hot summer sun

We’ll romp and we’ll play
All the long day
Just a dog and her chum
In that hot summer sun.

(Robert Wisniewski is a Troubadour reader from Milford, NH)

THE SWING

THE SWING
by F. Patrick Grady

There are celestial heights to ponder
That young adventurers first know,
When they pilot a wingless chariot,
And ascend from the world below.
Small fists securely gripping,
They pump their legs to fly,
Arms outstretched in eager response,
To a beckoning, cerulean sky.
Back and forth they trace the arc,
Aloft in an hypnotic swoon,
Dreaming of angels and aliens,
And of astronauts on the moon.
Each upswing promises transcendence,
‘Til that final descent from the crown,
To be reminded of earthbound limits,
When, at last, they touch the ground.

(F. Patrick Grady is a Troubadour reader from Peterborough, NH)