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Pothole Poetry Contest
Of about 100 poems that were submitted, The Herald printed 44 in a two-page spread illustrated by Scott Wood. Submissions came from all over the Herald readership and even outside, from school children, senior citizens, and every age in-between. Two town clerks and one town moderator were among those submitting poems, as well as one nationally published writer. The Herald wants to emphasize that the Poetry Contest is not meant as criticism of any of the hardworking town crews. The evidence is that towns throughout Vermont were simply hit with a historic invasion of potholes this year, and the road crews couldn’t do much about it. Below are all the poems that were published: Ode to a Vermont Pothole O lovely chasm Thy depth and breadth astounding The echoes of metal resounding As the bowels of the earth are pounding With the sound of the cars, the cars, the cars. Wilst thou give up the fractured iron The broken tires, the shattered glass? Are thou so heartless as to delight In the senseless ruin of our transportation? Alas, Wicked Pothole Deliver me from out of your broken concrete And send me on to meet my destiny. —Mindy Branstetter Pothole Limericks There was a large hole in the road Between my work place and abode I zigged right so I’d miss My car zagged left to kiss That pothole, and turned into "towed." —Stewart Ketcham, DVM South Royalton Oh, the potholes I find Drive me out of my mind, Increasing in number each day, And in words most unkind, As they jounce my behind, I doom ‘em to _____ far away. —Mim Herwig Randolph Center There was a large pothole in town That people tried hard to steer ‘round It was rather unnerving But they couldn’t stop swerving ‘Cause if they fell in they might drown. —Sheldon Esch There was a man from Nantucket Who thought he’d buy a sap bucket; In the snow-capped green Mountains, Near sweet mapled fountains, A pothole, alas, ate his ducat. —Rick Edwards There was an Italian, Spumanti, Who longed to see things Vermonty, But the roads were so hole-y He dropped the cannoli He’d brought all that way for his Auntie. —Ann Aikens Outside that place, The Bare Mexican, Was heard an unsavory lexicon; Drivers dodged ‘round each hole-y "Sacred guacamole… It’s like driving with my ex again!" —Ann Aikens Double Limerick My boy, said the mom, don’t you whine-a Why, everything’s perfectly fine-a If you must, bless my soul I’ll drop you down this hole And you’ll probably end up in China. An old Chinese peasant name Quant From his well heard "Please sir, it’s important If you’re on dry land Please give me a hand I’ve been swimming all night from Vermont." —S. Stanfield I live in The Green Mountain State Where the potholes we grow are first rate. My truck bumps along 'Cuz the views in Vermont are so great. —Amy Braun Pothole Haikus Can you see pothole A crater of emptiness Wrecker of nice cars —Stewart Ketcham South Royalton N.A.S.A. called today, Asked if we’d drive their space cars Over moon craters. —A. Davis Hole Waiting. My car drives into. Meet Friend! —Carole Brobst Asphalt mouth eats rim Car eats the government check Sam should feed the roads —Carole Hall Crumbly open wound Hidden under snowy scab Coarse words when revealed. —Daniel Mcloughlin Randolph The pothole Filled with water Reflects the moon. —Jean Merrill Randolph That dreadful pothole The one on Bethel Mountain, Is a sign of spring. —Amy Braun, teacher Village School Hancock I hate big potholes They are the worst ever. They hurt my bottom. —Kaylah Stone, age 7 Village School Hancock I’ve never seen one, I’ve never seen a pothole. I’ve never seen one. —Cullen Kelly, age 7 Village School Hancock I don’t like potholes. They make my mom’s car sick. But I like puddles. —Taylor Sylvester, age 6 Village School Hancock A Winter Excursion Here we go! Proceed with caution, Pick and choose the route. Weave around the pothole mine field. Miss one, hit two. Swerve to the right, Then to the left, Maybe the center is better! Around the pothole And into a crater. Good Grief! We’re finally out of the driveway! —Sandy Higgins Potholes by the ‘Yard’ Two-by-four potholes of yore Have multiplied by a score To make matters worse, they form Three-in-a-row and can hold A caddy, a bus, and a hearse. —EMC Randolph Spells ‘Potholes’ P is for the Panic when we hit them! O is for the oaths we then spew forth! T is for the thoughts of warmer climate. (when the transportation is a horse.) H is for the Hope that way up Yonder, Only roads of gold will Lead and wind and Everyone will smoothly glide at Springtime, and shed a tear for those they left behind! —Mary Ann Church Bethel Vermont Speed Bumps Pothole, pothole from afar Speedbump, speedbump in the tar Pickup, pickup comes ajar. —Michael J. White Bethel Ode to Potholes The feeling many people have Toward potholes is simply hateful. I would suggest a different approach: Instead we should be grateful. When potholes are present on our roads We can often see the sun. The snow is melting; spring