Best Groundhog Poems | Poetry
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The Best Groundhog Poems
Twenty first of October in two thousand and eighteen
Was the worst disaster poetry soup had seen
Poems wiped off the website as all the poets slept
When the disaster unfolded many poets wept.
Some had spent hours composing their verses
But no backup made, the air soon filled with curses
Contest entries too vanished without trace
Sponsors left fuming they had nothing to place.
And the beautiful comments people said about you
Into a cyber space black hole they all vanished too
The next night the poems, to everyone’s dismay
Returned to the site, ‘twas like Groundhog day.
Some blamed the Russians, some blamed the C.I.A.
Others wanted revenge for what happened that day
But do rest assured, soup said “have no fear
Free membership for everyone, for a whole year”
Now that’s a kind act I’m sure you’ll agree
Remember worse disasters have happened at sea
The moral of this verse is to remind everyone
Make a backup of your work when it is done.
(This did happen, not sure about the free membership though lol.
But it is a wake up call; always back up your work.)
Copyright © Tom Cunningham | Year Posted 2018
Insistent starkness claims a leafless day
Where morning breaks with silent calm and dread
The slope of field is framed, behind the glass
reveals a fallen tree, with jagged edge
and grassy hills now laced with autumn rust
Inside we find a plain and cheerless room
The table sparce, an empty chair
A plate, a knife, a saucer, without spoon
One empty cup, will wait for no one there...
Ambiance of what has been,
...still lingers in the air,
as amber glows, with threats of snow,
are just a hint, instead
Lonely hours, and lonely days, and lonely shadows blend
The endless songs of yesterday, slip in from window's ledge
A meager meal will spread upon a table set for one
Where breaking bread alone without a friend
is companioned by a solitary end
The angled sun, casts shadows deep and long
A somber mood, reflects this quiet calm
Upon the walls, where gardens grew, are faded memories
where yellow blooms of yesterday, are just a step away
Where, once were two, who loved and knew their sun would rise again
There now is one who sits alone ...at the table set for one
Where hope has gone, when morning comes...
to sing a lonely song
Based on the Painting by Andrew Wyeth ... "Groundhog Day"
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009
"A Silent Song"
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Blessed or cursed
Write a verse
Remembers last night’s dream
Grabs a napkin, spills his spleen
Shoves it in his pocket
Walks to work
Sits at his desk
Carries on as usual
Chats on with the new study,
he’s on a roll, softly flirts
Quietly, silently, it always works
Groundhog Day that’s the worst,
Where’s the breaker to dive under it all
Every now and then a Tempest is called for
A heavenly thunderous squall
Just to shake it up
Move through the strung out long day pall
Cover his mirror with her fog and all
All the while
He’s talking it up, little work day dramas
Meetings minute cutlass pen thrust
Business as usual, balls to bust
Still underneath it all he’s thinking the stories frame by frame
She whispers out of nowhere ethereal in his brain,
“The best story is yet to arrive, it’s only the middle of the day…
maybe some gold glitter, a Llama and a Toucan that sashays?”
Empath on his knees by midnight
He’s writing melancholic love songs
The words are tight, verses short
Not long, he’s thinking Turtle Doves and short skirts
That won’t work…
scrawls it out, writing’s gone with the wind,
The best words for the story don’t take too long
He listens to some music, thinks of her and sings a new song.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Dreams flourish dripping words
black on white her familiar screen
pounding faster like raging horses hooves and heart beats
bleed vibrant colors mystic legions of wars and lovers
a foreign sovereignty her mind and wily covers her pageantry
Her eyes the windows of her world
Wings beating flying free
Cages broken, horses hooves racing hearts
She follows him on another shore a dream by sea
Empath on her knees
Two very different minds
Free to be
Copyright © Leanne Lovejoy-Burton | Year Posted 2018
This February will not usher spring,
wisteria like grapes hung on their roods;
more pewter shadows does the season bring.
Now I've misplaced all the beatitudes
to lambent grasses flocking on the mount
as spring green creepers tendril up the posts,
the lilac blossoms teeming like a fount
of amulets to stay the latent ghosts
that haunt as far as April with their rime.
As Puxatawny Phil goes under ground
I've six more weeks of gelid hush to mime
the turgid verses of this numbing round.
I rummage blessings as the winter girds,
yet somehow can't remember any words.
Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2018
Deemed significant culturally,
a fantastic and old comedy
is this film I love,
which is the tale of
a weatherman played by Bill Murray.
This weatherman Phil has been sent
to cover the groundhog event.
He’s so hard to please,
and that’s because he’s
an arrogant cynical gent.
