Groundhogs Poems | Examples

Happy Groundhog's Day

I wish you health
I wish you light
and happy Groundhogs Day
tonight

Cellular

She still phones, though not to me.
I imagine her small-talking,
see her walking to the local shops with a mutual friend
who sometimes phones me just to ask
if she has phoned yet?
Birds chatter on wires,
groundhogs go to bed deep under the hedgerows,
I hear them snoring
just like she remembers me snoring in her ear.
We speak often like that -
no backchat.

A Gray Light Sparkles

Branches thatch a spackled sky.
Snow lays itself down
to sleep lightly.

An airborne coyote-itch addles
drops of sunlight
until they drizzle.

Splatters of graying-green
on the hairy chops of groundhogs
as they scrape up a scant buffet.

One Scarlet Cardinal bobs,
its ruby flounced headdress
scattering scads of frost.

Winter shucks its hoary hide,
stepping through a muddy mirage
of Spring.

Fanged winds pounce.
Puddles of rain return to ice.

Groundhog Early

A mild spell in winter.
Groundhogs have escaped from their slow dreams.
The hedgerow confirms,
their wide-hipped shuffling as they grub for vittles.

Evening brings one whistle pig to February lawns.
Yet the snow will return, the whimper in the breeze,
will resurrect itself as a howl.

Hey, back to sleep mother groundhog!
Keep the den warm,
small blind eyes are already sensing,
a home in your womb.

Go back and dream of juicy garden carrots -
munchable mouthfuls of daffodils.

Two Groundhogs

Two groundhogs, the focus of news,
Saw no shadows, according to crews
Who were filming to learn
What they’d hoped to discern
About how long we’d pay winter’s dues.

Lack of shadows means we should prepare 
For an earlier spring, if we dare,
Since predictions by Chuck*
And/or Phil* count on luck
More than science, we should be aware.

Still, it’s great that this year they agree,
Though of course, there is no guarantee
Nature does what she should
So some rodents look good,
Even if it was shown on TV.

*Staten Island Chuck and Punxsutawney Phil

Morning in a Leafy Time

A bisque sun on the windowsill, the early light smells of marigolds.
Beyond, the garden is as usual, a haven for cracked clay pots,
after windy nights there are yet more broken terracotta options.

Breakfast and the Broadwood table is salted and buttery.
Blue and white dishes, like fledglings, wait to be fed.

I sense soccer moms hurrying their ducklings along.
Egg sandwiches will spontaneously appear on the hour.
Nearby, bushy shrubs sup on their own green tealeaves.

I like it here, where groundhogs whistle in the cabbage patch.
Spreading blueberry jam, wondering what kind of man I am,
shrugging the thought away.

There Will Be Moonbeams

There will be moonbeams tomorrow,
and on them will ride
the ghostly images of one last summer evening.

Winter is roaring somewhere,
here it is creeping under the hedgerow,
catching groundhogs by surprise
as they shuffle out into the flakes and frost.

Yet tomorrow there will be one last showing
of a much-rehearsed seasonal play,
there will be long and narrow rays of sunshine,
followed by itinerant magicians
flimflamming see-through illusions.

Ghosts will haunt a darkening sky,
and they may sing sadly of all things
that must bow before
a last falling curtain of shedding leaves.

The Neighborhood Hoodlums

Crazy rabbits chomping on my lettuce
Deer eating the flowers right down to their nubs
Woodpeckers drilling right through the siding
Armadillos rooting in search of grubs

Squirrels trying to climb down the chimney
Possums and racoon dumping out the trash
Coyotes yip yapping all through the evening
Groundhogs under the shed hoarding their stash

Most times the back yard smells just like a skunk
The cat keeps bringing dead birds to my door
The neighborhood dogs bark when the wind blows
That’s country life in all of its splendor.

Cold Sky

winter wolves have eaten the tulips
the wind has pawed and pillaged
small dogs strain on their leashes
a summer storm has ice in its veins
warner airs arrived too late
to save the groundhogs litter
bitter are the fruits
                  of this fanged season

Spring's Song

Joy, breathless joy, sings to the robin, spring
Coloring hearts and heavens in wonder
Delighting souls with dazzling hues to bring
Raining light through lives who love the thunder

Despite miracles and peace, the flowers
Spring’s breath silences the glistening kiss
Winter’s echoes evoke pulsing showers
Darkening the dreams – spring isn’t all bliss

Just beyond snow, drizzling over prayers
Thick, murky earth offers dreadful mud baths
Groundhogs whistle while attending affairs
Known by those souls who travel down dirt paths

As we listen to soft cries of songbirds
Spring’s music feels like it’s singing backwards





Spring Is Not All Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Michelle Faulkner 
January 30, 2023

Backyard Fuzziness

Backyard mavens, wise crones
recall generations of groundhogs
that have dwelt in these hedgerows.

In winter
they seed the ground with 'Puffcorn Delites'
bought wholesale from Sam's Club.
The comfortable groundhogs nap in their burrows
contemplating evening feasts.

Furred paws in tartan house slippers
shuffle at back doors. A grey whiskered fuzziness
that is part critter, part elderly granny
stand ever ready
to lend a hand in case baby groundhogs
need burping.

Steps In Time

I have seen the past come and go-
we all have.
I have seen the old be replaced
by the new –
we all have.
I have watched whole groundhog families
grow, thrive, and die
in one stretch of hedgerow,
I have and assume that many have.

She was an old friend.
she told me she could hear my thoughts,
that I think too loud.

When she died
I looked at her coffin descending,
watching her past being swallowed up.

She once told me
that she knew just when
my last step would descend
and not rise again.

In their whistling way of speech,
groundhogs also speak of such things.

Late Autumnal Flames

Autumn expires In its own fires
simmering the fallen with flaring tints.
Leaves crepitate and crackle
skived to crisp skins.
Hedgerows turn to vacant
crypts, twigs to wooden teeth. 
Arboreal embers swirl
between barelegged winds.
The groundhogs have forsaken 
dawns scant larders
they seek deeper shelters
where moss-beds lay unseared
by smoldering remnants.
Halloween will be late this year,
the dead are still dying.

Another Groundhog Day Approaches

Is everybody ready for that lying little rodent
to crawl out of his hole and predict an early Spring.
It doesn't matter what that liar says.
He's not a meteorologist, he doesn't know a thing.

Groundhogs are the center of attention,
expected to predict the next six weeks.
You might as well just flip a coin
because " he doesn't know of what he speaks".

I think this year we should ignore them.
Find something else to keep us amused.
Pretend you don't care what they predict.
Let their little egos finally get bruised.

I'm tired of these groundhog's promises, 
be it Winter or Spring on which we rely.
Every year they make their predictions
and every year they damn well lie.

Autumnal

Hawk-watching crows gather in dark drifts.
Hedge rows rattle, we see through
to where the wind is barelegged,
to where campfires smoke in cooling cavities.

Autumn flavors its dwindling stores.
Groundhogs carry sparrow bones
from one naked shelf to another.

Bushy-tails hurry headlong into the late
scattering unseeded shells.
Death mellows the mottled.

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