poetry from contemporary New Englanders
submission notes are at the bottom of this page
New poems by Kevin V Moore of South Deerfield, MA
Coke Kilns
Leverett, Massachusetts
First
Kiss
I thought
I hadn't
Said enough
I ruined it
Just before
His
Eyes like honey
Dribbled over me
And his lips
Kissed the thought
Invisible
Maria McCarthy is a poet and writer from Cambridge, Massachusetts. She's a Boston, bicentennial baby who was given up for adoption. Again parentless in her early adolescence, she spent her remaining youth in foster homes and under the "care" of the government. She learned early on to keep a journal of her life in America.
Her work has been featured in a number of publications and she has many editing projects to her credit. Her site includes poems, short stories, a brief biography and, we're happy to say, photographs of McCarthy in various stages of grand congeniality.
Cheeseburgers Sent in to us by a viewer in Connecticut.
We made some
Three thick ones
The kind they don’t sell
And never did
Fried in a pan
Like God intended
First, wrapped in plastic, the meat
Sitting on plastic, the meat
Hand molded with sharps of pepper and garlic
We gathered over the stove…listening
They spoke
With all deliberate speed
Resting uneasily
In the pan
On top of the heat, we never see
The purpose of the heat
We turn up the heat
They know, we feel it…
A blanket of cheese
White, thin, square
Pulled from the plastic
Placed with all deliberate speed
After sizzling deliberations
Will block their vision, forever
A last rite
Yes, freed from the encasement
Warm palms, work the chunky mass
Fingers plying
Patties…into the pan, lovingly
(Or was that remembrance?
Long digested
What was her name?)
Eaten
On Finish plates (The bottoms says so)
In the afternoon
With the sun
With chips
With all deliberate speed
Sent in to us by a viewer in
Rhode Island.
Author unknown,
as is the title.
He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion,
Telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes, every one.
And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly
For they knew where of he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' Bob has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a Soldier died today.
He won't be mourned by
many,
Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way;
And the world won't note his passing,
'Tho a Soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young
But the passing of a Soldier
Goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution
To the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise
And cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country
And offers up his life?
The politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that he gives.
While the ordinary Soldier,
Who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal
And perhaps a pension, small.
It's so easy to forget them,
For it is so many times
That our Bobs and Jims and Johnnys,
Went to battle, but we know,
It is not the politicians
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom
That our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out,
With his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a Soldier--
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who would fight until the end.
He was just a common Soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us
We may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict,
We find the Soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles
That the politicians start.
If we cannot do him honor
While he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage
At the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline
In the paper that might
say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."
Requiem
of New England
by John Nothe of Monson, Massachusetts
Winter winds whistle, soon they shall Fizzle
Clearing the way for summers' hot sizzle.
Providence to Berlin, and Bridgeport to Bangor,
The heart of New England lays upon Boston's Door.
Next year is here, oh could it be?
We must wait all summer and then we shall see!
A lifetime of near misses, has plagued my namesake.
His eyes sleep now, weakened by heartbreak.
The dream lives on, throughout the region.
Many of lost souls have pledged their allegiance.
Wrinkled smiles laugh and tired bones dance,
A late summer streak , has given a chance.
October is here and Fenway shines bright.
If this is the year, it will be New England's delight.
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Robert George Wetmore of Connecticut Robert Wetmore (aka Swamp Yankee) is an attorney and his poetry has been published in many New England publications. He did not tell us which he preferred, writing poetry or working the law, but he seems to have made a grand compromise of the two. Email him to read his collection. |
Three poems by
Robert George Wetmore
from the collection
Swamp Yankee Forever
Verse to Amuse, Confuse, Provoke
LOOK WELL TO LIGHT
Along my path, winding and slow,
Darting gingerly where none would go,
Climbing, challenging gorges deep, wide
Far too much to challenge, tugging tide-
And darkness casts a foreboding shadow,
Blinding grief, even the hopes of tomorrow.
For Lady Luck is an elusive suitor, bride;
Strength arises from living springs inside-
When I look to the light, the glow of God;
An unseen, yet bright beacon, lantern of Lord,
Illumining spiritually many hopes and tears,
Overcoming doubts, depression, true fears.
I pace toward the light, embrace its gleam.
For in the hollow of His hand, He shall redeem.
And as to the mysterious, unseen destinations,
I shall yet dwell in His home of many mansions.
OF PINES AND PARADIGMS
At an elders knee, beneath pine cathedrals,
Grace became my peace and answer of perils,
Not solely in worldly substance, but mystery
Taking me in pursuit of blazing light, history;
Finding needles of truth upon forest floor-
Absorbing joy in quiet, beyond God's door,
A scented fantasy of aroma arrogant sweet,
Below a roof of tangled branched complete,
Like a home arising in new paradigm, at a blink,
Mesmerizing droplets of time, confused, in synch
Rising in a fit of freedom and great fertility,
Co-existent with ours, yet belying eternity.
Muddy Matters
Spring has brought us rain,
Sopping soil and human again,
Making mere walking, jogging
Puddle wonderful, full of sogging.
It's an old Northeast Beast,
Melting piles of winter's best,
Just before the robins rampant
Return to decorate green carpet
And forest's local office branches,
Even as the hibernation marks end,
True to a cycle that
will not bend.
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We welcome poems or brief collections of original poetry. Typically, there are rules.
This is a cash-free relationship. We provide the space for free. Poets provide the words in a similar fashion. The poetry is the property of the poet but by sending it to us, permission is granted for us to publish the work on our pages. If at some future date we publish an anthology of the poems presented here, we'll seek new permission to use the work.
By sending us your poem, you acknowledge that the work is yours, not someone else's, and that you hold the Rights to the poem. This means, simply, that if the poem appeared elsewhere, you didn't sell your rights to the work to another. We don't infringe on the works of others and if you are unsure, don't send us the poem.
Poems must be original and if they are about New England or New Englanders, so much the better. (A poem about living on Mars might be fine, but one about living in Maine would be better.)
Stupid poems-ones that espouse stupid ideas-don't have a prayer of making the grade here and if you've written a modern version of Paradise Lost, we'll have to pass. We'd like poems of no more than a few hundred words.
Please provide some biographical details that we may include in presenting your work.
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