Poetry Contest: Part III
Here’s the third and last part
Of our poetry contest
With poems from the heart
And poems written to jest.
 —Paul Wesslund
CATEGORY: HUMOR
Whither the Weather
I turned on the TV to catch the weather
To see if I’d need an umbrella or whether
A lighter jacket would be enough.
But I sure learned a bunch of stuff!
The isobars were uncommonly tight.
A high was exiting to the right.
Pressure was low and—how ironic—
The clockwise flow had turned cyclonic!
Western components headed east
To complicate matters, or at least
To drastically raise the mean humidity
And keep it up with some rigidity.
At length I was filled with such confusion
I longed for a clear and precise conclusion.
And, finally, they did explain—
It’s gonna rain.
Maybe.
Nancy Gustafson, Dry Ridge
Changing the Beds
For fifty years I’ve
Changed the beds,
No one ever gives a rip!
If I did it for a
Motel, someone would
At least give me a tip!
Mary Ann Carrico-Mitchell, Campbellsburg
Shelby Energy Cooperative
Please don't put me on hold
The word hold has many uses
some more valuable than gold
but the use I dislike most of all
is, “May I put you on hold.”
If I only had the knowledge
I’d make myself a clone
I could work with ease or do as I please
while my clone sat holding the phone
The years are going by swiftly
and I am growing old
I’ve aged a lot doing nothing
just simply sitting on hold
Don’t worry about hurting my feelings
I’m from a very strong mold
just say I don’t want to talk now
but please don’t put me on hold
Now when my relatives call me
and their awful plight I am told
when they ask for the dough, I won’t say no
I’ll say, “Let me put you on hold.”
Doris Banks, Philpot
Kenergy Electric Co-op
Confused
About this food stuff, I’m a bit hazy.
Could be that I’m dense and also lazy,
But all these diet rules are driving me crazy.
To fight CHD, reduce those fats,
Check blood lipids and HDL stats.
SFA?? Tryglycerides??
PUFA, MUFA, LDL?? Besides
Acids trans fatty?
It’s driving me batty!
I read that homocysteine (whatever that is)
Can put my heart in a bit of a whiz,
But folate in broccoli, asparagus, and greens
Can fight HD—along with some beans.
There are isoflavones to be found in soy—
The bean or the oil—oh, what a joy!
Along with polyphiones, they might be the answer
To check my chances of getting cancer.
To get my RDAs, I must read the food label
And understand it if I’m alphabet able.
Check the EARs, PDVs and such.
For my feeble brain, it’s all too much!
The more I study, the more I’m puzzled.
I think of all the wrong food I’ve guzzled.
Must I eat only broccoli, asparagus, and beans—
Never biscuits and gravy—is that what it means?
Lois C. Wilson, Falmouth
Blue Grass Energy Cooperative
The Day Roy Rogers Rode My Bus
The day Roy Rogers rode my bus, is a day I’ve long remembered,
I carry scars from that fateful day, when I almost got dismembered
The year was nineteen fifty-two, I had just turned twelve years old,
Roy Rogers was my hero, I was him, but twice as bold
Young love had hit me pretty hard, hormones kicking up a fuss, we shared
thirty minutes every day, on the number nine school bus
I had felt her interest waning, from her heart I might be cut, I decided
to take action, just to keep her interest up
At the spot where I got off each day, the bus turned up a hill, and at this
spot my fate was sealed, my plan I would fulfill!
I got off the bus, ran to the rear, and as the driver picked up speed, I
jumped up on the bumper, just like Roy would on his steed!
Fearless!! in the face of danger, to the top I’d bravely travel, but the
driver hit a pothole, and my plan it did unravel
My feet got caught there in the crack, where the bumper fastens on, I knew
right then that I would die, and it wouldn’t be too long
My body dragged along the street, that was cruelly paved with gravel, believe
me when I tell you friends, it ain’t the way to travel!
