"vermont" poems
I moved a few years ago
To the upper state of Vermont
Although the place is beautiful
At times it can be one great big yawn
That's when we put our heads together
Me and my best friend Shawn
And came up with the great idea
To start a Hippie Farm
Our noggins were a knocking
Not sure how this could be done
Do Hippies come from packs of seeds
Or like flowers, in a bunch
And can you start them off by grafting
Like they do on Apple Farms
Where you get rows and rows of Hippies
From just a single one
That's when Shawn remembered this mail order magazine
That we took out and took a look inside
It came with an assortment of Hippies
From Raw to Roasted to Highly Deep Fried
So we sat and weighed all of our options
And ordered a bushel of Hippies alive
Then we set out cultivating the fields
Till the day our Hippies arrived
The package arrived a few days later
In an old beat up VW Bus
With psychedelic smoke pouring from the windows
Pretty sure they all came buzzed
Of course Hippies don't come with instructions
Only bell bottom jeans and old Jefferson Airplane tapes
Can't tell you how many Hippies we went through
Before we learned from our mistakes
Like don't plant a Hippie face first in the dirt
They need a bit of air to breath
And they don't like to be over watered
Just dust them off when you feel the need
Now that the farm is up and running
We seem to have come into our own
We've even come up with a way of branding
Some of the Hippies that we've grown
We started selling them in flavors
Like Ben and Jerry's down the street
From our Abbie Hoffman Radical Cherry
To our Hendrix Hazy Purple Berry Treat
But it's our Groovy Rainbow Roundup Hippie
Whose sales have never let us down
In fact I'd put that Hippie up against
Anybody else's Hippie in town
I've never been much of one to brag
But we're known on the East coast, up and down
We've had people as far away as Florida
Come and buy our Hippies by the pound
So next time your up in Vermont
Stop in and take a tour and watch us grow
Don't forget to stop by our gift shop
And purchase your very own Hippie to take home
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
like my guitar
and your eyes
and the way you looked that night
and the stars in June
in the big Vermont sky
and the way my heart
always shined around yours.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 12:58 PM UTC
Somewhere in Vermont
I see the sky
Stars scattered
like lighting bugs back home
Clouds drift,
Cold breeze,
Threatening rain
Shaped like an unfamiliar constellation
Headlamps shine
Some red, some blue, some yellow
Some bright, some dim
There's a presence here
Neither scary
Or threatening
Or even mysterious
People breathe,
A guitar sounds,
Pens scribble
Each in unity with the other
Somewhere in Vermont
People write
Separated by space
Their own thoughts
Spilling around them
Combining as one
Yet still
Individual
Brought together
By happenstance
They breathe together
as
One
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
You pick every word I say
With rapt attention.
So I tell you about tangerine skies
In Vermont, how I shape them.
I tell you my dad invented Cuban cigars
In Argentina.
You heard about the prawns,
The ***** and the lilies. A story only I could tell.
I could tell it in fluent Yoruba.
You watch me sleep like I don't have a care in this world
Snorting away while chasing dragonflies and seahorses
In my oblivion.
You watch me walk in the shadows
My gait like gridless frames of a restless gate
blown open by the wind.
(If I was the night, I would be bright.)
Finally you see my hands well adapted to cutlasses and owes,
Irrespective experienced with oriental oils
and manicures.
'One day I will be king', I thought I said.
But you heard it from my mind.
You heard it alone.
Yesterday we owed this to ourselves.
Tomorrow we will be lovers
Today let's be friends.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
I am from the towering oak and pine trees
That sway on the old forest’s edge,
Coyotes howling in the shadows
A haunting lamentation
I am from the creaky stairs and floorboards
At the house on Liberty Street,
From the ancient gas heater and its tendrils of flame
That never seemed to be quite hot enough
I am from the sound of my father’s voice
Heavy with sleep as he whispers to us
A late night bedtime story,
Scaring away the monsters under our beds
I am from Sunday mornings
Bursting with rays of golden light and
Filtering through glimmering church windows
Lingering on familiar faces
I am from ‘make good choices’
'Be a peacemaker’
‘You are greatness’ and
‘Oiaue!’
