Inaugural Poet Laureate

Rick Bessette is Shelburne's First Poet Laureate


Rick is a native of Shelburne, and was raised on Shelburne Farms.  He has been writing poetry for over 15 years, but with more passion the last 10 years.  Rick's poetry is a reflection of his Uncle Joe Thomas, who also wrote in rhyming quatrain style.
Everything he writes is real, something that was felt, heard, seen or touched. There is no make believe.  His poetry is simple and easy for everyone to relate to.

Rick feels if he can make someone's day a little better with a poem, then he has done his job as a writer. 
Rick is well known throughout the Shelburne community as “The People’s Poet,” having written the poem engraved in Shelburne’s Veterans Memorial (see photo below) and has shared his poetry with the Shelburne Community School, the Waldorf School, the Charlotte-Shelburne Rotary Club, and several retirement and assisted living communities in the area. His book of poetry, A Vermonter’s Heritage, Listening to the Trees, was published by local Wind Ridge Publishing. 

The town manager, library director and the selectboard adopted a Poet Laureate Program in the fall of 2015 to support and celebrate poetry and arts in the community.
The Poet Laureate Committee is pleased to have Rick Bessette as Shelburne’s first Poet Laureate, confident that his work will unite the Shelburne community and foster a true sense of community pride.

Veterans' Memorial Poem by Rick Bessette

Veterans' Memorial with Poem
All Poems Written by Rick Bessette

​Home ​

​Shelburne Farms has been my home for most of my life. I have walked, biked and driven all over this magical, magnificent, peaceful landscape. My family is still connected to the farm for the third generation. I started work there in 1968 as a grounds keeper with Darcy Patterson. I had the great opportunity to work with Mrs. Van Webb and her short-tailed pointer, Turtle. We always met in the flower garden, around 9 AM. As I drive through the farm gates the outside world leaves me. My fond memories come quietly back to me as if it were yesterday. I have seen its landscape in many moods, and have enjoyed the abundant wildlife that also calls this home. From sunrise to sunset every day is different. One summer day a few years ago I stopped for a little while to reminisce my lifetime here in my "Field of Dreams." ​ Written by Rick Bessette

​Sugar Maker

​ Daylight fleeing as it does
​ And evening drawing nigh.
​The fire box now glowing,
​ Feeding sparks to the sky.
​Evaporating moisture
​Sent up the chimney flu,
​There inside the boarded walls
​Was smell and sounds I knew.
​ From levered pipe on the side
​ There flowed an amber stream.
​ The sweet odor from the pail,
​A sugar maker’s dream.
​“Time to fire”, someone says,
​ With slab of seasoned wood.
​ Its glowing inferno fed,
​ Warmth felt from where I stood.
​Hard labor and precious time,
​Traditions kept alive.
​Generations of stories,
​It’s how “sugaring” survives.

​Shelburne "My Community"

​ Recalling my childhood memories,
​It has always been home to me.
​ Shelburne, how I have watched you grow
​ Into the town you've come to be.
​My community, small but vibrant,
​Where wildlife still has a place.
​ Rolling hills and quiet forest
​Set aside as a protected space.
​On Sunday mornings a church bell rings
​ Down by the waking village green.
​ A young couple walks hand in hand
​ In country air still crisp and clean.
​ Peaceful sunsets over Lake Champlain
​ Quietly viewed from Shelburne Beach,
​Soothes the weary that linger there;
​Dream of tomorrow within reach.
​Majestic green mountains in the east
​Where a morning sun climbs the sky.
​To the west the Adirondacks
​Where the sun bids good night, good bye.
​To you, our future generations
​Please keep our Shelburne pure and clean.
​ Protect the heritage we have built,
​ Forever to be enjoyed and seen.

​A Tribute to the Silent Giants

​ “Eastern Cottonwood”

​ Farewell o silent giants.
​ We will miss your towering shade,
​ Where memories, dreams and footsteps
​ From our minds shall never fade.

