Letter to the editor: Political realities spark creative pragmatism

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 conversations led to this poem.

I’m so low on the priority list/ I’m almost trackless./ I don’t use stealth./ I don’t scramble my signals./ I don’t have a double message.

Oh my director of the national/ portrait gallery/ of owls./ Oh what I wouldn’t give for you/ to leave your doors/ open. For me not to have to/ remember any glass/ painting the streets.

David Weinstock has been the shepherd of several poetry groups, including the Otter Creek Poetry Workshop, which has met every Thursday (except Thanksgiving) for the past 27 years.

I try to see what’s before me, hold close/ the light as the light is, as it makes its/ diminishing way toward Solstice.

The arc of history and all,/ you know, bending toward justice./ We seem to be somewhere/ along the upper reaches/ of that arc, where the air is thin.

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

Governor Phil Scott has named award-winning Brandon poet and teacher Bianca Stone the next Vermont Poet Laureate.

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)

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

‏A poet once wrote: ‏“Winter’s done, and April’s in the skies,
Earth, look up with laughter in your eyes!”

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.

This is Now./ Of all of the moments in my entire life,/ This is the only one that is Now.