Best Possum Poems
POSSUM JUGGLING
Written By the Poets Listed After The Poem.
Possum juggling is a trick conjuring sport.
You should never do it if your arms are short.
Nasty teeth are gnashing as they're tossed in air.
The juggling of possums requires flair.
Full-grown possum are very massive fellows.
Their bulk when lifted, like handling jell-o.
They are so at ease as they fly through the trees.
Are you ever so tall? Fight them on your knees!
Though cuddly and soft, please never be smitten.
Asleep they appear, in a flash you're bitten.
Upon one look, so UN-cute the ragged claw!
Surely reminds me of my mother in-law.
In my compost bin found this fury creature.
Pointed nose, stinky as my English teacher-
For that part which sticks out of the can at dark.
Not a pretty site though pink, duck. It’s a fart!
Quickly grab his leg and throw him really high
Let the little blaster soar into the sky!
Be quick, juggler, Granny Clampett is waiting
It's possum stew she hopes to be creating
Wait, I forgot! My arms are too short for this.
Now on my face sprinkles a souring mist.
The moral of this story, surely you see!
Never juggle opossums! Just let them be…
Contributed Poets (in alphabetical order)
Charma Chircop, Austin Daver, Carolyn Devonshire, James Frazer, Robin Gass, James M.
Goff, Raul Moreno, John Robbins, James Peranteau, Dane Smith-Johnsen,
There was a possum
of worldly descent
Gathering diamonds
and things it had spent
Chasing a catfish
down dragonfly row
Wanting to see if
it was someone to know
Laughed at an aardvark
with tangerine pants
Filling it's pockets
with yesterday's ants
Climbed up a staircase
that led to the sky
Waving at meadowlarks,
saying goodbye
Chewed on a cabbage
it found by the gate
Wondering if it was
something it ate
Sat down alone,
which was normal you see
Crying those tears
as it hoped it could be
Somebody's friend
that he never could find
Merely a possum,
just pay him no mind
He'll get along,
it's just something to do
And if he passes
in front of you
Maybe just smile
and tell him hello
He might be somebody
you'd like to know
Or let him be
without well wishes sent
For he's just a possum
of worldly descent
For the Dandelions Tiger Lillian and Bear berries Oh My Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Maureen McGreavy
O' possum O' possum
Sleep the day away
Await the setting of the sun
before you go and play
As the dusk arrives at last
Awake and stretch your paws
Don't clamber from your tree too fast
Hang tightly with your claws
The brown team 'v' the greys
Its football night you see
they'll use a melon for a ball
with a ring tailed referee
The match is quite a tussle
both teams are very strong
The crowd sit up in the trees
And Hisses them along
A possum breaks loose from the pack
Towards the goal he's bound
The goalie take a single look
Then plays dead upon the ground
The melon bounces of the post
A dustbin crashes to the ground
The crowd invades with fever pitch
To look in and see what's found
Politics is a cat-and-mouse poker game,
Some play it well,
others not so much
Amateurs show their hidden hand,
they got an easy-to-spot tell
But the old pros are the best cons,
selling you wet dreams from a dry well
It’s a two-party poker game in the U.S. of A,
has been like this now forever and a day
... at least it seems that way
There’s a lot of cheese in the budget mouse traps,
and a pack of donor dogs chasing those political cats
There’s a lot of dark scurrying by the greediest rats,
avoiding the crook catchers taking another light nap
Today, Democrats may be the cat,
tomorrow, they may be the rat
Yesterday, Republicans may have been the cat,
tomorrow, they may be the rat
Both wanna pocket the money, easy peasy ...
and to the people,
they ain’t planning on giving it back
If you ask them where is the stolen sack,
playing possum is how they’re gonna act
Pointing fingers is what they all do best,
then give more campaign promises next
Saying another election’s coming up,
so just reshuffle the marked deck
Playing possum poker is a grifter’s art,
gotta have a poker face and an empty heart
They love betting the farm, which is money you don’t got
Turning their pockets red to black, when they win the pot
Tip the shady dealer who tipped the hand,
the House always comes up Senate empty
time and time again
As both parties tell you, they’re gonna catch THOSE rats,
if you vote THEM in
O possum, lying on the road.
Why did you leave your abode?
Are you sleeping or dead?
I see trauma, but no red.
O possum, did you look both ways.
Or were you blinded, by displays.
O possum, lying on the road.
I write your ending ode.
Were you sick, was this suicide.
Or were you pushed, in assisted suicide.
O possum, lying on the road.
To what is your death, to be owed?
One less creature, on this earth,
Your passing is not a dearth.
O possum, you did have such pride.
Know now, my soul deeply cried.
To weigh him hold him by tail
Six pounds fresh not stale
Skin if not and toss in pot
Diced red potato
Large ripe tomato
Cook him slow
Oh!
