Best Vermont Poems
From Africa to America spanning the world, quite possibly
My DNA struggled to survive to make me,
My existence is a testament to survival fitness,
My life is to nurture the future and bear witness, the past,
My name is the name to property they gave,
My heritage my lineage is that of a slave,
Yes, slave, property, harsh words to hear,
Great Granddad was born enslaved, three generations too near,
Granddad laid bricks, played music and sang,
Hope from Grandma’s illiterate lips, I sprang,
A lineage broken in Georgia or Carolina south,
passed on and on by word of mouth,
The legacy must pass through me to give my children power,
For their momma’s line stepped off the Mayflower,
In both I must help them see honor,
For the strength and the pride that made me must endure,
Listening, and teaching, and learning I press on without blame,
Learning from the past about my past I move on without shame,
Each new day, new creation, I write the story,
One of survival, renewal, reflection, doggedly pushing toward glory,
I am black yesterday, I am black now, I am black history.
Vermont Limerick
There was a tall man from Vermont
Who always was out on the hunt.
But when he got snared
And layed in the lair
There was no more packing his trunk.
At 40 below zero in the Vermont country side,
the frost can be actually seen in the air
as sparkling frost dust seemingly defying gravity.
The skin showing between your mittens and sleeves
will be frost bitten in a matter of minutes if not covered.
Gloves just don’t do the job.
Moisture from my breath freezes on my mustache and beard.
Spit is frozen by the time it hits the ground...
Kick it and it shatters into pieces.
Working with any intensity causes the lungs to ache.
The air is crisp and very still. The scenery is crystal clear .
The colors of nature, the sky, trees and chimney smoke rising almost perfectly vertical in the windless valleys are striking and sharp.
Your nostrils begin to stick together. Your forehead hurts at first and your eyes begin to ache when moving from one scene to another for some reason..
Your forehead has stopped hurting so you had better get inside because the skin may be getting frost bit. As you get inside to the warmth of the shack you realize that your lips are splitting and it’s time for the lip balm or they will be bleeding soon.. again. Note not to trim my mustache until Spring. Take off the insulated boots, parker, sweater, coveralls ear flap hat and hood before I start sweating…. Never did get to shovel myself out of the yard. Maybe tomorrow. Stoke up the wood stove, brew up a cup of coffee, sit in the old rocker and listen to the fire crackling.. eating up the wood I’ve split and dried.
Maybe tomorrow it’ll warm up a bit eh, old dog friend of mine? Lay down Country Boy and rest your old bones. We’ll go fetch us some work in town tomorrow if the truck starts. Atta boy … lay down there and we’ll day dream a while about going down to Florida to live next winter. Meanwhile, well meanwhile, ..you know … we’ll just …… listen to the fire…. And ….be warm …....
Feeling the August sun
dry the pond's cool water
off of my back and shoulders.
Noticing my chin is thick
with salt and pepper stubble.
Wearing the same yellow t-shirt
for three days
without realizing.
Cooking up green bean soup
on a fire that I started.
Reading about Russian Czars
from a used paperback
I bought at the library.
Mopping up the last dribbles
of soup with the bread
I bought that morning.
Listening to doo wop
coming from my jeep's radio.
Watching the clouds crawl
across the mild blueness.
Rolling up my jeans
to use as a pillow.
Staring at the stars
sparkling in the
deep purple.
Crispy Macintosh Apples
Red with Sunset hue
Peeled and sliced on the bias
Soaked in apple dew ;
Maple syrup, Too
Oven Baked
Sniff!
Inspired By "Barbara Gorelick's Contest :
" Harvest Foods Epulaeryu "
There's a chill in the mornin' air as autumn in Vermont unfolds.
Splendor is revealed as trees assume their cloaks of reds and golds!
Fodder shocks gleam in the risin' sun and 'punkins' sport a tinge of rime.
Crimson and yellow apples are ready for pickin' havin' reached their prime!
In yon vale peekin' above the mornin' mists shines the steeple of a church,
Towerin' above the riot of color of its guardian trees and a grove of birch!
Skeins of snow geese wingin' southward grace the pristine sky.
The serenity of the autumn morn is shattered by their plaintive cry!
'Tis syrup renderin' time as maple trees surrender their free-flowin' sap.
