Tom Sheehan


Itíll begin itself by spitting.
Thereís a law against that.
Itíll spit anyway, mostly off
Monadnock, hunchbacked
over all, and up the valley
from Route 101 barreling
all that way from Nashua.
Spring, crushed downhill,
buried in crevice and cranny,
but has been stretching forth
this way for days on days now.
Actually, itís somewhat like
a host of dark prisoners slyly
coming past cement and bars,
moments of illusion and evasion.
Things move unsuspectingly;
Earth shudders, a root douses
under onus of added obligation,
on a garage floor a baseball bat
rolls itself a half inch without
any real inclination it seems.
Sonic booms without aircraft
thunder across the lakes, echo
in awakening caves still dark
in the Appalachian spinework.
In nearby Gilsum old gold mines
behave as if they have company.
In the whole Ashuelot Valley
the trout and bass thrust upward
in one last free magnificence,
waiting the mastery of hooks.
Thatís all coming along the way.

Date of Birth: 1928
Location: Boston, Massachusettes
Publications: Samsara, Paumanok Review, Tryst, Iguanaland, 3amMagazine, StorySouth, Three Candles, Burning Word, C/Oasis, Comrade, Stirring, etc.
Books: Ah, Devon Unbowed; The Saugus Book; Reflections from Vinegar Hill; A Gathering of Memories; Vigilantes East
Awards: Silver Rose from ART; Three Pushcart nominations; Eastoftheweb Nonfiction Competition Winner; Galway Kinnel Competition Winner

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