Poems Published and Performed

Poetry is my therapy. Writing, reading, sharing. Below is a glimpse into my 150+ collection of poems. Thank you for reading and sharing (via the link to this page, for copyright purposes, please do not cut and paste or re-blog) Some poems have even found their way to a literary mag or two, including Catskill Made and Chronogam.

I remember fondly the good old days, the pre-pandemic days when I used to attend the Open Mic at Woodnotes Grille every Tuesday. I was honored to be dubbed the ‘resident poet’, and originals among the songwriters and guitar players. How I miss those days. I found sharing a new poem in front of a room full of people frightening, in an exhilarating way, as well as incredibly useful for editing.

Here is my very latest:

WHERE THE SUN IS |becca andre

I sit on a rock

Pitted and slanted but warm

I watch a honey bee

Hurried and frantic

Graze a lone dandelion

There is a rooster across the way

Untutored in the telling of time

His mid-afternoon calls

Compete with the crows and chickadees.

There are three berries

Hanging languid from a vine

Dripping with promise

Waiting to be devoured

By a sweet-toothed creature of the forest.

Crickets as background music are fine

But if I focus on their shrill rhythm

Their sounds become unsettling

I find my nerves rattled

As the sun begins to set so soon

Summer is slipping away.

Still, below runs my faithful stream

At the bottoms of this ravine

Covered in caves and maples

She flows, her hopeful sound

Reaches my ears like a serene static.

And I almost forget

Almost…

That we are in a pandemic

That autumn is here

That you are gone

So I decide to sit

Just a bit longer

In this place

Where the sun is

MAPLE THERAPY | becca andre

January’s end means sap season is almost here.
The snow, or mud, is up to my knees.
Sweet stuff has begun
to pulse through the veins
of sun-warmed maple trees.
It is time to scour buckets,
to take steel wool to their galvanized walls,
to scrub at the rust that lingers there,
and in my wintered-over soul.

On the first 40 degree day the healing begins.
I tuck the winter blues away as I tug on my Mucks.
I reach my first sugar maple,
moss-covered and patient,
standing tall, arms raised and waiting,
like a good friend.

My hand slides in greeting along the bark
as my mouth begins to water.
I am seconds away from my first tap.
I drill. I hammer. I wait.
A drop glistens on the angled metal.
I hang my cleansed bucket.
I stand still until I hear:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I smile from ear to ear.

The next day begins the toil:
Traversing the mountain side,
gathering gallons of promising sap
to feed my tiny outdoor stove
that sits cold and waiting next to the stacked firewood.
Waiting to be fueled. Waiting to be fired. Waiting to be productive.

Soon, I am treated to the satisfying sound of a roiling boil.
Water escapes with steam,
as sugar and joy slowly concentrate.
Hours of adding sap and wood fly by,
and before I realize, the sun has set.
Flashlight in hand, the process continues
until a deep amber hue has graced my stainless steel pan.

I strain the sizzling liquid twice,
before going inside to begin the final boil.
Steam fills the kitchen,
excitement builds, as the warm,
comforting scent of syrup-to-be
coats the walls, and my mood.

An hour later, I look at the candy thermometer.
214 it reads.
Almost, so close, just minutes, just seconds away…
There. The popping stops.
The boil quiets.
The bubbles rise.
The liquid does a slow, sultry slide off the back of a spoon,
turning to pure gold at 219.
My heartbeat quickens as I pour,
with care and glee, into the upturned mouths
of the waiting mason jars.
Lastly, I taste what’s left behind on the felt filter,
warm, thick and sticky.
Sweetness hits my tongue and lights up my soul.
That, my friends, is sweet maple therapy.

©Rebecca Andre
March 18, 2018 edited April 29 for WIM 3 minute poetry reading

BY THE BEAVERKILL ON MOTHER’S DAY – A HAIKU COLLECTION | becca andre

Pool of peace –
water flows steady beneath
stockade of trusses.

Glowing sun heats
freshly bared skin as hope grows;
a chartreuse promise.

Green and blue sea glass:
tiny gems too fragile for
this fast, fickle stream.

Distant thoughts hover
like black flies or nymphs just caught
in daydreams of silk.

Here we both sit:
Fly rods and trout, lens and pen
peace pulling us in.

ODE TO WEEDS | becca andre

Violet—
Your purple petaled smile
catches my eye from down below,
a brightness so eager to please.

Honeysuckle—
You promise to open soon,
with your familiar yet foreign flavor,
my palette you will appease.

Mustard—
With your spicy, heart-shaped green,
a reminder that the truest of loves
is ridiculously bitter-sweet.

Dandelion—
You are my soldier of hope,
making my mouth water for a piercing crunch
of your healing, sword-like leaves.

Sumac—
Heavy with crimson berries,
lazy with color all winter long,
perfect for summer steeps.

Deadly hemlock—
You mimic a beloved queen,
but even one taste is poison,
so foragers, take heed!

Wild leek—
Wild, like me, with parts both
mild and deliciously pungent,
I love you, despite my dirty knees.