​ Shadows cast beneath the moon
​ Danced on the quiet fields below,
​ Where sleigh and tractor passing by
​Trace history long ago.

​ With fond memories of Poplar Drive October 18, 2018

​The Planting of a Seed

​It starts as a tiny seed
​That falls to fertile ground.
​ Nourished by warm sun and rain,
​Begins life without a sound.
​ Its purpose to thrive and grow
​With its beauty to share.
​Lives a life content to be
​ With mother nature's care.

​What is there in a Tree?

​ O what is there in a tree
​ That gives a landscape more?
​ Standing sentry to the house
​ And shades a forest floor.
​ I know of a mighty oak
​ That held our children’s swing,
​ Within its gnarly branches
​ Songbirds would perch and sing.
​ Providing food and shelter
​ On dark and stormy night,
​ For the raccoons and the squirrels
​ In a burrow out of sight.
​ In the light of a full moon
​ Shadows lay on the lawn,
​ Proclaiming your greatness there
​ Until the breaking dawn.

This poem is dedicated to the bur oak that was in our front yard on the farm.  It remains to be one of the largest bur oaks in Northern Vermont.

​A Firefighters' Prayer

​ Give me the strength and courage ​
​to respond without delay- ​
​to answer a call in need ​
​No matter what time of day- ​
​May you guide my every thought ​
​and every step my boots take- ​
​Accept responsibility in decisions that I make- ​
​I will wear this uniform with great pride and dignity-
Honor those past volunteers ​
​That served our community- ​

​Awakening ​

​​The sun climbs up the eastern sky, ​
​ ​Bringing life to a new day. ​ ​
​Rolling meadows velvety green, ​
​ ​Budding leaves are on their way. ​ ​
​Waiting pastures welcomes its herd ​
​ ​After milking time is through, ​ ​
​For it’s there they graze in comfort ​ ​
​In fields watered by dew. ​ ​
​Green mountain peaks have shed their snow, ​ ​
​A clear blue sky hangs overhead. ​ ​
​Nature greets us most sincerely, ​ ​
​We have nothing here to dread. ​
​ ​From my tractor seat this morning ​ ​
​ I see a world full of good, ​ ​
​And knowing that time is precious, ​ ​
​ These treasures are understood

Rick Bessette, Poet Laureate

Rick Bessette, Poet Laureate
Rick Bessette with children
All Poems Written by Rick Bessette

​Colonel Carroll A. “Bud” Ockert

​ Our town, our state and our country
​Extends to you our grateful hands,
​For dedication and service
​ Reaching far beyond your homeland.
​From Germany to Vietnam,
​Clear across our United States,
​With leadership and commitment
​These, honorable, humble traits.
​Colonel Ockert, we salute you
​On this, our Memorial Day,
​To let you know how proud we are
​In a most sincere, thankful way.

​To a Friend (for Chief Jim Warden)

​ There are many things about you
​That folks came to trust and know.
​ Your love of this community,
​Our grateful hearts, we bestow.
​You always had a funny tale
​ To bring laughter to our day.
​You could settle those in distress in a firm yet calming way. For thirty years you gave beyond
​The call to serve and protect.
​ From people to dogs you were there
​To resolve abuse and neglect.
​With wisdom and understanding,
​ Controlling situations,
​With a compassion in your heart
​To avoid confrontations.
​ We wish you all the very best
​ On lives journey as you go.
​You will forever be a friend,
​ And one we are proud to know.

​ First light’s sky,
​ An orange fiery
​glow In the east
​ That will give way
​ To a rising sun.
​ In The western sky,
​ Darkness looms.
​ It is the prelude
​ To an approaching Winter storm.
​ There are no birds
​ At the feeder,
​ No wind to make
​ The leafless branches
​ Dance.
​ Change is on its way.

