This newly formed group is meeting on the third Tuesday of each month, in the Andover Public Library in the Town Office Building. Next meeting is on Tuesday, September 19, at 7 PM, with readings on the subject of “viewpoint.” For more information, contact organizers Thom Smith at tsmith@nullkearsarge.org, or Janet Moore at jmpcilley@nulltds.net. Here are some poems from the poetry club.
ROOTS
My roots are important to me
For without them, I would not be
How can I begin to comprehend?
My lineage from beginning to end
Comprised of all who went before
And came to rest upon my door
Grandma Hazel, my mom and so many more
Who shared their destiny so that I may endure
Yes, I carry on, but in what fashion?
I bear my grandmother’s passion
Her love of planting in the fine rich earth
Comprised of lessons since my birth
Gram’s patient hand upon my brow
To pass on traditions and to endow
Me with the honor to carry on
THE OLD WAYS is my baton
I’ll teach you to cook with wood upon a stove of yester year
Her regal majesty should make you cheer!
To see my Home Comfort 1930 young
We’ll come full circle, a song well sung
The secret to roots would I belie?
To say, I see life through my grandmother’s eye
She always told me to, “Pay attention!”
Family roots are now mine to mention
By Diane Hall
Trails
Rail trails it is now
Out straight and back on to home.
Avoidance of back road hills and dirt
paths sprung with rocks
gives my ankles guidance.
Straight as an arrow fly my oversized feet
in firm marshmallows,
But I easily envision the fall-
All it takes is one stone’s throw
to knock me onto gravel
before I’d go down.
Is it a twisted ankle,
another broken leg
or a cracked elbow joint?
Should I pack it in
and retire as my son advises:
“Just walk mom, an hour a day.”
No! I need the excitement
and the internal grumbling
that occurs as I curse
the uphills and sprint the downs.
I have to go up to sail down.
What’s another bone to heal?
In the long run, just a bit of calcium
to replace.
By Janet Moore
poplar
exposed
to sun and snow and rain
to summer’s breath and winter’s pain
the poplar’s roots run down the stone,
scarred by storms, pale as bone.
descending
rivers to the sea,
veins extending from the tree
thin and wrinkled from the cold
seeking out an anchor-hold.
shivers
from the timber’s crown
spurs the roots to venture down
the jagged edge of granite’s face
and plunge into some fertile space.
secured
by mainstays in the ground
the poplar tree is now earthbound
to flourish in new england’s din
on account of adverse wind.
By Thom Smith