There’s a blizzard and Phil’s forced to stay
in Punxsutawney for one more day.
He awakes. Something’s wrong!
“I Got You Babe,” the song
by his bedside is what he hears play.
It’s the same song from the day before
when he woke up at six. Out the door,
he goes onto the street.
Things repeat and repeat.
This is something that he can’t ignore.
In a time loop he’s stuck! Each time when
he is hearing “I Got You Babe,” then
that man, once so vain,
begins going insane.
Groundhog Day comes again and again!
When he understands that there won’t be
any punishment whenever he
does anything wrong,
it isn’t for long
before Phil behaves most crazily.
He drives reckless and binges on beer.
Since tomorrow will never grow near,
he drives right off a cliff!
He would not do that if
there were hope, so he’s lost all his fear.
There’s a woman that Phil’s come to know,
and he talks to her every day, so
he can learn more and more
how to make her adore
him! His feelings for her start to grow.
With his efforts to win Rita’s heart,
Phil begins to appreciate art.
He learns French and to play
the piano! Each day
in the townspeople’s lives he takes part.
Seven years come and go. By year eight,
Phil has changed. But will this change his fate?
Knowing everyone’s needs,
he is doing good deeds,
and in Rita’s eyes, Phil’s looking great!
It’s his last Groundhog Day when Phil learns
his life’s lesson. This time his world turns!
Through the great power of
and his good works, a NEW day Phil earns!
“I Got You , Babe” plays next to his head.
But it’s NOT Groundhog’s Day, for instead,
Phil wakens to see
true love won! Rita’s with him in bed!
March 27, 2018 for the FAVORITE COMEDY MOVIE Contest of Alexis Y
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2018
Greetings from Canada dear readers ! Let me cajole you with a wee bit of fun
and ardent banter. Well, obviously I am Canadian and we are very polite and
charming people, we are sorry when we are guilty of nothing. We say please
and thank you and your welcome often. It is drilled into us from childhood.
You bump into us and lickety-split we will say sorry! It can all get quite absurd.
Talking about absurd there is a real rigmarole going on with a groundhog, a
rodent who predicts if we will get a long winter or a short winter. What kind of
nincompoop believes in this gobbledygook. The story goes that if the rodent,
excuse me, I mean groundhog sees his shadow we have six more weeks of
winter. Now, being a fairly intelligent girl, I say in a forceful voice, balderdash!
I could have predicted six more weeks of winter. Without getting cantankerous,
it is bloody freezing outside! Apparently this pampered, Willie rodent saw his
big fat shadow and it was declared. What a brouhaha that caused. Why did they
not just ask me ? Oh, we may get a little melt, to tease us but the snow and
cold will stick around to torment us, the wind will blow and the snow will fall.
the bare branches wish
for soft emerald green gowns-
snowflakes swirl and twirl
February 4, 2018
Poetry/Haibun/A Bit Of Lofty Chit Chat
Copyright Protected, ID 18-9895-87
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Eloquent Banter; You tease me so nicely
sponsor, Edward McCall
Copyright © Dear Heart | Year Posted 2018
Juggernaut winds howling south;
Arctic colds, chill, in their mouths.
No respite through winter days
Unless north creep sunshine’s rays.
And the groundhog comes too late
Relegating to its fate
Year’s first month a gray estate.
Copyright © David Drowley | Year Posted 2019
We’re so tired, of winter’s, snow and ice,
For too long, we have been, within our house, winter’s price.
Why won’t you come, to visit us, and sing?
Where we’ll be touched, by your sun, so heartily, beaming.
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our sweet Spring?
We need you, so very longingly!
We saw you peak out, for just one day.
Then you quickly, and suddenly, ran so very far away.
So we did a Rain Dance, and danced in the cold.
Without your shinning brightness, all we got, was cold snow!
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Why did you run, so very far, with your blessing!
We sought the Groundhog, that he ask you, to come back.
But he was burrowed, deep beneath, all the snow, and ice pack.
He wouldn’t open his door, as we knocked, true and hard.
He refused, to even come out, as he denied the pleas, of this bard!
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our precious, sweet Spring?
We beseech thee, to please come back, to me!
The trees want to bloom; their sprouts are ready, to collect.
Our hearts are there beside them, under this winter, and it’s effects.
We’ll sit here, dreaming of the beauty, only you can affect.
We’re hopeful, can’t wait, but now at March’s mercy, and redirect.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Our hearts and souls want to be warmed by thee!
What? Dragon and I see you! We rejoice my friend!
Our hearts, like the trees, are beginning, to warm again.
The snow is leaving; all is greening, before our eyes.
