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
And not worry.
Not worry you could
Having been found,
and not asked just
to move along.
Shake off the night.
To drive through
the drive-through, sober
or drunk from drinking
in the stars, through
you could afford
Between the black
and white lines
in a parking lot.
A few spaces reserved
for the disoriented.
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 pacing
nonchalantly. As if it doesn’t matter
who wins, which it does.
As if a game’s all in good fun,
Which might be true, if it wasn’t
our team who’s playing.
Trying to win a W, beat
the brains out of a team
whose bus is starting to warm-up
in the parking lot.
If my mother were here,
she’d say my friend Karl
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
That means more today, when these
College men can’t shake hands.
Won’t be able to go to the goal again
Anytime soon. Of course this is only a
small example. And not to be compared
To a country on lockdown. Everyone
In the world doing what they can to stop
The contagion. And not pretend the infection
Doesn’t affect them too. That we...
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 badge-wearing.
No pulling over a speeding
driver. Arresting a dog
for not wearing his tag. Not
investigating the rumor
the Town Poet might have
stolen a line from his neighbor.
As Frost said, when a reporter
asked him where he found his free
spoken lines. To which he retorted,
from a Dragon in Ripton Vermont,
where he lived in the...
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
The turkeys slip here,
The wind’s likely
to make a headdress
of. To catch
on a crown
a skin of ice,
we have to
about. And not
to make us feel sure
— Gary Margolis, Cornwall
Russ Reilly, who among other things was a long-time announcer at Middlebury College football games, died July 24. A memorial service will be held at Mead Chapel on the Middlebury campus this Saturday, Sept. 21, at 3 p.m. For many years, Gary Margolis sat next to Reilly in the football announcer’s booth, spotting and running the 25-second clock.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,
you would say, please remove your caps
and honor this great country of ours.
As Legion Post 27 presents our colors.
The word great bouncing off the peaks
of the Green Mountains, beginning
to turn orange again...
At the Addison County Field Days,
our local county fair,
there’s a new act called
The President. A professor,
off for the summer,
does a card trick
he doesn’t have a good
How it works.
Producing a card that seems
to have been shot out
of a cannon. Swirled
in a tube of cotton candy.
Without a number, a face
or one of the four suits.
To let you know that’s the one
you picked, without touching it.
It’s blank. An end-of-summer
memory. A whirl-a-gig of sorts.
The Caterpillar. You can sit in
with a friend, who becomes
your girlfriend, when the ride...
GARY MARGOLIS, A poet from Cornwall, has recently published a book of poems inspired in part by his time volunteering in a maximum security prison, where he facilitated poetry and writing workshops for inmates. Independent photo/Steve James
CORNWALL — When’s the last time you wrote a poem? For some of us, it was a long time ago… like, before Facebook, OMG — back when journals served as outlets for inward, emotional tweens. For others, like Gary Margolis, poetry is a daily practice.
Every morning when this poet wakes up in his Cornwall home, he gets up and heads out for an hour’s walk down Sperry and Bordeau roads.
“It’s a way for me to get into my body easily,” Margolis said. “It’s meditative. I go out with no expectations of writing.”
He opens himself up to what he sees, hears and feels. “It’s about being open to whatever it is...