Poetry: Midterms

Here in Cornwall, my small town/ in Vermont, a precinct of deer/ and leaves, I like to think/ Of my neighbors who are likely/ to volunteer for anything. 

Letter to the editor: Snowbird

I don’t know whether to ride/ my mower or push my snow-blower./ Given what April brings to us.

Letter to the editor: Sing, Etzuri — a poem with Ukrainian roots

Like you, I have a name behind/my name./Scratched inside my throat.

Letter to the editor: Columns made point together

Gratitude to the editor for placing Karl Lindholm’s “Taming the Cornwall Bear” Clippings column next to Victor Nuovo’s “Does God Exist?” philosophical column in last Thursday’s edition. How fortunate we Vermonters are to see proof of the Divine in our for … (read more)

Poetry: Cases on campus

What you say you’ve been waiting for. A break from studying. A reprieve from your exams. An excuse from finishing your term papers. To go home. But not this early.

Poetry: Call Richard Webb

Before the wind takes it. Before the voles make a home of it.Or a trunk-borer. Before the orioles weave one nest too many.Or later, in December, the snow weighs heavily for the thundering branchto go under. And looking ahead again to next summer, the tail … (read more)

Poet’s corner: Where moonlight finds you

How Difficult is It?   I wouldn’t have guessed you’d love this form. And take it back into a cell’s darkness. Even the super moon can’t reach you. Unless you dream that light is meant for you. I mean   it’s hard for me to think of so many men, green-suite … (read more)

Poetry: Back to school

For Addison County Teachers and Staff Nothing like the principal seeing you again, after so many months, walking down our school’s stairs. Looking up and saying “You look beautiful.” As if we had been prepping, putting on make-up, in between classes, in o … (read more)

Poem For the Jamaican Apple Pickers

Taken         for the pickers   The apples are used to those men, their hands, their songs. Used to rolling down   their arms into baskets. Into crates. Carted off to the cold, storage house.   This month most of them will drop on their own accord. Twist … (read more)

Poem: Returning to School, To Town

Returning to School, To Town   Across the way, a new pod of tents behind the field house. And a gaggle of orange traffic cones. Set out by Buildings and Grounds   to direct the returning students where to go, where to line-up to be tested without their pa … (read more)

Letter to the editor: Another incident shows white people’s privilege

The We of Rayshard Brooks   Isn’t it a privilege to fall asleep in the front seat of your car,   pass out, some nights, from a night of drinking? And not worry.   Not worry you could wake-up dead. Having been found, and not asked just   to move along. Sha … (read more)

‘Consolation’ – A poem by Gary Margolis

Consolation Don’t expect my friend Karl Lindholm to be sitting next to you at the end of a close basketball game. The clock winding down to red, double zeros. Don’t be surprised if you find him, across the gym, near the free nosebleed seats, chatting and … (read more)

Poetry: Everyone in the world

I could be thinking of almost anyone Today it’s the midfielder who has to say Goodbye to his teammates, without   Having played half of the season. Who has to wave a virtual farewell. Without a high-five. Touching   Sticks at the end of a game. A sign Tha … (read more)

Poetry: Write-in

I’m running for the first time for First Constable in my town of Cornwall   Vermont. Sue Johnson, our Town Clerk, tells me the duties are non-existent,   if not minimal. In fact, she says, the Select Board doesn’t allow the constable   to do anything. No … (read more)

Poetry: After Thanksgiving

Not enough mud to say it’s mud season yet. That’s in March, April   and May. Just enough for the deer to leave a good impression.   On the dirt road. Among the spent shells. And someone   else’s glistening boot tracks. The turkeys slip here,   too, losing … (read more)