I am from the scent of Mom’s cookies
Chocolate chip and butterscotch
Melting away winters and
Warming cold hearts
I am from acrylic paint,
Graphite, ink and canvas
From smudged hands, stained clothes,
And a sketchbook full of scribblings
I am from the crisp chill of autumn
In the mountains of Vermont,
Staring into a sea of stars
As dazzling sparks float skyward in the distance
I am from the cool sea breeze
And the salty mist over the water
Waves crashing fiercely in the haze
Of Newport’s rocky shores
I am from the quiet peace
That can only come from the words
“I love you” and the warm embrace
That often follows
I am from endless words
Written with shaking, ink-stained hands
On crumpled bone white paper
Hoping to be good enough to keep
I am from weak muscles and fragile bones
From hesitant first steps and training wheels
From stubborn no’s and penitent yes’s
From late nights and shadowy eyes
I am from the past
I am from the present
I am from the trembling, changing
Pathway to my future
I am from this house
This family and
This home
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
The summer like a rajah dies,
And every widowed tree
Kindles for Congregationalist eyes
An alien suttee.
2.5k
Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:
He
*******
lived.
Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
**** Off and Die.
He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.
What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.
He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.
You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.
So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.
That makes sense.
But everything in me
still wants to
believe.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I know that you've been looking for love and romance.
But your boyfriend only wants to get into your pants.
He's going to dump you when he gets what he wants.
And then he's going to go home to his wife in Vermont.
But I know how that you can ruin his life.
Just pick up the phone and call his wife.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.
“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”
Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.
This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.
Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.
*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA
Musician, author, spokesman, educator
Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto
Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building —
two blocks over from The Vermont
awash in gold and the noble lights of the Avenue.
I was drunk,
or, there-abouts.
Isobel was coming.
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building,
pulling the collar of my Burberry coat against my jaw and ears;
it was November and the concierge came out to ask me
if I’d like to come inside and wait —
“No, I’m good, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
What was two blocks?
I pull out my cellphone —
“Where are you?”
“My mom’s drunk.”
Code for: “I’m playing therapist.”
I’m almost out —
out of brain cells (really?”
out of patience
out of love
out of “it”
out of time — but,
the curious thing is,
I’m never almost out of money.
I notice him when he stops on the step
I sit on.
He’s a sterling silver chain,
the thin, delicate kind that breaks with a soft tug.
He looks down at me, eyes
the colour of darkened ice,
not softened by the yellow lights
raining down from under the awning.
“Do you live here?”
“Where is “here”?”
He laughs. Smiles. “The Florence.”
He’s beautiful,
the way a poppy is beautiful,
transparent,
saying so much with his flushed cheeks
and dark eyes,
so full of life and resembling something or, someone, dead —
“Lest we forget,” whispered the corpse,
ouvert,
in the slush of Alsace-Lorraine.
He sits beside me, shoulder warm,
firm — he’s a guy, but he’s so ******* beautiful —
I want to touch him,
brush his cheek as if he’s a rose protruding
from the briar, the thorny path —
not pick him, because he’s too beautiful,
too tragic, and I don’t want to **** him; —
“Where do you live?”
He’s smoking like a flower.
I want to lie. I don’t.
“The Vermont.”
His expression doesn’t change,
remains soft, his eyes stay ice.
He looks away.
I’ll uproot him and plant him in richer soil,
I won’t be looking into ice,
no more mirror,
but, the sky after rain,
the soft fragrant grey,
so much light.
“What’s that? Two blocks?”
“Yeah.”
He rubs his face.
He has sensitive skin,
red upon contact with the cuff
of his wool coat.
“I’ll walk you.”
“Please.”
I stand up slowly and breathe in cold air
and vapour.
Out comes alcohol.
“You’re drunk?”
“I was.”
