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Robert H. Demaree Jr. -
Poet,
Burlington, NC & Wolfeboro, N.H
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Robert Demaree is the author of
four collections of poems, including Fathers and Teachers
(April 2007) and Mileposts (October 2009), both published by
Beech River Books. The winner of the 2007 Conway, N.H., Library
Poetry Award, he is a retired school administrator with ties to
North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. He has had over 500
poems published or accepted by 100 periodicals, including Louisville
Review, Miller’s Pond, Ghoti and Stellar Showcase Journal. For
further information see
http://www.demareepoetry.blogspot.com
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REHEARSALS
1. 1994
Sheetrock replaces buckled plaster:
Should have done this when Mother died.
Living room and cupboards empty, prescient;
Inherited china on the dining room table,
Rehearsing for a tag sale.
2. 2007
She had gone out for supper with friends.
He fixed a TV dinner—
Didn’t know what you called them now.
A glass of wine, maybe two:
A rehearsal for days he feared.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OPENING THE COTTAGE JUNE 2010
Putting up the clothesline,
I find one terminus gone,
A slender pine, whose remains
Show signs of a beaver
And of Seth’s saw.
His dad and mine were friends;
He looked after the cottage,
Shoveled snow off the roof
In dark New Hampshire winters,
Put the dock in the water in June.
For thirty years Seth has done the same;
Our girls, now forty, played as kids.
We arrived today,
Found the porch swept, pollen gone.
Seth is not going to do this forever;
His mother’s house across the pond
Is for sale.
But our dock is in the water,
And to the steps that lead down,
Covering gnarled roots,
He has built a walkway,
With a wooden handrail.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE THIRD OF JULY
Overcast Sunday:
Pond brown-gray-green,
Sun and boaters
Sullen, annoyed,
Behind thin haze.
Peering into the mirror,
Its silver decaying,
I tie the one necktie
Left here over the winter,
In front of the cottage dresser
My mother had restored.
If there is a poem
In this old pine chest,
I will leave it for grandsons
To compose.
Later:
Sparklers in the damp night sky,
Police sirens, called
To some frailty of the season.
At the water’s edge,
Small maple seedlings
Turn in the dark,
With a knowledge of things feared.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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