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Twelfth Place Winner ~ "Low Country Boil” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
Aug. 15, 2011
The Possum of Possibilities was invited by Grandpa Troll to visit our brood,
The Possum heard Carol had a dry spell and a terrible writer’s block, so true.
With the troll’s adventures, penguin’s antics, and witches brew...
With Dragon’s mayhem in town, something had to be done, they knew.
Grandpa Troll brought Possum over, for Carol to peruse,
He looked her up, down, and sideways to everyone’s amuse,
Her mind’s wheels were not lined up right, he announced.
You have activity all about you, that's very pronounced.
It is all swirling around and not latching to the cogs.
Ideas and stories are coming in fast and plenty, but…
There are so many and they are acting like a stream of logs,
Her brain is overloaded and getting a little bit clogged.
Possum instructed Grandpa Troll on the best course of action,
But Dragon was nearby and overheard the conversation.
Our fiery friend was planning on how to clear the brain jam,
Then ski-daddle and go on the lam.
Like so many plans before, he knew Carol’s brain was crammed,
And his ideas always ended up like some explosive spam.
Grandpa Troll saw that look in Dragon’s eyes and knew there was a plot,
And said to Possum; “We'll need your help again, before we’re in a spot.”
Over to Dragon Possum went, then a once over, right, left, and top to bottom,
Grandpa Troll reached into a dusty drawer that hadn’t seen light since Suttom.
Out he pulled two pens, one larger than the other, filled with magic ink.
An incantation filled the air – “E pluribus divideous writeous inlink.”
(Basically saying; what stories were divided are now joined by two writers.)
Possum handed one to Carol and the larger one to Dragon.
“With the magic pens, you both will be able to see the stories about you.”
For Carol, he pointed out; now the cogs won't get dinked, as ideas get linked,
And Dragon, a source of the jams, once written down, became happy as a clam.
Both help each other, now, as Grandpa Troll had hoped with all the activities.
And with a little help from an old friend, called the Possum of Possibilities.
A writer’s block that was going on with his dear...
Is a tale that Hubby has now told, and made so clear.
And now another peaceful evening… was suddenly shot all to Heck...
Until Next time…. As Dragon and Carol are now racing all about!
Michael Eastman & Carol Written 7-21-2015
Cedars whisker the ditch along Possum Branch Road. Such small little fellers, hardly worth calling a tree. Some say haints put a spell on the whole two thousand arcres. Maybe so, maybe not, but leastways, the land wont grow even a decent scrub oak these days. Being mostly swamp, the creepy crawlers infest every rat hole and tuft of wire grass. The old run down Elizabethan house used to be a place of excitement back during reconstruction. It had the latest wood burners you could find in the south. Then the family started dying off- - - one by one. The old cajun Mammie came up with more fixins than you could shake a stick at, but nothing worked. The last one of the family died back in 1923. A marker in the small family grave yard still reads, "Here lies the last of 300 years worth of Deveroux. God save the Queen and these here states." Most of the markers are barely readable now, being so pitted by the weather. As long as Mammy lived, folks would drive their old buggies and rattletrap cars around the place. That's why they's that big bend in the road around it.
Anyways, you don't want a flat tire close to the place at night. There be a strange blue green light coming out from the small grave yard. Some folks say they suddenly had passengers in their back seats if they happened along at the right time. But I say, there ain't no right time for a rotton stranger to show up in your back seat, and not have a word to say. But remember one thing, if you are there at that house and a stranger shows up in the back seat, don't look straight at him. You will go blind for twenty four hours, and your food tastes rotton for a week. It's really bad because you just HAVE to eat somethin'.
So you best just stay off of Possum Branch road, even in the day time. There's folks out there that just ain't right.
THE BALLAD OF MA POSSUM
Roofing like a penthouse floor,
Tis not a haunt but Ma's snore.
A wombatic possum in appearance,
Being nature's pinup is her arrogance.
Her distintictive, brush, bob tail, loss,
reputedly, respected as the boss poss.
Hearing her grunt and fight,
echoing a freaky still night fright.
Oh!, nightlife beware,
if Ma is anywhere.
trees n eyes in the wood
is part of Ma's family hood.
Scratchings at the door,
signals to eat, until no more,
Possum busters have done their best,
But Ma thinks, tis a game and quest.
With her teeth and claws,
makes furnishings with any trapddors.
Characterise, personalise or humanise,
big booted, smudged lipstick and pearl,
smokin cigars, no sweet little girl,
tough and ready to roll,
she aint no possum doll.
A pet possum sage,
outliving the legends of her long age.