Their hardy boles again withstand the trauma of an annual 'spinal' tap!
Apples are 'pressed into service' to make cider for sippin' by a cozy blaze,
As folks gather on winter eves to reminisce about the good ol' days!
Crusts of ice begin to form on streams flowin' 'neath covered bridges.
A dustin' of snow is tinted by the dawnin' sun on the yonder ridges!
Along country lanes the sun casts its mellow glow in the late afternoon.
On moonlit nights majestic stags are silhouetted against the harvest moon!
Families bundle up against the chill to enjoy hayrides and wiener roasts,
And toast marshmallows over a roarin' fire and tell of lurkin' ghosts!
An Indian summer is welcomed - the comin' winter gales it will delay.
Autumn in Vermont is more spectacular than even Mr. Rockwell could portray!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The verdant leaves
of the cherry trees
rustle as a wagon
loaded with corn
rides deeper into the wide ruts
of a rustic road,
hungry ruminants wallow
by a limpid lake;
cheerful kids wave
and wagtails warble
at my unexpected arrival...
suddenly my Dalmatian barks.
O jovial Autumn
incite my surprise,
and renew my decadent mood!
The grapevines rest
while giving off their fragrance,
and this weary steed
must rest in tranquility
to continue this journey...
before he pants-up grief;
and for mine and his sake,
let him get some sleep!
A sanguine sky
promises the loveliest sunset
ever seen by me
in this rustic Vermont landscape;
thrushes sing with me
to embellish my harmony,
not minding the crickets that
conspire in the hickories,
or the fluttering hawks
that return to their nests..
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
We hold these truths to be self evident that all humans are not created equal,
Some have been created with more
while some have been created with less
Some are rewarded in life while some are barred from success,
We hold these truths to be self evident that all lives matter although some matter less.
We are all entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,
Unless it is determined by majority decision that you are not,
The pursuit of happiness is for all
until the powers that be decide that rules do not apply to everyone,
Yet those rules will apply to everyone in accordance to how they react to the sun.
Life is only fair if you are fair
In all fairness you will fair less if you lack fairness,
So great is the sin to lack fairness of skin
That all rules must be laid by
By show of darkness
You must be prepared to accept less
So be it known that only some were created in the image of God.
And you know who you are
after all why would God create your defective bod?
We hold these truths to be self evident
In God we trust.
Put into words the world I want before me,
Call it praying, wishing, dreaming,
I have the power to speak life into the world,
I have power to speak death as well,
I choose life, I choose life.
An apple bitten,
Exiled from the garden of love,
Innocently wise.
people largely kept
the walk to the store,small,spruce
the gentle youth know
You entered this world right on time,
Just what we needed and we did not know it.
You were feisty, and wonderful, and funny.
Many days you tested me,
You challenged my resolve,
You lit up more rooms than you darkened,
The only rooms you darkened where the ones where you hit the switch,
I expected to see your smile until my vision faded,
I anticipated the day when your wisdom would exceed my own,
I never expected the sorrow of missing you would ever….
Strike the past few words I’ve spoken.
I will speak you back into this room
and hopefully mend the fractures of my broken heart,
You entered this world right on time,
You left this world far too soon.
Yellows, reds, oranges, the slow sublime death the leaves last breath before turning brown
and crumbling to the ground. The panorama of majestic mountains, the only green to be seen
are the ever strong pine trees. To travel along a lazy stream, the nip of and on coming
winter on a cool fall breeze. My only hope is its never soiled by creeping industry
destruction. The stars are so clearly seen, no city lights to obscure heavens lights. May Gods
hands forever shelter it from greedy men.
The metaphorical rooster crows,
Rise and shine,
There is a hammer to be swung,
It is time to build the world I planned,
From the dreams I dreamt.
Bones unearthed so roads may go places
Our people were not permitted to know,
Rise up, open up, open up,
The medicine is in the land,
Is in the mangoes,
Is in the yams,
The ancestors words are on the wind,
The shamanic gifts are in my bones,
Our inheritance, our sense, our skill,
We are blessed by the sharing,
We are blessed with ancestral gifts,
Just you being here is an act of defiance,
I see you
I see you with God’s eye,
I breathe you in with my ancestors breath.