We beg you, to please stay here, solidly, close by our side.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
At last! It doesn’t matter! We have you back, and all that you bring!
Written for my good Friend Jack Ellison.
Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014
Punxsutawney Phil is not seeking his shadow.
He's peering out to find his lady love.
If she appears he'll woo her to his burrow
And we can deal with winter here above.
What does he care if springtime's late or early?
He's warm and loved within his earthy home.
A groundhog gives but little thought to humans,
Nor pictures self as subject of a poem.
We've told ourselves if he has seen his shadow,
We will have six more weeks of wintertime.
But with his love beside him he is nesting
And staying there, where living is sublime. January 5, 2015
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2015
Science can’t save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare’s 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers’ eyes.
Which is why we call it “the wound that never heals.”
Or the lesion that’s always lengthening. And bleeding.
Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It’s not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.
It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your little mind (realizing of course it’s just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I’m
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry—also a wound that never heals.
Snow for eternity, that’s what this February’s been.
All to the good, for someone it’s the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway.
That was Shakespeare’s message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who’s Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does it relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.
The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not effect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don’t get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.
The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife’s grandfather’s inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I’ll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private sexual acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities–angels, ghosts, aliens–are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you’ll feel.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
white skies . . .
a grumpy groundhog
© Connie Marcum Wong
*I wrote this a few years ago, but don't think I ever posted it?
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
He never had the luck
nor the down of an evanescent duck,
in this world where the dice is thrown
just another gamble which side of the track.
In his mission statement, he declares
is my love wasted?
A love never returned
yet oh so tired of giving,
in this his life down half way lane
where constantly with love he finds a “Cul de Sac”
his groundhog day,
oh where the embarrassment is just too much.
So life you’re a b*t*h
casting each day unjust spells this condescending witch,
on the net he tried oh God for years, tried
to workout the plot
but i’m no ***** star, he says
well hung i am, not.
So to you, my fair lady, keep your glow on
I’m looking forward to this our first date,
although history reveals, i’ll come across like a fly in your soup
restricted there, where i cannot swim,
hoping it will not be a disaster,
just, another plunge into love
what is your name, i declare my ignorance
Fate she says, and i am aware of your plight
there is some one for every one
i am here to guide your way into love!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2013
On the Firth betwixt Carlisle and Deep Creek
so the crown is worn and the trumpet blares!
A King and his Fool of common fates speak
merrily unconcerned in the affairs
of tomorrow - and gaze at its wonder
ship lanes in the Hauraki Gulf yonder
Bootleg tapes and bottled bootleg liquor
play and fill a cloudy jug of gut rot,
and makes the eyes roll and heart beat quicker!
But when "Reds" run low mate, what have I got?
The Bowden elixir of death snake oil -
bitter brew to make your sphincter recoil
Drinkin in the gaze of Lord Ted and Ma
like two shags on a rock gettin blinder;
and satisfied that of the twain you are
the monkey and not the organ grinder!
Still reelin from some big-**** bad karma
when in tears we watched Big Mama Jama
In the cold war of wits first salvos fire
when hostilities end a sober truce;
yet to score cheap shots is not my desire
but reason and nuance are of no use!
Do not strike an heroic stance with me
lest you, unarmed, become a casualty
On the truth serum nicely sedated
I endure till I can no longer cope;
I've maligned, I've impugned, I've berated,
and I know where to stick that telescope!
Some say his eyes are like a blood red sun -
I say he's just a freakin loose cannon
We ponder and pose simple ethics lost -
the politics of fashion, the treaty,
the foreign invasion and count its cost -
the cricket, the ponies, and the rugby!
We lament the great rise of aged realism
and greater fall of youthful idealism
Man of mythology - my cyclops friend -
one-eyed puppet master of time and tale!
Like a piñata, you will twist and bend
till a reality blow from Trestrail.
When this yin and yang circus is in town
I am the ringmaster and you the clown
Just me, you, and the Philosopher's Stone
seated at the table of the long knives!
'Tis the kitchen cocktail hour twilight zone
till a Liquorland liquor run revives.
Two time travellers with no place to go -
older and wiser and simpatico
So roll a "Drum" and in the hedgerow piss!
Rip a can, save the world, and theorise;
and if we become boorishly remiss
so be it, for cut barbs are but a guise.
Now rewind back Masterpieces for me
and play again "One More Cup of Coffee!"
The Mind Contortionist and the King pause,
my cupbearer grows insanely cocky;
and when you ramble in great clueless cause
all I can think of is "Jabberwocky!".