HOUSE OF SECRETS | becca andre

You are covered
with colored clapboard siding,
a barrier to the world outside,
with wavy glass windows for eyes
and a frozen front door
that leads to the white-washed walls,
worn like a wedding dress.

Entering, fear slowly peels away,
like layers of paint
on a hammered tin ceiling,
letting new creep into the center room,
where an antique bed,
covered in a quilted cocoon,
holds in the heat.

You surround me with your
wide-planked floors of pine,
your thick porcelain features
and steel fixtures that shine,
despite their age,
stained, yet sturdy.

For you are a haven,
where lovers come together,
where first and last breaths are inhaled,
where screams of joy
and pain still echo.

House of secrets:
your stories are not mine to tell,
but promise you will remain steadfast,
protective of your inhabitants,
present and past,
your memories not for sale.

As broadcasted on WIOX 91.3 FM Catskill Cabaradio | 2 Poems

COVER ME IN ORANGE | becca andre

Surround me with an abundance

of citrus-coloured coals

that promise a winter-long fire,

an amiable warmth,

that seeps into the logs

and into my soul.

Allow me to lay down and nap

on a fragrant fabric of leaves,

leaves like crunchy clouds,

that take on cookie-cutter shapes

of hearts and stars and diamonds.

Carve me a smirking pumpkin,

a face eerily lit in the evening,

turning to a crooked grin in the morn,

as a layer of shimmering frost

smoothes its sinister edges.

Let me pass time at my stove,

instead of my desk,

whipping up spiced cakes

and all sorts of gourd-inspired dishes,

finished with nutmeg and cloves and mace.

Layer me in scarves of crochet,

in flannels and corduroys.

Camouflage my abundant curves

in sweatshirts and woolen jackets,

as I dream of knee-high leather boots.

Cover me in the handsome hue of autumn.

Dust me with its cinnamon scent…

Cover me in orange.

ROOMS | becca andre

The woman I am

belongs to the room where I stand.

In the space of polished stone and steel,

I am his homesteading princess.

The queen of canning and dishes.

In the room of screens and barbies,

I am her playmate.

The wished-for older sister.

In the tiled closet, bottle and rag in hand,

I am their housekeeper.

White gloved and organized.

In the castle of dark wood and crystals,

I am their servant.

Invisible and nameless.

In the place of creatives gathering,

I am a poet –

Raw and gritty, writing how you are feeling.

In the shaded room of covers,

I am your thirsty, obedient lover.

Needful and mindful of only you.

In these entrenching woods,

Of ice and moss and mud,

on this rock that was made for perching and writing,

I am just the girl

I was always meant to be.

As performed at Joma Cafe | 3 poems

THE PERFECT GIFT | becca andre

You are wondering what to give me.

I tell you, there isn’t anything

You can buy with those silly

green slips of paper.

I don’t need a diamond ring

or a little plastic card

With raised embossed numbers

to the big box store in town.

Sure, you could cook me dinner.

Or give my back a rub,

but you would do that anyway-

You don’t wait for special days.

No need to tell me I’m beautiful,

or I’m the only one,

or that you love me,

these things I already know.

Instead, my love, I want you to pretend

It’s our very last day.

This life is coming to an end.

The plane is spiraling towards earth,

The volcano is gonna blow.

The meteor is arriving any minute,

The railroad track ahead is bursting into flames

Or, maybe, maybe Armageddon really is neigh,..

But no matter the reason,

imagine this is our last goodbye.

Our last few seconds,

the last few breathes we are to inhale.

Now close your eyes,

and give me this gift of true worth:

Just kiss me. Kiss me, darlin, kiss me.

Like its our last day on earth.

THRUWAY | becca andre | Based on a true story

At a rest stop on the side of a highway,

you came up to me.

With big brown eyes

you told me your story,

surely laced with lies.

Or maybe not.

Maybe a student making her way home

is who you really are.

Out of cash, gas and friends,

with a freshly broken heart,

taken to the road without a plan.

Could you be that gutsy girl,

on the run from a dangerous man?

Or are you a gypsy,

with that streak of blue in your hair?

You flash your whitened smile,

reflecting the street lights,

like a beautiful stranger

working weary travelers mile by mile.

I don’t mean to judge you,

but your hand is out,

your tumbling words cast doubt.

So I offer you advice,

a tip or two for trips and life:

I say, “Always have a cash stash,

plan better for the road,

cause this place just isn’t safe.”

Then – I hand you a twenty,

not because your story I believe,

but because –

you could have been me.

FEVER | becca andre

Skin on fire,
chilled to the bone.

The place between dreams.

Swimming, gasping for air
reaching for the way home.
It would be easier
to just float
wide open on the sea,
bare belly towards the sun.
Eyes unobservant of the chaos around me.
Petulant waves crashing unheard,
As stubborn ears stay closed.

Withdrawing into the sacred cave,
a whooshing sound.
Ahh, to be left alone in this sea,
to be left behind by the captors,
to be allowed to float free.
to answer loudly.

For my friend,
my sweet friend
Oblivion,
She is calling me.