An Ode to New England

poem, poems, poetry

It’s not about where you are going but where you have gone.

In autumn.

The Green Mountains roll

Like a Jackson Pollock painting.

My mind sits together; fits like a puzzle.

Waves lap like a thirsty, salty, dog.

Each of the six states

Eroding into the Atlantic and Mid-West.

From the Canadian tip of Maine to

Cape Cod’s cranberry bogs.

Yankees tea party

At the idea of King’s Tax.

It’s not about where you are but where you adore.

Armoured in Carhardt

And

Saw-dusted fleece.

The people you meet speak

With the bah-ck of their throats.

“Bah-Habah” Maine is popular slang.

“Wicked-nice” New Hampshire is built on a granite slice.

Ar’s become ah’s in Massachusetts.

As in: Cah, Bah, Lobstah, Chowdah, or

“It’s like my mah used to say. New Hampshah is fah too fah,

If it were me? I’d take mah cah.

 

It’s not about where you know but where you grow.

So,

Listen my children and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

Oh, and my mind’s paddling on muffled oar,

Skirting history’s ruffled memory shore.

One if by land

And

Two if by sea.

Foretold in veins that Revere the leaves of Pine,

Oak, Beach, Shag bark hickory,

Apple, Ash,

And Maple trees.

 

It’s not about where you stand

But where you Land.

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