Pond Hockey
Pond Hockey
by Melissa Rossetti
Crisp, cold and sunny, perfect.
Shovels and skates at the ready.
Solid and choppy but clear.
Piles of sticks,
Sorted.
Strangers now teammates,
Buckets become nets.
Blades carving brisk patterns in pursuit of the puck.
Wind-chapped cheeks,
Skating, shooting, scoring!
Sun dips, dinner calls.
Sore legs and soggy pants.
Skates in hand,
Sticks resting on shoulders,
High fives and waves goodbye.
The pond suddenly clear and quiet,
until tomorrow.
(Melissa Rossetti is a Troubadour reader from Chester, NH)
January Storm
January Storm
By Rose Kowaliw
Leaden clouds lying low,
sheeting winds blasting cold
and swirling, swirling snow.
New Hampshire Valentine
New Hampshire Valentine
I research the meaning of love
at our computer
on a lazy Sunday.
You interrupt, asking me to move
because the outlet may combust
at any moment.
After the lights go out
I hear you curse
As you rewire the fading sun.
When finished,
you apologize,
and blame it on the fragility of electricity.
At dusk I hear your familiar whistle,
reminding me of the day you gave me
a Lydia Pinkham bottle
you found behind the barn.
Over 30 years
in our Kitchen window
the blue bottle still reflects on
the fragility of light.
(B.P. Duncan is a Troubadour reader from Derry, NH)
30 Year Snow
30 Year Snow
by Barbara Mabbs Robinson
Permutations of whiteness surround me. Contrasting darks; mauves, greens, blacks, and burnt embers etch out the landscape from the hidden sky. The horizon is lost in nature’s mirage, but emerges subtly as I focus there.
This moment is my original encounter with what New Hampshire natives call “snow-the-way-it-used-to-be.” Fluffy-white-hip-high-delight meant for strong men and snowplows, sleighs and work horses, snow angels and snow men, giggly-children and hot chocolate…and me. The air is crisp and I breathe in the abundance.
Quite pervades. It is 7:00 am. Even the birds remain silent. Nothing stirs within the confines of the forest’s cathedral except my unholy intrusion. Several inches of snow grace the curved buttresses of the ethereal pines which arch over the trail. My space is profoundly sacred. I am blessed.
The sun usually rises at this time, but not today. I pause to be present in this moment and discover the vast arrays of clouds within the graying sky. Nature’s photograph of quiet meditation changes colors in my mind, but remains monochromatic to my eyes. Except for the minimal blush-infusion of photo-painter artistry, I am transported to a century before: before Kodak, before Polaroid, before the digital age.
The sounds, like colors, which began the day subdued, begin to emerge in my revelry. The branches breathe and move; exhaling snow-dust which tumbles down upon me and the path ahead.
I notice a downy woodpecker travel the bark of a beech tree nearby, seeking life and nourishment and a dog barking in the distance. Colors and sound emerge and awaken my consciousness. I walk back to my house, hungry for more. I’m ready for breakfast and a New Hampshire snow day.
(Barbara Mabbs Robinson is a Troubadour reader from Ellsworth, NH)
Hope
Hope
by Christina O’Donnell
May wounds be healed
In future times
Let forgiveness be revealed
By our troublesome kind
May life be steady as a rock or a boat
Because either way
You sink or you float
May paths be uncovered
To lead us through life
By the beauty of our hearts
Our souls and minds
Beliefs be given chances
Open-mindedness brings better days
To all who live and have been shunned
May hope be alive in everyone
May voices be handed out
To those who must break free
May light finally shine
On those who need to see
(Christina O’Donnell is a Troubadour reader and 8th grade student at Epping Middle School in Epping, NH)
I Am
I Am
by Isaac Ladd
I am from outdoors
From hot summers
And cold winters
I am woodpiles
And tree houses
Made with bare hands
I am from warm houses
And grassy fields of hay
I am from a nearly perfect place
(Isaac Ladd is a Troubadour reader from Loudon, NH)