“Your laces are undone.”
“Are they?”
I look down at him,
he’s laughing,
lowering his head at my knees
and I feel something despite myself —
warmth in my chest,
accompanied by a warmth in my abdomen,
tensing.
“I’ll fix them.”
I watch him, shoulders moving under his coat,
and I imagine him higher,
on his knees and,
a little higher,
stop myself with:
“I’m not a child.”
He stops — I stop him.
He looks up;
his lashes are like glass.
“I want to kiss you.”
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
You're having a bad day
not everything is good?
Yes, that's very true...
come in and sit down.
You haven't eaten?
Well...
you came to the right place.
Here is a nice armchair,
my Grandmother's from Ethen Allen
yes...
a beautiful deep burgundy color
with goldenrod yellow twirling paisley
in a burning orange background...
lovely she is
her shapely curves...
rugged, straight lines
carved into flowers
her cherry stained legs
worn edges...
so soft, comfortable and weathered
I agree
she is very reliable and sturdy
and she is kind
so forgiving...yes?
Oh, fresh coffee ...
ahhhh you smelled it,
of course
here you go
a steaming cup of hopeful dreaming...
brilliant,
in a aromatic plume of Tahitian Hazelnut
swirling ribbons of fresh Vermont cream
cinnamon rolls in the oven
sugary love smells intoxicating...
yes?
glazed sugar awaiting
as cool crisp dried leafy breezes
flow through waiting drapes of warm white linen
Yes, so very poetic this place...
A gift...why I'd say!
I love this time of year
very much...
especially the trees...
floating in the air
the leaf dancers drift silently
waving Goodbye in the Fall winds
Welcome to my Vermont
to the beautiful Green Mountains
in splendid peaking colors
panoramic splendor
The natives so
oh...you know
They call 'em verdant visions
again come springtime
come on, stay awhile
put on a friendly smile
a welcome done in style
my home is your home
take your hat off what's the hurry?
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
She’ll make cheeseburger pie and zebra cake for your birthdays.
She’ll go to Vermont and wears water shoes down the stairs of mossy rocks.
She’ll lay a towel to the side of the mountain with streams cascading down.
She’ll baby you and treat you like when you were 5 years old.
She’ll introduce you to Shakespeare and Monty Python.
She’ll fall in love with your school shows.
She’ll talk about dogs she had as a child while you sit with yours.
She’ll tell stories of when your dad was a child with his little brothers.
She’ll never leave your heart.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Artichokes will always make me think
of you drunk in Vermont on your 22nd birthday.
Giggling and tired from the rocks of the mountains
you spilled both our drinks and wrung your hands
in complete defiance of giving a ****
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At that word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
1.6k
Opossum's in Vermont, Humph.
Ain't no kitty,
looks like Global Warming doesn't it?
Yup, it sure does poet.
Cherie Nolan© 2016
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
"My roots run deep hearn' these Green Mountains of Vermont. "
All Rights Reserved © 2016 Ma Cherie
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC
where were u when i took my first steps?
im sorry hunny i was too busy getting drunk.
where were u when i said my first word?
im sorry baby girl i wasnt listening .
i was too busy hitting and yelling at ur mom..
where were you when i first started school?
i was in vermont getting stupid drunk .
daddy whats the point of you being here now?
ur probably just gonna leave me again to go live with YOUR family and i will never see you again .
your gonna do the same thing we told you not to do,
your just gonna up and leave and not realize how much you'r breaking my heart ! :'(
good bye daddy :'(
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
My foot sinks deeply into the snow.
The boots leave giant holes in the land,
while I follow the smaller fox prints.
Stumbling, for I have lost my way.
The sign for Bethlehem snow covered;
perhaps it is somewhere in east Vermont.
The trees are all barren from the cold.
The fox’s glare is often pitiless,
as pitiless as winters frozen touch.
Prophets and apostles migrate south now
along with the fowl of the air and Jews;
to where the signs are not snow covered.