​Farewell to the Monarchs

​ Over windswept fields of autumn
​ Monarchs drift and flutter there.
​ Their internal clocks reminding,
​ It’s migration time, prepare.
​ On delicate wings they journey
​ Three thousand miles away.
​ Mexico their destination,
​ From this route they’ll never stray.
​ We shall miss their gift of beauty
​ But with anticipation,
​ Knowing they will return to us,
​ It’s natures gift, migration.

​The Shelburne Falls Sycamore
​ “A Witness Tree”

​ Written somewhere long ago
​ In the lost journals of time,
​ A seed laid unto soil,
​ Was fed by rain and sunshine.
​Having escaped storm and drought
​And mans desire to build.
​Saved from sharp teeth of the saw,
​ And your limbs from being milled.
​ A witness to changing times
​Where secrets and dreams were made.
​Perhaps where young lovers kissed
​Beneath its plentiful shade.
​Symbol of strength and beauty,
​Your crown reaching for the sky;
​ A monument to nature;
​ Something your money can’t buy.


​ Do you have the time?
​ Save time
​ Spend time
​ A certain time
​ If I could turn back time
​ Make up time
​ Gain time
​ Wasting time
​ Lost in time
​ Loose time
​ Find the time
​ Needs more time
​ Where did the time go?
​ Schedule time
​ On time
​ In time
​ Time has a way
​ How many times?
​ Share your time
​ Time to heal
​ Out of time
​ Time piece
​ Time is up
​ Time clock
​ Look at the time
​ Time is money
​ Go back in time
​ You can’t buy more time!

​Blossom Time in the Orchard

​In the stillness of this morning
​ I walk between the parted rows.
​ It’s blossom time in the orchard,
​ Where the apples will come to grow.

​ A cool north wind whispers softly
​ Through old gnarly and weathered limb,
​ That has been kept within its bounds
​ By those skilled hands that shape and trim.

​ Honey bees will begin their work,
​ Pollinating is what they’ll do.
​ If not for their delicate flight
​ The blossoms wouldn’t have a clue.

​ And when the leaves begin to turn,
​ Daylight hours soon to fade,
​ For those the apples left untouched
​ Have promises of “cider made”.

For Nick and crew at Shelburne Orchard

​A Tribute to the Ticonderoga

​She is the last of her kind,
​Saved by a woman and a dream.
​A journey of two miles,
​Moved by a brave and daring team.
​Twelve, thirty one, fifty five,
​She was winched across frozen ground.
​Taking sixty five long days,
​Reaching her new berth safe and sound.
​Her days now spent near a friend,
​The lighthouse from Colchester Reef .
​Now you can stand between them
​Scratching your head in disbelief.
​Her grand staircase and hallways
​ All masterpieces from the past.
​Hand carved and trimmed by craftsmen,
​ Built with pride and skill to last.
​The walking beam and smokestack
​All a symbol from bygone days.
​Her whistle can still be heard
​As if the TI was underway.
This poem is dedicated to Electra Webb and Ralph Nading Hill for their vision and passion for the TI And for the craftsmen past and present.

​I recently found out a member of our community lost her husband a few months ago. In his final moments she quietly asked him, "Where can I look for you and still talk to you?" In his weakened state and with a soft voice, he pointed to the night sky and said, "Look to the North Star, that is where I'll be". May we all find peace when we look to the evening sky.

Evening Sky
​ The slow crackling of a campfire
​ And night songs of the peepers,
​ caress the weary heart and mind
​ From sounds of phones and beepers.
​ I look to the stars in silence,
​ North Star having its own place.
​Constellations play hide and seek
​ And shooting stars sometimes race.
​ Sparkling like a thousand diamonds,
​ Lighting up the midnight sky.
​Keeping company with the moon,
​Soothing to both you and I.
​Another day now behind me,
​Reflect on things I've done and said,
​And hope perhaps that all is right
​ Before I climb into bed.