is here; And winter is (almost) done. Our potholes come in many forms. They are truly nature’s art. Can’t you see the beauty As you see the pavement part? My kids enjoy the potholes Of every shape and size. They ride the waves of broken roads And relish each surprise. Ruts in roads will slow you down. Relax. Take in the view. Take the time to enjoy the ride. You’ll feel better if you do. So the next time you hit a pothole And you are just about to swear… Remember this poem; take a deep breath; And be grateful—you’re almost there. —Christine Hoyt Tunbridge Holy Pothole! As I live miles outside of town, My grocery supplies sometimes get down. On Saturday of the week past I started my car and hit the gas. Because this season snowed so much I drove on ice and dirt and slush. I missed one hole, then hit two more Staying on the road was quite a chore. I looked, then blinked, then slowed the car A hand, sticking up, I saw afar. A hand—a head—and then some more A voice I heard when I opened my door. Such ranting, cursing, crying and yelping Words crying out for someone’s helping. I reached down and gave a pull But still the cursing was loud and full. I said "Be calm, I’m helping you out;" But it’s not me it’s the preacher’s shout. I hauled him up and then the other The second a Priest—Our Holy Brother. The Potholes alas are many and deep They try our patience—They upset our sleep But Spring is here and hopes are high. That Summertime will be high and dry. The Potholes are a yearly thing But we all know they’re worse this Spring!!! —Mary M. Felch Ellenburg Depot, N.Y. Pothole Season Please watch out for potholes, They’re apt to hurt your car, Unless you want to pay the tolls Of not staying where you are. You’ll probably hurt your muffler And then pop all your tires, The price for not going slow, May be even higher. The car bills will accumulate, And suck up all your cash. By this time you will probably wish You took a better path. With the price of gasoline And buying many parts You might be meant to stay at home Or get a horse and cart. —Marya Merriam, age 11 East Brookfield Pothole Heaven As I head home, my day’s work done, I don’t get far, it’s pothole one. It seems quite simple, what they should do. And then I bounce through pothole two. I look ahead, and there I see Another one, it’s pothole three. I realize there may be many more, And sure enough, there’s pothole. four. I wonder how these folks survive. As I roll into pothole five. My car, I soon will need to fix As I bounce out of pothole six. And as I swerve past pothole seven, I realize, I’m in Pothole Heaven. —Richard Bradley Randolph Center Potholes in Paradise? There are potholes by the dozen There are potholes by the score And every time we turn around We discover thirty more. We dodge, we swerve, we grunt and moan We grumble, and some may even curse. Day by day, we gaze in awe. Can this get any worse? We do not care to drive by night Potholes lurk in the dark And, if by day we venture out, We jolt and lurch to find a place to park. The streets of Heaven are paved with gold Bright enough to blind the eyes. Can someone please advise me— Will there be potholes in Paradise? —Sally Ford Bethel Poor Pothole The life of a pothole Must indeed be bad, It lies in the road Feeling lonely and sad. And for what does it wait You may ask with a grin For whatever will pass it— A tire, a rim. But drive by we do Without a thought or a care, Our tire, our rim We try not to share. Our friendship it wants But the hole’s a disgrace, With water and mud All over its face. And no one wants it, Goof grief, let’s get real, But I ask you… If you were a pothole, How would you feel? —Shannon M. Trigos Randolph Center Apologies to W.E. Henley Into the pothole that swallows me Seems deeper than the Quechee Gorge I pray to whatever Gods may be That the DPW can find my trusty Ford Into the pothole I fell by circumstance I winced, and I cried out loud Into the pothole I found by chance My SUV is dented, my head is bowed Beyond this place of broken spring and fear Looms the promise of spring and thaw Yet during the menace that is this time of year I drive with nerves drawn tight and raw It matters not how straight the grade Nor how well it is ditched, drained and crowned Nature is the master of our fate She controls the heaves of the ground. —Peter M. Nowlan Randolph Pothole Vermont While traveling down a country road, Potholes galore rattling apart my heavy load. Lumber upon my truck—many miles to go, Soon it’ll be pavement—ending being tossed to and fro. Route 12 in sight—without potholes no doubt, Smash, crash, bang—my false teeth dropped out. Before retrieving my teeth off the floor, Another pothole has slammed open my driver door. Kerr boom my headlights have shattered on the ground, Suddenly my lunchbox is sailing all around. Then a pothole the size of a 6 foot pool, Ripped of my bumper like a power tool. Gone is my toupee, my teeth and my socks, Broken are my artificial knees, hips and Snoopy lunchbox. The truck that last summer