New England Poems - Poems about New England

Autumn in New England

Autumn 
paints New England,
staining hillsides, wrapped
in red,

garnishing the trail
beneath my steps.

The season spills
like cabernet across
a changing landscape;
where the maples 
bleed
their aging, amber 
leaves.

I stroll
amidst the falling flames,
below the blazing 
treetops,
the crisp air thick
with life, that's soon
to rest.

I walk
through spreading fire,
listen to leaves, their stories
rustling underfoot– 
As Autumn’s vivid, 
vibrant gift prepares 
to vanish 
from the view.

And

GNRT DAY 46 NEW ENGLAND SUNRISE

Today we observed the sunrise in New England and once again we were agog
as we watched that bright orange dot finds it’s pathway through the fog.

Next, we walked the Shore Path in Bar Harbor where under a cloud-filled cerulean sky
we enjoyed the boats out in the harbor while eating a Red Velvet Whoopie Pie.

We took

Elegy to a promised land

In the quiet twilight, we gather here today,  
To honor my dad, remember him, and pray.  
From the promised land, he flew with no regret,  
To the fifties U.S., a different mindset.

In the old world, he wore many hats, even a soldier,  
Now a young man on a Greyhound bus, bound

Language Roots of New England Non-Device-Ive

       I offen soffen neether content nor intent,

       eether explicit or implicit about 

       devices to rearrange things in

       the Care-ah-beein Sea or

       pahkin karz

Cemetery Grass

A billowing sheet of white geese 
Trundle across the street
Onto grass rich and green
From winter melt
Black river rolls like a fat man
Trying to get outta the way 
Stumbles and falls 
On smooth gray rocks
And tumbles merrily away
Sweet scent of decay passing
Cemetery opposite the river
Headstones flowing over hills
To distant and future days
Feet ache a little on

New England Winters

You can boast of California, 
And Hilton Head as well,
California’s gotten rotten
Florida’s hot as Hell.

So let me struggle with the snow,
And bundle ‘gainst the cold
I’ll live up here in Yankee land
Until I’m too damned old.

Shoveling’s not much fun, but
Winter’s  cold and snappy. 
Watch sledding kids upon a hill.
Defines the meaning: ’happy’.

Then later, when I’m

A Ten Mile Drive

A TEN MILE DRIVE
-
I walked a country road once
In New England, in October.
In a gorgeous colored paradise
You’d think you were not sober.
-
A car approached, my thumb went out
He stopped. I boarded, saw the man,
And nearly tumbled over.
That craggy face, that shock of hair.
-
T’was Robert Frost who’s driving.
Yes, Frost himself. Get in, he said.
And so began

New England

the sea winds calling
           calling beach tides thrilling
                  thrilling woodlands for hiking
	                hiking

Watching Amos Plowing With Horses

“Howdy Amos”, “Howdy Seth”, without a glance.
Amos t’aint much for words as he stares straight ahead
His gaze as straight as his furrows.
Amos is what you might call a “deep thinker”.
I watch as he bounces up and down on the plow hitch
The bells on his mighty Percherons jingling with each practiced step
As they perform their timeworn

Winter

An icy blast through open door reminds me that he’s here once more.
Through softly drifting snowflakes falling I hear the Old Man Winter’s calling.
I’m not prepared for his arrival, my chores not done for my survival.
As I go through my growing list, I hope there’s something I’ve not missed.
Are there things that I forgot, important

Cellar Holes

We used to hike abandoned roads
O’er which they once hauled heavy loads. 
Roads deserted, now ragged lines
Just deep ruts between the pines.
Stone walls still trace these rugged tracks
Defining paths to there and back.
Meandering trails now no one roams
But long ago they lead to homes
No longer there, those long lost souls 
Their homes in ruins, now

The Mystery Town - a True Story

I’ve always loved the challenge of traveling long-forgotten byways
Just dirt paths connecting towns that masquerade as washboard highways
With stone walls crumbling, homes shuttered closed, now seemingly abandoned
The hopelessness of poverty oft times seemed very cruel and random

One day while driving in Vermont from Rawsonville to South Peru
I had a strange experience I’d really like to

The Weary Farmer

Though dawn has yet to break upon
Dim fields on distant moonlit rise
Already stirs the restless herd
Soon welcoming dawn’s crimson skies. 

Through windows lit by twinkling lamps
The farmer’s tasks have just begun
Another day to work, not play
Beneath the blazing noonday sun.

Cruel winter past, warm spring at last
With fields and gardens to renew
As all new seasons add

The Preacher

The preacher climbs his lofty perch
Looking down on those in church
Who’ve come to hear his sermon preached
In fiery words his flock beseeched

To remind them to their faults bemoan
And for their earthly sins atone
Words climbing to a fevered pitch
He hopes his lesson will help enrich

Those who clearly redemption seek
And that his words will last all week
His

My Very Favorite Apple Tree

In the lonesome woods near Sunapee
I spied the perfect apple tree.
With ancient trunk, yet in its prime,
A thing of beauty, its form sublime.
As I approached and looked around,
I saw most apples on the ground.
Alas, I had arrived too late.
The deer had sealed each apple’s fate.
And yet I saw as if by chance
One lone fruit high

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