remember punk.punk doesn’t care if you have big bonespunk doesn’t stopremember punk. Catherine Eaton, Walden This poem was written for the Verse-Village celebration of April Poetry Month.
Poetry
Upon Hearing the News
I step outside and hear birdsong on the -14 degrees sunny March morningand the laughter from my daughter sliding, face first, down a bank of snow.Beside the woodstove, I feel the warm embrace of my loveand see the brightness of felted wool glowing on our dining table.Later, I bask the illumination of the full[Read More…]
The Eldest Game
ghosts of peo / ple hiding in this house / they grew up in and left / hidingunder tables in clo / sets long thin men pale pe / ople dark people all hidden /separately in the same room / waiting for the seeker to finis / h countingendlessly endlessly[Read More…]
Sauna
Crisp stars lit the dark sky as I strodethrough two-foot deep paths of snow,not caring about my wet hair orhat stuffed into my pocketon this below-zero night.My jacket hung carelessly on my body,as I sauntered like a god,relaxed and open to the frigid night. Emily Hershberger, Hardwick This poem was[Read More…]
Now all of autumn’s gaudy gold is spent
Now all of autumn’s gaudy gold is spent,Its bronze & ruby turned to brown and rust.The fiery glory was not owned but lent,Abandoned now to piles of ash and dust.Handfuls of hungry, homeward crows are tossed,Raucous, across November’s slate of skies.The hopeful cricket at my doorstep dies,And all September’s promises[Read More…]
Prey
The barred owl sits on a lofted limb,Her white feathers puffed up from the cold.A curious grey mole pops up from the snowy depths below,Suddenly, she swoops!Claws extended; she grabs the furry creature & in two rhythmic gulps,Ga-lump, ga-lump.She swallows him whole. Nina Livellara, Woodbury This poem was written for[Read More…]
Record of Wrongs
You rubbed me wrong. I meanrubbed the wrong way.You rubbed me the wrong way.And me I know, I knowI rubbed you the wrong way.Way wrong.All wrong the rubbing.Two-way wrong rubs.Along the rubbing way. We belong in this club.Our rough edge exposed.I will protect yourswith awareness of mine. Glenn McKee, Hardwick[Read More…]
Pre-flight
He said nothing to thembut accepted their presenceAt the press of the last inspectionI think we’re readyI’ll go flying with youlonger and farther awaymaybe the furthest awayAre you supposed to sing?I asked, you know.Wildly, your gaze shiftedthe corners of your mouth upturnedyou sank into an impossible posturechaos just visible out[Read More…]
The Last Hug
Seeing you sitting thereWorking on a puzzleThe old bright eyes I rememberAre now sad and tiredI never imagined Someone that was so activeWas now slow and unmotivatedThe person I used to eat ice-creamWith now goes to bed at sevenI never imagined That you were slowly dyingI gave you a hug[Read More…]
Library celebrates Poetry Month
HARDWICK – I have written previously of the variety of events that have been held in the Parker Ladd Community Room since it first opened last year. This month yet another first will take place there: the “All Acoustic Anything Goes Poetry Slam,” hosted by Vermont’s reigning Slam Master Geof[Read More…]
“April,” a VerseVillage poem
Every muddened pothole laden with water, slamming tires, Looks less intense from afar, and even if slow going, we’re jolting from our seats. Again, the back road dirt life is heightened, puddled heavier than those on pavement, squelching deeper and more insistent on trapping wheels within. Soon, enchanted by peepers[Read More…]
A VerseVillage poem
With limbs reaching out, does the hemlock see itself in the lake’s mirror? In her snug small nest, does the chipping sparrow dream about her children? On his morning walk, does the black bear praise the sun for warming his fur? SURELY.