was new, Looks like a war-torn tank to everyone’s view. Gone are the doors, bumpers, lights and hood too, The antenna, the shocks and springs—what am I to do. What happened to you and the truck my boss wants to know, I answered, "there’s a War in Pothole Vermont—I had to drive slow." Lumber is scattered from Worcester to the New Hampshire line, Let Vermont keep the pieces they can find. I hope Governor Douglas can sell the best of the lot, To help foot the bill for the tons of blacktop. —Marcy Frink Worcester Potholes of Randolph Bumpa Chicka Chugga Chugga Bam Chicka Chunk Winter driving in Vermont Can put you in a funk. Coffee splashing this way Cheerios fly about We’re swerving around potholes Like we’re snakes as we shout But my daughter’s in the back seat Starting a new song Making constant "Aaahhh" sounds While the bumps make beats along. And my son thinks it’s real funny Bouncing this-a-way and that ‘Til I tell him it’s the closest thing To Disney that he’ll get. OK, a bit extreme I admit, but it’s not fun To imagine that the bottom of your car… WHOA, there isn’t one! So, Bumpa Chicka Chugga Chugga Bam Chicka Splat Swiss cheese lookin’ pavement In Vermont is where we’re at. —Tracey Rotman Randolph Pothole Blues I drive like a drunk Because I’m sunk Here, there, everywhere All around the state Clink, clunk I’m up to the trunk Don’t despair As long as you carry a spare. With luck you’ll be there Speeders beware Don’t swear There are no repairs Our money went elsewhere Potholes galore All the way to the store Don’t be dumb Save your gum Maybe we can fill some We were real keen About keeping this clean But swear words Keep popping up Just like the ruts. —Participants of the Gifford Adult Day Program Judy Santamore, director A Pothole? A POTHOLE is really a KNOThole, For if in one you’ve ever been caught, You know you are NOT going forward or back, And you’re surely NOT pleased with the spot. NOT insured for the damage, Your temper gets hot. Attempts to get free Have all been for NAUGHT. You’re NOT pleased with yourself For NOT seeing the POT. What should you do now? Your mind is fraught. That HOLE has your stomach Tied up in a KNOT. —Carolyn Boone Randolph The Shock Bump Boogie You go bump on the way to work, You go bump on the way home. March brings ruts along with the bumps. You do the shock bump boogie on your way to work, You do the shock bump boogie on your way home. Lookout, Josephine! There’s a mud hole up ahead. It’s the shimmy slide swerve shock bump boogie on your way to work, It’s the shimmy slide swerve shock bump boogie on your way home. The muffler falls off on your way through the last mud hole. Now you do the blat shimmy slide swerve blat shock bump boogie blat on your way to work And the blat shimmy slide swerve blat shock bump boogie blat on your way back home. —Stuart Levasseur Royalton The Seasonal Cost Careening down roads, spraying up gravel, Bouncing and swaying is the way we travel. Arriving at destinations always too late Is the price you pay when you live in this state. But Vermonters adapt; we've practiced until Eluding the holes is an admirable skill. And, in time, by June maybe, the snow will melt, The mud will harden, spring will be felt. The potholes won't go, but they'll cleverly hide, They'll be covered and filled, just a memory set aside. Then once more the roads will gracefully sweep Through country hillsides by cows and by sheep, By the Green Mountain majesties that inhabit our state And the roads will be bandaged and healed 'til they're almost first rate. —Katie Jickling RUHS Humanities 10 Class Life With Potholes Get in the car Breathe in deep Still thinking I should be asleep. Pull out of the driveway On the dirt road Now the car is in Vibration mode. The seatbelt locked up The coffee has spilt Time to find out How well this car was built. Get off the dirt road Onto the one that is paved But soon to find out I am still not saved. Going into town Across the big bridge Look up ahead Is that a bump or a ridge? The four-way near school Is equipped with a crater Which causes me to arrive to school Later and later. I get to school Safe at last Glad my drive Is all in the past. Out of the car Head for the front door Little did I know What was in store. Trip in a hole Fall into the slush. My homework has now Turned to mush. My hands are scratched My butt is wet. Getting out of bed I now regret. Are you a klutz? My friends will taunt. Such is life Potholes in Vermont. —Molly Jacobs RUHS, Humanities 8 Class Charge of The Four Wheel Brigade (With apologies to A.L. Tennyson) Half a mile, half a mile Half a mile onward All in the valley of death Drove the one hundred Forward the four wheel brigade Charging ahead, not a one dismayed Into the valley of death Rolled the one hundred. Potholes to the right of them, Potholes to the left of them, Potholes in front of them Swerving and braking Jolted and jarred, boldly they charged On to their destination they drove Into the valley of death Slowed the one hundred. Forward the four wheel brigade Was there a driver dismayed Theirs not to reason why Theirs but to drive and buy Buy new shocks and struts Attached with new bolts and nuts Through the valley of death Crept the one hundred Half a yard, half a yard, Half a yard homeward With tires flat and axles bent Last month’s paycheck now is spent Ball joint to the right of them, Mufflers to the left of them Out from the valley of death Walked the one hundred. —Ken Hafner Randolph Center Spaceship Bound When I was young I whined and whinged Mud and ruts made me unhinged. Despised the pothole without hope Until I found a telescope But then I peered up at the moon Pocked with potholes all rough hewn. So now when potholes pave the ground I fancy I am spaceship bound. —Karen Miller Randolph Have a Laugh It’s pothole season in Vermont. Come down and have a laugh. While watching other drivers here, Snap their axles in half. It’s really quite surprising To see the look on drivers’ faces, When they hit a pothole here, In the middle of a race. So before you jump into your car You better do the math. You might want to ride your brand new car On a better path. Timothy Farrington, age 12 Brookfield Final Vermont Spring Oh my hubcap lies in Bethel My bumper’s up in Peth And my steering wheel’s a-quiver As if it were on Meth A trail of radiator goo Follows me around My headlight’s up in Brookfield And my horn won’t make a sound. My springs are shot, my struts are not Attached to any thing. I lift my glass and pledge that it’s MY FINAL VERMONT SPRING. O potholes, potholes, potholes Why do you treat me so? Where’er you come from, I just pray That back to there you’ll go! —Alex Canarsie I’ve Been Crashin’ In the Potholes (The family newspaper expurgated version.) To the tune of "I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad" I’ve been crashin’ on the potholes All the live-long day. I’ve been crashin’ on the potholes And a-swearin’ all the way; Can’t you hear the hubcaps rolling, Twirling and landing in the mud? Sounds like lotsa people bowling. And landing with a thud. Driver, won’t you curse, Driver won’t you curse. Driver, won’t you curse and baw-aw-awl? Still, it’s gettin’ worse, Still, it’s gettin’ worse; Cursin’ doesn’t help at all! Someone’s in the potholes this morning, Someone’s in the potholes this noo-oo-oo-oon. Someone’s in the potholes this evening, I’ll be in the potholes soon. And cursing. "****,****, fiddley-eye-O ****,****,****,**** ****,****, fiddley-eye-O! ****,****,****! —Marjorie Drysdale To a Pothole Oh, pothole, how I loathe to see your face, Your depths I take great care not to explore. But when you’re multiplied, and there’s no place To avoid you, your depths I can’t ignore. So I’ve striven, foul ditch, not to allow The deep stress you put upon my driving To darken my mood or words—oh but how I fail at the "thump," despite my striving. —Sheldon Esch The Herald’s Pothole Adventure There’s nothing to do in Vermont, you’ll agree Unless you like snow sports, or "Idol" TV Or whining ‘bout weather, town business and such Cuz other than that there is nothin’ much. In the White River Valleys the citizens read The Herald of Randolph, for praise and misdeeds The publisher, Dickey, prints tales and cool pics Amusing the folks who are stuck in the sticks. In 2008 there was such a long winter That newborns from fall grew into spring spinsters The snow was so deep that the pets were all lost And towns ceased all plowing because of the cost. The girth of the potholes come March are explained By saying they rivaled the size of Champlain The holes in the dirt of our roads were so wide That townspeople witnessed NY on one side. But the depth of these holes was the biggest disaster The truckloads of dirt couldn’t come any faster The earth sucked it down and soon it was clear That nature was not to be messed with, but feared! The paper ran photos of snow, mud and ice Dick asked that his staff find more pics with more spice! Bob Eddy went up Braintree Hill for a shot But ruined his rig when he hit a huge pot. Dick called for young Tim to find a prize-winner Then waited all day ‘til long past his dinner With the news that his last photo-guy had gone down Our publisher bore a most furrow-browed frown! Jill then heard the editor, under his breath, "I’ll get my own photos; I’ll go up to Peth. It’s on my way home and the view is much greater!" But once on the road, he was ‘et by a crater. "Who’ll help me now, I’m deep in the mud I wish I had not lost my best friend, ole Fud" What Dick didn’t know was that his dog was in hiding Just waiting for spring so he could go riding. And hearing Dick’s cries, Mighty Golden Retrieve Bound in from the forest, grabbing Dick by his sleeve A furious struggle, mutt vs ground I’m happy to say Dick was saved by his hound. So next time you’re thinking of coming up North Be ready to drive forth and back, back and forth Our views are to die for, enjoy our cool breeze, But you’d better be ready to drive on Swiss cheese. —Barb Baumann |
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