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  • Published
    September 11, 2013

    Weskeag River Lyric

    “We cannot step twice into the same river, for fresh waters are ever flowing in upon us.” — Heraclitus The swirling river under the bridge becomes a fulcrum for the tides, nothing but tidal waters flow back and forth, on a given day, new currents come in and go out in ever changing constancy. High tide turns water blue against a far-off ring of green trees winds ripple low tides to whitecaps, turning …

  • Published
    June 27, 2013

    Midnight on the Isle of Lesvos

    That enchanted night, like a dream remembered, we wandered through an olive grove sprinkled by amber moonlight, and suddenly came upon a tiny chapel, arches glowing with flickering lamps inside where solemn icons beckoned, and as we prayed with them, to our delight, a flock of sheep without a shepherd herded by, chiming its tiny bells in minor key, a hymn to the satin black Aegean beyond the trees, inviting us to …

  • Published
    June 13, 2013


    Bill Eberle lives in Thomaston and has published five e-books of poetry, several of which are available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read more of his work, visit

  • Published
    June 7, 2013

    Flowering beech tree

    Flowering beech tree, shades my home from hot weather, gives a touch of grace. George Chappell is Rockland resident and former member of The Courier-Gazette news staff. He leads Veterans Writing for Life, which meets Tuesdays from 6:30 to 8 p.m. in the Walsh History Center at Camden Public Library. The Courier-Gazette will feature quality poems of local authors in this space. If you would like to submit a …

  • Published
    May 30, 2013

    Modern warriors

    We were not young soldiers off to combat marching with set jaws and eyes afire but middle-aged warriors with aches from exertion and job skills for war zones. We embarked from local airport runways, out of family cars bearing spouses, children. We were engineers, carpenters, and cooks leaving behind homes with mortgages, TVs and Little League games we could not watch, to fight in swirling desert sand, heat …

  • Published
    May 24, 2013

    The Gettysburg Address

    For my brother Robert At the hall of the Grand Army of the Republic where a bank sits now each Memorial Day there was oratorical splendor veterans, politicians but the most important was the delivery of the Gettysburg Address by a high school senior one year my brother, Robert was chosen I do not remember him having a loud voice around the house but he was president of his class small, slight commanding some …

  • Published
    May 10, 2013

    A Walk by Rockland Harbor

    While walking the outline of Harbor Park, I turn and see barges and lobster smacks before gathering in all of the view. The horizon holds me, except for fog obscuring one vessel or another fading in and out of a ghostly scene, too far or faint to read a craft by name: to give the harbormaster lists of ships from some other ocean on distant maps. A gull soars above me, focused on food, making no sign it is …

  • Published
    April 25, 2013

    The Messenger

    I’d drop down to my front toe line head up, chest aquiver eager for the race’s start, while crowds made me shiver. My fists would gouge into the turf to poise me for the run, sometimes I saw the pistol’s puff, at times I heard the gun. O, how often I’ve pushed with pride the rivals at my back, breathing hard, not losing stride, to break free from the pack. Though they call me Pheidippides you may not know …

  • Published
    April 11, 2013

    The Rockland Boys

    To Housman they were Shropshire lads, To me they’re Rockland boys Who possess a certain quality of dignity and poise “The Rockland boys” I’d say aloud As David would recall An anecdote about a friend I felt I knew them all Stories of so many boys Gone before they grew Family tales of Freddy Of Buddy, and of Blue Tales of Rockland youth and lore Pool halls and baseball games Tales of local men at war And all …

  • Published
    March 29, 2013

    Mud season

    Snow. Sleet. Freezing rain. Rain. The forecaster forecasts wetness and pain. Snow, sleet, freezing rain, rain. I pull on these boots again and again. Snow, sleet, freezing rain, rain. My poor toes are froze As I mush through the slush. Gotta shovel the steps And plow the darn lane. ‘Cause it’s snow, sleet, freezing rain, rain. My knees freeze and there’s ice on my brain. I slip splat flat, and my butt gets a …

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