I knew my only chance to live, was to get someone’s attention, I threw gravel
at the window, and screamed words that I can’t mention
I saw my “love” just watching me, inside the bus, and she was grinnin’!!, while
my macho turned to Jello, and my hind end took a skinnin’
Didn’t know a bus could go that fast, it was a yellow blur a haulin’, I’d
have died that day before I’d a cried, (you know old Roy don’t do no bawlin’)
We finally made it to the top, and I worked my body free, the battered wretch
limping home that day didn’t look too much like me
That night I made my mind up, sure as there’s a Lord above, that girl was plain
sadistic, I’d find me another love!
The driver was a woman, by the name of Miss Marcella, the first time I laid eyes on
her I mistook her for a fella, she was big and strong, and ugly too, and I’d really meant
no harm, besides, this was nineteen fifty-two, and she had tattoos on her arm
The day after I’d made my ride, I crawled back on her bus, she knew of course
what I had done, but she didn’t make no fuss
She scowled at me, and then she said, real mean and kinda coarse, what hit
you Roy Rogers? Didja fall off of your horse?
Larry Wilson, Bowling Green
Warren Rural Electric Cooperative
Summer Daze
Summer days are long and hot
Few clouds cross the sky
Dozing in my old hammock
Here at peace I lie
The onion patch needs weeded
The front lawn, it needs mowed
I noticed just this morning
The garden too needs hoed
My sweet wife wants her flat tire fixed
I’ll get to that real soon
I’ll lie here for a little while
It’s just a tad past noon
The backyard fence needs mended
I’ll get to that next week
It feels so good just lying here
The sun’s warm on my feet
Raindrops splatter on my face
I didn’t realize
Must’ve dozed a little while
Dark clouds have crossed the sky
Rain is falling heavy now
I dash for my back door
My bare foot stumbles on a rock
Hope it don’t get sore
On the table I can see
A tempting chocolate cake
I really shouldn’t sneak this slice
It’s for our neighbor’s wake
Raindrops pound upon the roof
Thunder rumbles overhead
Lightning streaks across the sky
I’m cozy in my bed
Tomorrow is a work day
It’s Monday once again
Guess the chores will have to wait
‘Til the next week-end
Victoria Peace Allen, Baxter
Cumberland Valley Electric Co-op
CATEGORY: CELEBRATING KENTUCKY
Growing up on Gravel
Covered with gravel
named after a neighbor
growing up on it
could be considered hard labor
Spring brought the mud
summer brought the dust
Mama always cleaned
but sometimes she just cussed
You could hear Daddy coming
before you could see him
gravel under his tires
poppin’ and a pingin’
The same with the mailman
and the guy who delivered
papers
but most fun of all was
the big yellow grader
He would fill up the gullies
and knock down the mounds
then we would have to drive slow
on our way into town
My mom and dad still live
on that old gravel road
that the county paved
not so long ago
Now when I visit
my arrival is quiet
I sure miss that gravel
and I’ll never deny it
Allison Keene, Georgetown
Owen Electric Cooperative
Kentucky Childhood
I was brought up in the country
On a rough Kentucky farm.
We studied by a “coal oil” lamp.
A rooster’s crow was our alarm.
It was in the “Great Depression.”
Times were really bad.
It was hard on all us children.
It was worse for Mom and Dad.
Dad was a master carpenter.
He could make fine things from wood,
But work was scarce, so he built barns,
And did odd jobs where he could.
Mother taught a one room school
To help Dad make ends meet.
She cooked our food on an old wood stove,
And sewed up “flour sack” sheets.
She “carded” wool, and made “comforters.”
She put up food for the winter.
She washed, ironed, cooked, and sewed,
In our home, she was the center.
She oversaw the garden,
Raised chickens, ducks and geese,
Guineas, sheep, and turkeys.
Her labors never ceased!
Us kids went barefoot in the summer,
Put on shoes to walk to school.
We did most of the farm work,
And helped with house work, too.
We milked cows the honest way,
(By hand), and sold the cream.
We plowed and tilled the stubborn soil
With a balky, two mule team.
Corn was cut and “shucked” by hand,
Used for feed, and to make corn bread.
