Poetry: Note to the President

Let me note this morning I came/ across a coin, I thought, crossing/ Tully Road. Once a path for local/ soldiers. Farmers mostly. And nut/ gatherers. Its face looked more like/ a quarter. Washington’s. Until I looked/ more closely. Actually kneeled down.

So you want power?/ You want control?/ And when you have it?/ And when people all over/ are living in fear and hate?/ What then will they think of you?

Never thought you’d sing/ her name./ A girl you never knew. Swaying/ with a stadium of strangers…

Not that you or I couldn’t have stood/ on our feet. For twenty-four hours./ Speaking impassionately./ Sat in a chair. Lain in a bed./ Reading words cast on a ceiling./ Rising, as we could, to the occasion…

There’s something happening, don’t you think?/ Do you feel it under the brown crusted snow,/ under the wanting to break sky.

It’s not my place to suggest/ to your coach, she bus you/ to one of our Addison County/ farms. If you have to be in/ the Field House this early,/ you might as well see/ what’s going on around you.

As our political realities continue to shift in unexpected and unwanted ways, the writer has had several conversations with friends and family about where their thoughts are. A surprising number talked about stocking up on items, just in case. Those conve … (read more)

To search for his backbone is futile/ His spine is as stiff as a noodle…

Wasn’t he the guy who wrote poetry/ up in Ripton, you said,/ when I asked you, if you knew/ Frost. If you ever bumped into him./ On one of his trips down the mountain.

It’s not the same as calling it/a night./Saying goodbye. Even/here, in Fenway, there isn’t a wall/between us.

Known for humming when he drilled./Singing, his kind of Novocaine.

The peony buds swelled for days/ as the ants unfastened the blooms/ now a shower has left them/ lying open in the grass.

I met you after school/ where you told me you’d be waiting./ Your sweaty fingers encircled my wrist/ pulling me through the thicket and/ as I watched pink splotches arise on my bare legs/ I envied your long pants.

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

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)