We are old bookends of contradiction
but sadly dude, up your end is fiction
Do give yourself an uppercut in hopes
a clever sparrin counterpunch to throw;
I'll dance and jab and you'll stagger the ropes
and watch you go down for the count old foe!
No Marquis of Queensberry rules for us
and it's back to our corners with no fuss
Verily one for the road turns to four,
then there's the billy to boil till we part.
It's late, I'm weary, I'm stood at the door
and I'm hopin my freakin car will start!
Off home to sleep off the anesthesia
and wake at noon in my sweet amnesia
Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014
January’s start. . .
I hibernate in my cave
with bare thoughts
January’s end. . .
may February’s groundhog
see its shadow
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014
Gazing into my bathroom mirror
My eyes looking back at me
Anguish and misery, all i see
Years just like groundhog day
Never seeing it any other way
Life is meant to be more than this
If only a genie, grant me a wish
We all experience pain this is true
Grant me the strength to see this through
Please is this never going to end
Save me from my misery
Luck sometimes comes your way
Giving you hope a brand new day
So I am now home and all is good
Settled sorted as much as one could
A quiet moment, inhaling it all in
Know that i am here and this is real
Knowing this day hasnt been a dream
Never to be taken for granted
Not once, where i have been
Now as i gaze into that mirror
I like what looks back at me
My eyes see a new chapter
Of endless possibilities
The sky has no limits
New space longtime seen
Copyright © Shaz Cheesman | Year Posted 2012
Once came along a groundhog named Phil
Looked for shadow in winters chill
Even top hat and coat
Didn't stop whining's gloat
Stuck six more weeks paying heating bill
Katherine Stella 2/4/12
February Funny Bone Contest
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2012
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
Hey, don'cha know I'm Punxsutawney Phil
Yah, I give folks 'round these parts quite a thrill!
'Round the second of Feb. they all gather here
Grab me from my hole to predict weather each year.
Yep, I'm one special groundhog by the hoopla I hear
Flags flying, bands playing, there's plenty of beer.
But I'd rather stay here in my snug little place
To eat what I want and just hibernate.
My cheeks are chubby, my tummy is fat
I'm warm and I'm cozy, I like it like that.
But now I hear them coming for me
They pull me right out of my quiet reverie.
The crowd gathers 'round, they want me to speak
To make proclamation, wise counsel to seek.
Out into the cold winter air with a lurch
All eyes trained on me, I cry out, "BUURRP"!
Copyright © Laura Leiser | Year Posted 2015
Encased in thick ice
Sparrow shivers, sad demise
Flowers had emerged
Once colorful, now turned brown
Snowy carpet for Easter
Frozen bunny dies
Easter egg hunts ‘neath snow mounds
Sun plays hide and seek
Bunny’s obit cites “death knell”
Meaning of Easter recalled
Ma Nature fooled us
Groundhog needs unemployment
The weatherman lied
Al Gore has hidden away
Ice age, not global warming
*Written April 17, 2014 as our friends up North shiver.
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014
The letter was typewritten
No final salutation
but it was there nevertheless
Bleeding Bold Black
thick cursive stroke
With knife point calculation
An arrow hit it’s bullseye
A flourish with intent
A nicotine stain
at the bottom of the page
Mixed with a blur of
The type punched into the page
By a spinning silver ball
a small deadly bullet
able to repeat repetition
and hit it's mark
At lightning speed from brain
Falling onto the reader’s heart
Like pounding black rain
“Finding an ounce of good in that….”
the third para read,
“Is like finding one grain of sand in a Sea of Mud…
Close the door now, walk away, before it is too late”
His words held a certain power
But not strong enough to contain
The breeding rabbits running loose
In my brain
This was LOVE wasn’t it,
For all time,
a soliloquy, a
a brave, yet stupid
not a wary question
And there was a certain danger in that
A final rebellious act
To not heed sage warning
Make my stand against childhood
And a parent’s worthy pact
Dangling one’s heart over the edge
Holding onto the Other’s stories
Holding onto Hope,
Victory in the face of lies
and fallen Glory
On the Other’s razor’s edge
was the balancing act
Raising the slippery bar higher
“Saying your sorry doesn’t mean you’re sorry”
Hailstones like fists hit your face
Your gut's winded dodging ghosts
Perhaps you thought you’d win the race
You thought you were escaping
High quality paper, thicker than most
Stiff, proper, not white,
sometimes mistaken for
"A pale shade of yellow",
he said once in jovial debate
over the breakfast table
with strong black tea, no sugar and cream buns,
“The colour's brave. It’s ‘Buff’,”
we all laughed,
“Like naked, unafraid?”
