Folks in rural Pennsylvania think that Punxsutawney Phil
is, by all means, that happy and friendly groundhog
that predicts the beginning of spring on a forest log;
he's very smart and looks friendly when he wags his tail.
If his prognistication is right everybody applauds,
and awaits the arrival of the harmonious season;
what if he refuses to comply...will there be lauds,
or at least, plenty of food on his plate not too lean?
It's the annual rite of wishful anticipation, almost an augural
pretense that the happy season will be at their doors to spread harmony,
but if Punxsutaweny Phil won't predict anything and wants to crawl
back into his warm den, there'll be a longer wait 'till he breaks his lethargy.
Copyright ( c ) 20015 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2015
Springtime fills the air,
like laughing gas.
(Or maybe more like whiskey.)
The suburbs are drunk on the nectar of it's dawn.
are starting to dance.
(Or maybe they're just wobbling.)
They vomit whole families onto their lawn.
I watch them the same way dogs watch TV:
Confused and intrigued,
with a slight urge to pee.
The father cuts grass,
like a sleepwalker.
(Or maybe more like a zombie -
Ravenous for cheap beer, instead of brains.)
A six pack later,
he starts washing his car.
(Or watering his driveway.)
He's spreading on wax so he's set when it rains.
The mother kneels in dirt,
tending the garden.
(More like digging in a sandbox.)
Her spade is rusty. (Figuratively, at least.)
A sunset later,
she cooks family dinner.
(Or maybe orders some pizza.)
(If every mouth is fed, she can call it a feast.)
I watch them the same way dogs watch TV.
The son plays war games,
dying for fun.
(Or maybe more for practice.)
He whines about fruit drinks, as well as the heat.
A full pitcher later,
tweaking on sugar,
(Or maybe just corn starch.)
the war escalates, 'til its time to go eat.
The daughter makes a picnic,
inviting her toys.
(Or maybe not.)
(Her plastic spread can only spread so thin!)
After the tea time,
she's off picking flowers.
(Or maybe weeds.)
(As long as they're pretty, there's a vase that they'll fit in.)
They gather, as a family, at the table to say grace.
They hold each others' hands and say, "Amen."
(And proceed to stuff their face.)
The dog sits by the boy -
Loyal and true.
(Or maybe just hungry.)
He drools as he stares from the corners of his eyes.
he offers to help with the dishes.
(Or maybe he demands it.)
The boy sneaks him a bite. The dog is not surprised.
Bedtime comes soon after.
The kids are sent to brush their teeth.
(Or maybe just to run the sink.)
They put on their jammies, and to bed, they go.
After tucking them in,
the parents watch TV.
(Or maybe they just dream they do,
sleeping in its glow.)
The dog is changing channels,
looking for a better show.
Confused and intrigued,
he pees on the carpet below.
Copyright © John Taylor | Year Posted 2010
The morning greets me with birds at my window
They peck at the glass,
they chirp and harass,
"The sun is up, the grass smells clean!
The flowers so pretty they must be seen!"
I pull the covers back up to my chin,
the cold cotton pillow feels good on my skin.
But the longer I lie here the more I realize,
the coffee is calling; I really must rise.
With eyes barely open, I saunter about.
The kitty is purring and happy as trout.
My shepherds come running, their tails wagging fast.
They want to go outside, and go running past.
I open the door and nearly knocked over,
They run off the deck and into the clover.
I walk to the table,
all dressed with pink roses,
waiting for barking, and kissed by wet noses.
I smell the aroma of Colombian beans,
my percolator singing, while I get on my jeans.
I'm feeling quite artful,
the day has begun.
The birds are still chirping,
the yard in full sun.
The coffee tastes great, and as I sit here,
the birds at my window, the cat in the chair,
there's one place that's calling, with north light galore,
just past the den, where Big Bear will snore.
My studio corner, my wonderful place,
where dreams are realized, and canvas to face.
The day has begun
It's a spring morning
-Mary Susan Vaughn
Copyright © Mary Susan Vaughn | Year Posted 2016
An empty barn was the home of a dog;
outside buzzing bees attacked a tiny cat...
joyful was the song of a parched bird.
An hour ago, happy was the warbling bird;
no rascals bothered the skinny, smelly cat...
they didn't get close to the hungry dog.
Rain came and it worried the shivering cat;
spring showers were the joy of the bird...
he could have been the prey of the dog.
Sunshine returned: the dog barked, the cat ran and the bird fled.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2013
Dreaming with the sleeping pines
On a lazy afternoon
The sprightly finch chirps mating calls
How lovingly he croons
As yawning flowers open wide
Their multicolored blooms
Sweet aromas hovering
Cause butterflies to swoon
While feeble breezes undulate
The hammock to and fro
Brown dead leaves set sail again
Wild blue yonder blow
A woodpecker is tapping at
The next door neighbors willow
I'm sleep smiling and envisioning
That shady fishing hole
Awakened by a cold wet nose
Some friendly tongue and cheek
Sweet serenade of springtime
Sings me back to sleep
But old cold nose is restless now
And at a playful peak
I tell him on these lazy days
"Just let me fish in peace"
An original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
How thin are master’s wishes
when he leaves the leather leash behind!
How every rutty road opens into woods
pungent with smells a human couldn’t fit
into the nooks of his narrow nose.
How slow two booted feet climb the hill
when four feathered legs can catch a cloud
on the fly. How soft the cry of master,
so far behind, lamenting that he can’t
catch April; that spring won’t bide.
Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2005
One lopes through
his dense tree occupied domain,
thinly dappled,dispersed stripes
dully on a soft fur coat,
tongue lolling lazily in and out of
a pearl toothed mouth
Another careens widely across
her vivid fields green fields
wind flapping back
screeching to a stop to
hone in on the scent
of a shivering quarry,
jet black fur shining in
the last scampers neatly on
swift toes through
his unknown vine-tangled trails ,
ever exploring the lands
beyond his own vast territory,
unveiling whatever remains
covert to his curios mind
My dogs seem out of place
in my backyard
Copyright © Ryan Chase | Year Posted 2015