We butchered hogs for winter’s meat,
Split logs for the old wood shed.
We were taught to love and worship God,
To read the Bible, and to pray.
Together, we would walk to church,
About two miles, one way.
Mom and Dad would tell us kids,
“You study hard, and go to school,
Aim high, work hard, tell the truth,
And live by the Golden Rule!”
These memories from my childhood
Have stayed within my mind.
The lessons learned are worth far more
Than any treasure I might find!
Kelvin Keath, Mt. Sterling
My Favorite Place
If you could take a trip with me some
day,
Up this winding winding road, not far
away,
Past Messer woods, and the old iron
bridge,
It curves around farms, to the foot
of the ridge.
The things we’d see along the way,
Remind me of another day.
Wild flowers and fern grow along the
road,
The woods are dense with undergrowth.
The birds are singing on the branches
high,
We wave at farmers as we go by.
We’re a part of this, for a little
while.
To make this trip, gives my heart a smile.
It’s my favorite place, as I make my
rounds,
To survey all the beauty of the sights
and sounds.
It’s one of life’s pleasures that’s
still free.
It’s up Bull Fork, come go with me.
Dorothy Swim Van Corbach, Elizabethtown
Nolin Rural Electric Co-op
Kentucky
Rain on the tin roof
The galloping creek
Smell of ripe apples
And the tick of the
Woodstove cooling down
A warm night
For December
The cats are all asleep
The dogs long ago
Retired to kennel
Only the horses
Move silently
Wetly in the night
On the winter-killed grass
As if in a trance
Nancy D. Grigsby, Columbia
Taylor County Rural Electric Cooperative
Mr. Bill
Mr. Bill sat on the bench in the courthouse yard
with the other old men of my town
They would all whittle and spit and gossip and gripe,
at pret’ near everything around
Mr. Bill seemed to whittle a little different
and he would spit with a well balanced aim
and it would tickle the fancy right through me
when he would call me over by name
He’d say Harriet, now being that girls don’t whittle
and girls shouldn’t spit or gossip or gripe
he would show me a trick he knew of
that for a girl would be closer to right.
He proceeded to keep my attention
with a trick I have never forgotten about
with the loudest of ways to whistle
with four fingers stuck in my mouth
Harriet Ruby, Harrodsburg
Inter-County Energy Co-op
Ode to the Bennetts Mill Bridge
It’s more than just a monument to generations gone
It is an inspiration, and a gift they passed along.
Its beauty is unquestioned by any standard law
Planned by inspired builders, and built without a flaw.
The iron bolts were wrought by hand, the timbers roughly cut
The stone foundations carefully placed as was each nail and nut.
A lesson in magnificence, and there for all to see
It rivals much of nature’s best, and humbles those like me.
The single span so neatly trussed and near two hundred feet
Has known the load of heavy wheels as well as rhythmed hoof-beat.
As civil war was looming dark and trains were spewing steam
A crew of men toiled slowly on to weave another’s dream.
Before the days of Roebling and his twisted cable wire
Before there ever was a truck or air-inflated tire.
And still it stands as it was placed to wear a tiring task
Defiant, independent, to both man and nature’s blast.
If wooden beams could hear and speak what a tale they’d tell
Of several generations how they rose and how they fell.
Of how the barefoot fugitives whiled hours fishing worms
And how the weary travelers took refuge from the storms.
I’m glad it’s not a living thing and here’s the reason why
If it were to be alive someday it would have to die.
Charles M. Whitt, South Shore
Grayson Rural Electric Cooperative
Daybreak in Dixie
High upon a mountain
Beneath a huge hickory tree
Waiting for the dawning,
And a squirrel that I might see.
As I sit here and wait
For the breaking of the day,
There is a rustle in the leaves,
A deer has passed this way.
The starlight is fading fast
A new day is dawning,
The squirrels will soon be in the trees
And nuts will then be falling.
Ole Sol is peeping o’er the hill
And I wish that everyone could see,
Daybreak in Dixie
From beneath a hickory tree.
Paul W. Baker, Greenup
Owen Electric Cooperative
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