Old Barns

by Kit Hewes

I hate to see old barns go down.
They were a hand-built monument of wood.
A rising, neighbors came from all around
To share the labor and make it good.

These barns, once a haven, so safe and strong
Were badges of honor, showing that man has might.
These barns sheltered the beasts that worked along
With him from morning dew to nearly night.

But time goes by and man grows old
And time dost change the way man labors.
When sons don’t stay the farm is sold
And strangers now become the neighbors.

For when man dies he goes to dust.
And when barns die? So too they must.

(Kit Hewes is a Troubadour reader from Canaan, NH)

October

by Rose Kowaliw

You picked a perfect time to be
in regal splendor, every tree.
Apple kissed mornings, crystal blue skies
as remnants of balmy breezes slip by
with one lost buzzing bumble bee
to interrupt my reverie.

(Rose Kowaliw is a Troubadour reader from Swanzey, NH)

I Like my Pipe

by Adam McCune

I like my pipe.
The smoke is warm and feels like home.
I take a long puff.
Inside the aroma of the tobacco,
I think of those ancient men who smoked before me.
I think of their wisdom and courage.
I think of their beards.
I like my pipe.
My wisdom spans out, in a never-ending scape.
I’m transformed in the smoke.

(Adam McCune is a Troubadour reader from Manchester, NH and a columnist for the NH Union Leader Newspaper)

Autumn Evolution

by Melissa Rossetti

The first messengers arrive long before the calendar decrees.
They are welcomed by most, mourned by a few.
The leaves and apples share the same colors.
They are always brightest before they’re gone.
The nights give you a cool chill,
nothing that a simple sweatshirt or sweetheart can’t cure.
Fireplaces replace fans.
Sweat becomes sweater.
Cookouts and camping out are forsaken for hayrides and half time.
Pumpkins usurp tomatoes as the farm stand vegetable du jour.
Orange is everywhere, so is chocolate.
The hues of Halloween mute themselves for the day of thanks then disappear altogether into the bold crimson and pine strokes heralding the vivid fanfare
that is Christmas.

(Melissa Rossetti is a Troubadour reader from Chester, NH)

The Royal Season

by Richard Golden

Winter is beautiful, crystal and cold.
Summer is warm and damp, flowers unfold.
Spring is the birth-time, beginning of things,
When the flower first opens, the robin first sings.

But autumn is royal, of harlequin hue,
Though birds may be leaving, and flowers are few.
Autumn’s the time when the weatherman is wrong,
And we’ll see the first snowflake before very long.

Autumn’s a contrast to winter’s white shroud,
When nature to winter’s cold harshness is bowed.
In autumn, Dame Nature is flaunting her power
To hold off King Winter, to the last sunlit hour.

Oh, some will praise winter, when Christmas is nigh,
And, some will praise spring, as blue touches the sky.
There’s more that love summer, with its coppery sheen,
But, I bow to autumn, for autumn is queen.

(Richard Golden is a Troubadour reader from Tilton, NH)

Seasons

by Lissa Boissonneault

Evening sun shining in back windows
Creating dancing shadows within
Framing beloved, familiar objects
In a new light
The August sun is on the wane
Reminding us of seasons to follow
From vibrant foliage to winter’s
Deep sleep
And then once more, the promise of
Spring.

(Lissa Boissonneault is a Troubadour reader from Sugar Hill, NH)