Poetry: Make myself remember

I have to make myself remember/ The skillful fingers that used to push/ A needle through calico layers/ Making the tiniest stitches/ Intricate, patient designs/ Around the square of a quilt/ In her lap

Poetry for everyone: Weybridge haiku contest winners

Weybridge’s Sixth Annual Haiku Contest asked Vermonters to reflect on these challenging times. Reflect they did with 51 writers submitting 443 haikus. As in past contests, the themes ranged widely — despair over fickle weather, the challenges in growing o … (read more)

The month in poetry: On waking slowly

Eyes closed at first,/ wintering inside the earth,/ black matted fur/ dampness pressing soft eyelids/ shut to outlast frost/ heaving around him.

Poetry: My bugle, my flag

The state suggests I bring in my bird/ feeders./ If I don’t want to find myself/ staring into two dark eyes./ If I have enough courage./ To step onto my porch./With my bugle. My flag.

Young Writers Project: Tatum Raphael

This week’s featured poet, Tatum Raphael of Vergennes, writes about a climber drawing from an inner well of strength to scale the height of an icy cliff face and experience the pride of planting a flag.

The month in poetry: Across the universe

a light sparkles/ a tiny diamond/ from a house/ across the river/ through winter woods/ the other side of town…

This month in poetry: To drive the fields of heaven

‏I was driving through the fields of Heaven when I realized I was still on Earth,
because Earth was all I had ever known of Heaven and no other place would do
for living forever.

Poetry: At the vigil

No one could say who they were./ The men at the perimeter./ Why they appeared in uniforms./ Seemed to be wearing badges/ stitched into their shirts./ At this distance five-pointed stars.

Poet’s corner: Most of the time…

Most of the time the dark waters will rise,/ then fall into sun and birdsong, everything/ glistening, vivid as broken glass in fresh mud…

Poetry: The substance of things hoped for

The Rose of Sharon/ and the Trumpet Vine/ are always the last to leaf out./ Everything else is green —/ has been since the end of April.

Poetry: Without retiring

For Peter Lebenbaum and his long service with the Counseling Service of Addison County.

Poet’s corner: A few small stones

It was twilight all day./ Sometimes the smallest things weigh us down,/ small stones that we can’t help/ admiring and palming.

Poet’s corner: The fields of Ripton

A Poet, In a Field Near Robert Frost’s Cabin, Lifts Enormous Boulders with his Mind

Poet’s Corner: A different kind of blue

All that is beautiful/ that slips away––/ a December night/ that before was November/ and September and before that,/ July when days were blue silver/ waves we swam through.

Poetry: The storm before Christmas

The storm before Christmas and all through the house/ No appliance was whirring, not even a mouse