GROUNDHOG DAY It’s Groundhog Day. The groundhog is somewhere burrowed deep in the ground. Either the groundhog doesn’t know what day it is or he doesn’t care. But, then again, Christ doesn’t show up on Christmas either. Just your father and his new wife with some toys. It’s the one time of the year, you see his shadow. TWILIGHT day flies off like cardinals and gold-finches night settles on the branches like crows mice scamper nervously across the forest floor all the birds are owls WORKING MY WAY THROUGH THE DICTIONARY, I AM NOW AT Q Some words have tens, if not hundreds, of synonyms. Others, hardly any at all. That is why I’ve never written a poem about a quark. That word, for want of an alternative, would appear on every second line. Even this poem has to repeat the word quark just to get its point across. So let this be my quark poem and leave it at that.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has upcoming poetry in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.
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