February, Deep Fryed, 2013

When all the New Years' bells have rung,

and spring remains coiled up, unsprung,

February has the brass

to trickle in with Candlemas,

a feast forgotten, so they say.

But wait, it’s now called Groundhog Day,

on a date that’s getting busy,

so much so it makes me dizzy.

Pagans, Celtic folk and Wiccans

get as holy as the dickens,

reminding us of antique lore,

by ancient calendars well reckoned,

and calling February second

Imbolc*, sacred to Saint Bridget.

But let’s not get into a fidget,

worrying about the Druids,

when we should be drinking lots of fluids

staving off incipient colds

and shrugging off our loved ones’ scolds

to cough in our elbows and wrap up warm

saving ourselves and others from harm.

It’s all about the way the days

are getting longer, as the rays

of sunshine slowly but surely grow,

and sunsets have a special glow.

February used to be

the target month of the year for me

inspiring a new sarcastic poem

from the shelter of my home.

Although the shortest month of all

by count of days, it was no friend

because it never seemed to end,

proceeding at a maddening crawl.

See, I’m not even up to the third,

though so far I’ve squandered many a word.**

As day is gaining over night,

what is that sound, and dazzling light?

Drums and flutes announce with cheer

the Chinese welcoming their new year.

What fun, what colour and what food!

Parades and fireworks change the mood.

The Water Snake has just coiled in.

Now, after all that noisy din,

we melt and mellow at Valentine’s,

when lovers pen impassioned lines -

in praise of chocolate, a baby, a kitten,

or somebody special with whom they are smitten.

February sees no reason

why it shouldn’t start a season,

even one as long as Lent,

with carnivals on pleasure bent,

then having launched the Mardi Gras,

proceeds to give us all the blahs.

It hesitates in mid-career,

and grinds into a lower gear,

stretching like a spent elastic

with a resilience that’s fantastic.

As the momentum comes unwound,

some, weary of the dizzy round,

ask, “Must we always celebrate?

Give us a break - to hibernate!”

Helen Heubi

13 February 2013

*Apologies to any Pagans hearing this if I have not correctly pronounced Imbolc

** 222 so far, with renewed apologies for the missing rhyme

*** No apologies whatsoever for the recycled lines in this verse