BUILDING COMMUNITY THROUGH POETRY

H-W Newspaper is a printed weekly newspaper that arrives in all residents' mailboxes in an effort to share community news, opinions and the arts the old-fashioned way! 

From her Editor

Eric Convey

"Ashley is the driving force behind H-W News's efforts to feature the work of poets who live or attend school in Hamilton or Wenham."

"...  she reached out - we've never met - and proposed the idea" for a poetry section in our two-town, and volunteers as its curator. She is wonderful to work with!

I sing and talk to

my dog about the stuff no

one else wants to hear.

Dogs know pockets hold

treats - not incidentals like

car keys and iPhones.

Walking your dog in

woods takes conversation to

another level.

Where will the two pugs,

asleep on the front porch swing,

go when their house sells?

Most of what matters

to us humans doesn’t much 

matter to a dog.

Relativity:

what might stink to you and me

smells good to a dog.

Cont'd.

TGIF! I’ve been counting down,

Licking my lips for the scoop in town.

Delicious opinions and stories to share,
Unsure what morsels this week may be there.

I head down the driveway, get off my rump.
The mail has arrived! Secret fist pump.

Scrolling stops, old school pages turn.
Savoring articles, I expand and learn.

Local sports! Which team has won?

Classifieds? Someone selling their Peloton.

Real estate next, sales are slow to come.

Couple photographs of the setting sun. Cont'd.

Snowflakes, snowflakes, in the air 

you don't know how much I care

To have you falling on the ground 

keeps the happiness spreading all around

It's always nice to see you here I get so excited when you appear

It'll be next year when you come again but never forget how much fun it's been

Candace won a beauty contest

on Salisbury Beach in 1952.

Now, Bill takes her

out on summer nights

to the gazebo in Patton park.

One July night is like

the summer night she won

the beauty contest.

Now her hair is thick and white

and sticking out.

She doesn’t know

who she is.

She doesn’t know

who Bill is, like it was

before she met him

the summer she won

the beauty contest.

Her granddaughter won

the same contest in 2002,

the same square jaw.

Candace doesn’t know

her granddaughter anymore.

Cont'd

Night snow dusts the slope before dawn

and deer cross into the woods

Each day

they promenade silently before my waking.

sole witness to their passage is a spectral owl

nestled high in its blue spruce citadel

From a window

hoof-print tracery of their ballet is seen:

a lyrical vision can be conjured of lithe arabesques

against azure monitoring light

How do we learn their soft dance across the earth?

Leaving tracks that melt instead of burn.

After a surprise or two—

a startling April snowfall,

an uninvited north wind—

like a delayed guest spring has arrived,

nature has answered the clarion call,

ice and snow trickling away,

trees hinting at first-bud,

warmth at last, though faint and fickle.

So why is there a patch of snow

beneath the apple tree?

An ugly patch of snow, brown and sullied,

refusing to give ground,

holding fast against all odds.

Cont'd.

The maiden glows under the silver moon light. Laughter and joyous serenity, the maiden calls to me. 

The mother is here. Warm and tender, with love comes surrender. The mother holds me near. 

Welcome the crone. Warmed by the hearth within her home. The wisdom flows. 

Sit by the fire with me, I will share what I know.

Walking along a sugar-coated stone wall,

limbs loosening,

dots of orange berries interspersed among dead leaves,

I climb up over a rise,

and to my right, in a neat valley,

something brown, someone’s lost jacket in the snow?

Wait, no, it’s a buck,

belly down, spindly legs folded under him, nose in his chest,

He’s dead, frozen there. Cont'd.

Emotions

They flow like the sea

They’re motions

They’re the key

They can be smooth

With gentle waves

They can be the truth

That behaves

They can be lonely 

With the rain

It can make you moody

Trying to hide the pain

They can be harsh

With a huge storm

They can be large

They might just be starting to form

They can be home

Filled with love

They can be a protective dome

With warmth above

Tiny buds in our neighbor’s garden

The wet dew drops that cover the grass

Tulips blooming as winter says “farewell”

The first beam of sunshine and birds tweeting happily

Packing away our snow pants and puffy coats

A rainbow peeking out from gray clouds

Leaves coming back on bare trees

Greeting neighbors on the road as we shake off the cold

Splashing in puddles after the first shower

Kind blue skies in the early morning

As summer grows closer, we plan our lemonade stand!

When I go to my house I am bored

When I am bored I watch TV

When I watch TV I get tired

When I get tired I have to walk outside

I walk outside I go to my friend's house

I played with my friend and I'm happy now.