I kept the letter,
It was read again,
the words were like some prophecy
to put a person firmly in their place
In the fatal hours
When one looks for lost grace
Purple flowers spreading
Over skin that’s no longer thin
A Balancing Act and like
it never ends it just begins
Chapters broken are recipes
for your Winter season
With a growing belly
punches you from within
On the Other’s razor’s edge
Sharp as a tightrope
Invisible where it doesn’t show
In the heart
Purple flowers spreading
Copyright © Leanne Lovejoy-Burton | Year Posted 2018
bat flies sees nothing
from his nest eagle sees all
the groundhog takes bets
Copyright © Warner Baxter | Year Posted 2015
The debate between free will and fate has taken a hard right
turn to neuroscience, Brodmann area 4 the primary motor
cortex of the brain located in the posterior frontal lobe
(the one cut out of the one who once flew over the cuckoo's nest).
This area of the cortex has the pattern of an homunculus!
a little man, a troll, the all-wise, mandragon, the golem of Jewish folklore.
This little man has a ***** that, when fully engorged, is
equal in size to his entire body. However, diseases
such as Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Huntington's, Lou Gehrig's and
are gunning for him. His basal ganglia are garbled
and he ends up giving poor advice and making bad decisions.
Who can say what happens to his soul or cells or if all will be given or
I was listening to the famous astronomer on public radio
who expressed the certainty there is no death, your soul
is immortal, it exists outside of time (but not space?). That's because
time exists only in the human mind (as does the entire universe
including the professional baseball season which is canceled when
By Spring, my problems will be solved or ignored, either way is good.
"Imagine if we taught baseball the way we teach science. Until they were
twelve children would
read about baseball technique and occasionally hear inspirational stories
of the great baseball
players. They would answer quizzes about baseball rules. They would
baseball skills, throwing the ball to second base twenty times in a row.
Undergraduates might be
allowed under strict supervision to reproduce historic baseball plays.
But only in graduate school
would they, at last, actually get to play a game." --Alison Gopnik
Groundhog holds the knowledge of death without dying
for man needs help from every creature born.
Will the holocaust wipe the smile off the face of our romantic comedy
or will laughter outlast the outburst?
About the dark times will there be singing?
Yes, there will be singing and some of the songs will be sidesplitting.
Solving the murder reveals the city. Nature of kinships and economic
who loves whom and why, when things happened and how they lost
and found themselves
in what happened. Because a meter-making argument cannot appear
from nothingness, purposelessness, just cold.
He does not go where he was supposed to go. He is in the desert,
Sonoran desert, counting cactus buds and ocotillo blooms.
This is the afterlife for which he has always longed.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
I am officially naming today Rat Day! Yes I am! I mean why not? The groundhog gets all the attention, but what about the rats and the dogs? There is no special day commemorating the other animals. What about National Dinosaur Day or Polite Guinea Pig Day?
Rats need to be celebrated also because they have intuition like none other. Aren't they always the first to know if the ship is going down? They all scurvy to the top and even hang onto the mast for dear life alerting the others of their soon fate! What could be more important than that?
And allow us to consider the dog? Or what about the cat? These two domesticated animals bring so much delight as they often sit on our laps like the rest of the family. When is the last time you watched television and allowed a groundhog to sit upon your lap? I would venture to say, NEVER!
So in honor of all the other animals out there, I say let's cut them some slack! Let's honor the animals that are dear to our hearts, not one that goes back and hibernates for six more weeks!
Again, in closing, HAPPY RAT DAY TO ALL OF MY DEAR FRIENDS!
Copyright © Gwendolen Song | Year Posted 2015
Before the winter sun
can open its eyes,
The legendary Phil
emerges out of its lair,
Members with hats and tuxedos,
Predict the long winter
If he sees his own shadow,
If doesn't see shadow,
early spring is ready to burst forth,
of food and melody,
Misinterpretation can call for
a death penalty,
February 2nd, the Groundhog Day !
Written Jan 29th, 2015
For contest by John Lawless
Copyright © Dr. Upma A. Sharma | Year Posted 2015
“Let go your hold
Your hands are cold
And it’s getting old
When I am un-holed
My soul’s been sold
So they can behold
That a marmot’s found gold
Since they think I’ve foretold
And cast a dark spot
Or maybe not
Coz all I got
Is a long shot
See my nerves are shot
Since I don’t know squat
And danger is fraught
If I show what is naught
Yet they still seek
Punx Phil’s mystique
And ask that I speak
But I only squeak
Then they’ll all peek
At my chubby physique
Of which they’ll critique
Plus there’s still six more weeks”
Copyright © David Fisher | Year Posted 2015