Grinning Like a Possum
By Elton Camp
The president seems to be well pleased
At the last second, victory he seized
The filthy rich will fork over more
The middle class about as before
His enemies blocked him at every turn
So this tax struggle was hard to earn
The wealthy may well fume and cuss
But there’s fewer of them than of us
Four hundred thousand is quite enough
Even paying more, it shouldn’t be tough
Perhaps they might even economize
Swap the Rolls Royce for a smaller size
So their depleted funds are better spent
With only a single mansion be content
They can still have plenty of fun
Lying about, enjoying Grey Poupon
And, according to what I see & hear,
The prez is grinning from ear-to-ear
There is a story from Renmark in the Riverland
Of a man in the bush as his legend began
He was a shearer from New Zealand in the Depression
Who came to Australia in the 1920s for shearing sessions
But hard times meant he could not buy his Union ticket
This put him out of work without it
So he went into the bushland
And lived his life there not so grand
Cause people were different in those days
And Possum was proud staying out of the way
So he lived on bush tucker all the time
Doing odd jobs he would be just fine
Surviving on track rations from police stations
He travelled the bush tracks of the Australian nation
Taking no charity working for salt he’d need to do
This he said it would get him through
Max Jones was a local detective sergeant there
Who tried to look after this legend as he did care
But Possum would look after himself
Using his bushcraft skills as his wealth
As the years went on his legend grew
He’d mend a fence or chop firewood too
But he would not take handouts
As he would travel the Riverland on walkabout
He would say he’d be alright
When he would get his Union ticket as his right
One of a disappearing breed
Only taking what he would need
And so now Possum has gone from this world too
With his body being found next to the river in 1982
They built a statue of Possum at Wentworth town
At the place where the Darling meets the Murray flowing down.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Thought I heard my possum,
my sweet dear little pet.
Hurried to the kitchen;
No food for poss-poss, yet.
Recalling mothers' babies,
big eyes and hungry gapes.
Happily discovering-
some over- turning grapes.
Rushed out to the feeding-tree,
Grapes-the possums' earn.
Left them on a branch,
for possums will return.
Went back inside; heard such a thump,
the window-sat the cat.
Peeping through the glass,
my poss-poss now a rat !
Clean out that garage, said my wife
Cause we're gonna have ourselves a sale
The baseball game had been rained out
So I thought I'd might as well
I found my very first set of golf clubs
I swung them for a minute or two
Then I packed them back up with a price tag
That said $50 bucks you can take 'em with you
I dug a little deeper in a worn out box
When I saw a pair of great big eyes
I grabbed for the bat and took a step back
And I was gonna catch him by surprise
Well to my dismay he didn't even move
He just sat there staring at me
I picked it up and dusted it off
And thought no it couldn't be
When I had killed this possum long ago
It caused my wife to go into labor
On the way to the hospital I saw a taxidermist friend
Who just happened to be my neighbor
The day he died my daughter was born
As all those memories came flooding back
My daughter cried and the poor possum died
When the doctor and me gave a little whack
I felt like a proud daddy all over again
Though my daughter is already grown
I wanted to cry as I looked him in the eye
But then my nose would've need blown
He's not for sale I told my wife
He sits in the back window of my ford
I made me a sign that says you better drive careful
Can't you see there's a possum on board
Because I have a possum for a pet, people think I'm weird.
They're trying to ship me off to the funny farm like my family has feared.
People say that I should have a cat, a dog or maybe a rabbit.
Making pets out of wild animals is my thing, it's a bad habit.
I walk around my town with my possum on my shoulder.
A woman made a big mistake when she asked to hold her.
As she held my possum, she bit off a chunk of that woman's nose.
The woman became angry and violent and she and I came to blows.
I tried to win the fight but she was an expert at judo.
Everybody in my town says that my possum has to go.
It was embarrassing when she beat me up on the street.
I fought like a six year old and I wound up being dead meat.
When that woman put me to the street, it sure wasn't awesome.
Maybe people are right, maybe it's time to get rid of my possum.
I’ll Take a Mess of Fried Possum Innards
By Elton Camp
The mountain family made its annual trip to town
It was with their horse and wagon they got around
Sometimes it sort of got them into an awkward tight
Since not a one of them had learned to read or write
They were drawn to McDonald’s by its good smell
What they could buy there they had no way to tell
Jake said, “I’ll just ask fer a big pot of turnip greens.
They should most shorely know just what I mean.”
But that request the server met with a blank stare
The family decided that they didn’t serve it there
“Then I’ll have some sow belly with pinto beans.
After all, that’s jest about as good as turnip greens.”
“Sir, all that we have to sell is listed on the menu.
To order from that is what I suggest that you do.”
Jake didn’t want to admit he couldn’t read a word
And was glad when his younger brother he heard
“Jake, some fried chitlings sound good to me.
Why not order that and we’ll see how it be.”
Finally, in frustration, the family drove away
Hoping to find another place to eat that day