Have you ever felt like a bird in the wind?

Or a hawk, free in your own way?

As you feel like you are free, you are happy in life.

You feel like you just won the lottery.

It sounds like a bird chirping.

It tastes like sunshine on my skin.

If it were a color, it would be pink in the yellow sun, shining bright.

It shines like Taylor Swift at the Grammys.

As the sun goes down, my happiness is still inside my heart.

It shines and shines brighter than ever before…shine…shine…shine…

An onion meta/for a layered soul?

Oh wilted trope! Poor limp rhizomic noodle.

Why not a slippery nipple, shiki bowl?

Baklava, lasagna, or a strudel?

Or yet a cabbage! Cruciferous swaddle!

Chlorophyllic brassicaceous wonder!

What to your complex leafy intermuddle 

Is a mere allium peeled asunder?

Better bloat than tears, and more nutritious,

Dense and tightly structured as a sonnet,

Tangy kimchi; spicy and delicious

like a midway frank with coleslaw on it.

Said the Zen poet to the hot dog man:

"Make me Cont'd

When the clasp opens,

the silver spills out,

wrapping itself around my head,

I absorb the fantasies of the

past, present and future,

The colors that form before my eyes are priceless,

The rich feeling

stays with me through the day,

Like a necklace I wear around my neck.

I’ve heard that a gold bar

weighs twelve point four kilos

Diving down on your head

You would be crushed senseless

Brass Sacajawea

Has all the momentum

to fracture your skull when

screaming on high from

the John Hancock tower.

So Grace it must fall in

small denominations

Insignificant shekel

Widow’s mite now comes down

A tap on your head

then hits the concrete

king

      ding

            plink

will you notice

bother to bend

and

pick it up?

Air, crisp and beautiful, freezing my lungs and a perfect match for the blanket of white which burns my eyes as I wonder: aren’t your paws cold? This is not your thought, I presume, as one must with those they love. 

The tender pads of your fleshy feet spring your lithe body up and catch you on the way down. You are an undulating river of joy, a leaping dolphin through the Alban ocean of our yard.
Has it ever occurred to me to leap, trusting my body in the air, my own fleshy feet to land. Cont'd.

I sit on your bedroom shelf

In my girly blue dress and sparkly tiara

With a plastered smile on my face 

And a shiny gleam in my eyes

Wondering when - if - you’ll press my snowflake button again. 

I want to light up for you like I did when you were four. 

I want to express again to you: “I’m so glad we’re friends;”

“We’ll be friends forevermore.” 

But you walk into your room and never reach for me,

Never even glance my way.

You do not know what my heart feels: 

My glassy eyes remain tearless, my Cont'd.

Bright yellow forsythia wake me from deep sleep.

While multicolor crocus make a bed around my feet.

Rainbows of azalea form half circles all around.

As bouquets of daffodil are erupting from the ground.

Numerous shades of purple on lilac shrubs now say,

Inhale my sweet perfume, throughout the month of May.

Surrounding you with joy it is new life I bring,

A lady in a floral dress they simply call me spring. Cont'd.

Winter, winter, it's finally here

Winter, winter, the best time of the year!

Snow is failing to the ground

Without making any sound

As you sit by the fire,

The snow is piling higher

Lots and lots of snow

Watch it fly and watch it go!

The death of every moment that

passes by uncontrolled-

delivered to the finite morgue of memory.

Each breath tossed into the grave of time,

carries our impressions,

devolving into crippling perceptions.

Sometimes it stretches-endlessly.

Other times it nicks us barely seen,

yet felt for a lifetime.

For most, the 11th hour arrives

a recollection of lows-

as a pouch of regrets

filled with fleeting desperations. Cont'd.

The Gould Clan gathers around once more, 

  To pay honor to Sallie the aunt of the four,

She may have her faults, and boss the bunch,

   But we'll put up with anything to get this lunch,

She flew around all morning, with bosom slipping,

   Making everyone jump, and doing her bidding.

As we watch her now at the head of the table,

   We ponder with awe, how she ever was able,

To concoct this lunch, to serve to us,

   And get us to eat it without any fuss.

Cont'd

First light reveals poppies in brilliant array

Each perfect copy coloring May

Crepe paper petals gladly unfold

Free from confinement in velvet cocoons

Brief gift of Heaven all orange bold

They dance with the breeze like birthday balloons

Beckoned as lovers if just for a day

Bumble bees hover near blossoms display

Indulging each mistress from morning to night

Assuring the promise of next year's delight

Petals fall softly as evening surrounds

Committed now wholly to painting the ground

Cont'd