Summer Breeze
by Rose Kowaliw
A soft warm breeze gently touched
my cheek, my lips and I heard
it whisper. The grass
shivered and the rose reached up
and sighed knowing it
would not pass this way again.
(Rose Kowaliw is a Troubadour reader from Swanzey, NH)
Singing Water
by Michelle Reynoso
I hear
the water singing to me-
giggling and gurgling;
dancing over a familiar path.
It
sings;
it sings to me.
I watch
the water push forward;
over mossy rocks,
through decaying leaves and sediment.
It pushes,
but leaves a piece of itself.
And still
it sings;
it sings to me.
I will sing back.
(Michelle Reynoso is a Troubadour reader from Hackensack, NJ)
The Silent Giants
by Meggin Dail
The Silent Giants
are on the ground
They heave and sigh
They are heavens bound.
Their colors shame
The Rainbow hues.
Their bodies lift
with the morning dew.
Their fiery breath
warms the air
They ascend like clouds
to who knows where.
The graceful monsters
crowd the sky
On gentle winds
They float, not fly.
The Silent Giants
are here and gone.
Just like the day
that once was dawn.
(Meggin Dail is a Troubadour reader from Pittsfield, NH)
A Seaside Sonnet
by Lesley Morgan
I’d walk a mile to reach this shore
To savor the sting of salt and wind,
And revel in crashing waves, and bend
My gaze to scour the ocean floor.
No better place my heart to mend
When nettled by loss and fear forlorn;
Or frame my thoughts to shipshape form,
Buoyant and safe beyond land’s end.
When sunny, a beach so vast and warm
Can heal the souls of those most faint-
From lowest wretch to highest saint-
While worshippers tan and children swarm.
It’s best though, when we stroll and talk;
So hand in hand, my love, let’s walk.
(Lesley Morgan is a Troubadour reader from Brentwood, NH)
Gifts at a Pier
by Stephanie Wolicki
Seagulls swooped from overhead
Down to the floating crusts of bread.
Think or wonder they did not do;
Different they are from me and you.
Not concerned with right or wrong,
They scooped up the offering and sped along,
Kurak, Kurak, Kuraking their “thank you” song.
(Stephanie Wolicki is a Troubadour reader from Portsmouth, NH)
CHOCORUA
by Candace Cole-McCrean
Prince
of a mountain
Spirit leader
of native peoples,
I paid you tribute.
I climbed, struggled,
strained, and gave
of my spirit essence
lovingly
to the life-scarred
surface
that is your face.
Prince
of a mountain
Spirit leader
of native peoples,
you paid me tribute.
You sustained, strengthened,
nurtured, and gave
of your spirit essence
lovingly
to the life-scarred
surface
that is my body.
Memory
can never again but recall
that we have met,
have loved,
have lived each other
as one.
It is not strange…
that night we slept together,
even the owls were hushed.
(Candace Cole-McCrea is a Troubadour reader from Milton, NH)
Canobie Lake’s Canobie Queen
by Charlene Mary-Cath Smith
What amazes me most
simply sitting
at water’s edge
a mildly hazy movie moon above
not ten full feet away
from its wooden presence
done up in the fashion
of 19th century
river showboats
inhaling the exotic aroma
of cotton candy apples
buttercorn of Tennessee
Williams’ smoky summers…
even without
the long gown garb…
is the imagination
that never goes stale
Even after thirty years
of dock locked journeys
the power to produce goose bumps
Even in the hearing
of its own narration
(Charlene Mary-Cath Smith is a Troubadour reader from Manchester, NH)