New England longs for the warmth of spring,
but I pine for the deep Florida heat.
I want to watch the heron rise steeply.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
take me on a journey there
and tell me what you see
I see trees of falling bark around
and shores of golden sea
I will take you on a journey here
through the hills of my Vermont
where the crystal waters
run so clear
and my ancestors still haunt
I see mountains tall and proud shimmering in a blue
I see fields of rolling shade
and some sleeping kangaroo
I see moths- the rarest kinds
and these birds of many feather
I see mountains verdant green
and this gorgeous summer weather
I fly with noisy lorikeet
and swim in coral reef
and walk 'twixt ancient eucalypt
to view the sandy beach
I land with Peregrine Falcon
and I soar with red tail hawk
I drift in summer breezes here
and with the animals
I talk
I walk through shady leafy glens
and I tread the reddened Earth
while I listen as the lybirds sing
to state my futile worth
I dream of sweet tomorrow's near
in the clouds of purest white
I hike in ferny glens here too
and fly a homemade kite
I stand beneath the winter here
in the clearest skies above
and I trace the stars my future now
in hopes I find true love
I stand in brilliant honey rays
in days of solstice long
I sing to love ~ oh far away
that he too hear my song
and hear I do,
a song from you
that skipped across the stars
your day-
my night,
we must take flight
beyond the Sun,
the moon and stars
out to the Milky Way
I'll come along with you
our maiden flight
in love and light
to find a love that's true
David Hewitt & Ma Cherie
© July 2017
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC
I may not own the streets
or ride them in leather seats,
but if you can hear the beat
then that I speak isn’t weak.
And when I use my unique technique
you will feel weak and antique.
I imagine, create, and contrast,
while you remain in the shame of the past.
And no fame or acclaim will frame
your lame claims of a big game.
So listen up;
let my words glisten
and strut
and enlighten your mind
to the blind kind of refined chap
whose strife in life is crap
in a shiny wrap.
And when you understand
that this land
is not about high-end brands
or powerful hands,
I will demand your attention
to begin an ascension
into another dimension
where we will find a divine comprehension
of our world.
In this new state,
where happiness is part of fate,
we will no longer ache
from the weight of our hate.
We will not longer become irate
when the worth of a great estate abates
and no longer fail to appreciate
dates with soul mates
and time with your friends,
while the trends will amend virtue
and not pretend and defend
vices that can only hurt you.
So please open your eyes
and let your mind fly into the skies
so that my goodbye
might manage to give flight
to what is right
and make all our dry lives
a bit more bright.
Because all I really want
is to see every gent, elder and debutante
from the Nile to Vermont
to flaunt a smile that does not beguile,
but genuinely shows how versatile
and worthwhile life can be
when we defile the hostile
and see that a college degree
does not advocate the ease of greed
and even those without
their abc’s and phd’s
still need to be part of the key
to unlock a world above thee.
We must choose to rise together,
for one missing feather will sever the wings of mankind
and leave us blind;
Always and forever.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC
Under the garish Vermont moon
I cared nothing for truth
-yOURS or mine.
The snows had not yet melted:
the birds, still somewhere south.
Dawn was far away,
and as I held you close
the cold lost its bite.
And thus we stood -
next to the snowy field
that I always meant to explore,
and the world wasn't dark
for the stars in your eyes.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
fill the entire page
with snowy enlightenment
fool nobody else
five five five five five
seven seven seven oops
five five five five five
contentment I guess
can only be recognized
from its shadow, cast
direction is offered
by the learned minds afar
it’s a time machine
a houseboat with pool
a brown pigeon on a leash
a dumb dream again
snows a comin’ up
a ledger of snow, in banks
I now coin this phrase
so bright very white
crystals fall from the gray sky
shoveling diamonds
pick an argument
forget yourself for awhile
then just go away
too many people
smoking piles of well meaning
it tempts the silence
sixty divisible
one through six ten twelve fifteen
twenty and thirty
imagination
a substitute for answers
all we do is dream
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC