Pothole Poetry

From my hometown newspaper in VT, The Herald:

POTHOLE POETRY (selected readings):

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

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

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