Confessions of a Burgling Squirrel


The new year is twelve days old;
my resolves, already dissolved,
have been thrown out in the cold.

My diet failed, my morals too.
I ask you, what’s a squirrel to do?

My winter coat is fitting tight,
Quite pleasingly, as you can see.
Even so, I must watch my weight.

And just to you, I now confess.
(If you tell, I’ll claim duress.)

Despite my bounteous hidden stash,
(there is plenty more, let me assure)
I’ve committed deeds both bold and brash.

I stole the woodchuck’s favored seed;
I figured, how much could he need?

I pilfered the robin’s suet ball,
I am so ashamed; I accept the blame.
I really can’t offer any excuse at all.

But there is more, oh woe is me.
It is stolen but it isn’t free:

My conscience will not let me sleep.
I turn and toss in my bed of moss
and when I awake I eat and eat,

But the worst of all, as a bad crime goes,
I’m munching on the snowman’s nose.

One of a Kind

There will never be another poem
like this one. The poet changes
with the putting of the words to paper.
The moment passes
like a snowflake caught,
even before this ink is dry.

This is my version of the dolce vita.

This notebook is my canvas.
The backyard is my garret,
sunless and still today.
Boughs shimmer with jagged jewels
winnowed there last night
by January’s icy storm.

Life is still a mystery to me.

A great enigma – once I thought I knew
the answer, but that moment passed; not brilliantly
like lightning in a summer rain, nor sorrowfully
like a widow dripping tears on a sealed sarcophagus,
but quietly, like a gentle sunset
when day is done;

a day unlike any other, any time.

Going with the Flow

In the splendor of a poet’s pen
a poem lies in waiting.
The words spill from ink
infused with vision.

Some will write a smile
that lights the page
and some will write
to quell some inner rage,

Some will write to share
a deeper thought
and some will fill the page
with endless rant.

Poems are like people
in all sizes and all shapes.
Some prefer the classic
while some seek only new.

The best of all the poems
and the happiest people too
are those content
to do just what they do.


Up early with a steaming cup of Folgers
I watch the sun’s awakening and wonder
what it was that creased my brow
just yesterday.

It seemed so vital then, some minor thing
that did not suit my schedule, or some worry
that imagined a dire fate, but then the sun
came up this morning

I learned a friend is recovering, that daylight
following night is not based upon my mood;
it is something that can be relied on.
Thus, this gratitude.


It wasn’t just the purple shadows
that I wanted you to see, not just the snow
jeweled trees, or the swirling filigree
of sky – it was more
than spellbound breath
adrift in silence.

A snowflake caught, soon leaves empty hands,
I might wonder if it’s memory or dream –
that moment, too full for one to hold
alone – this knowing
why twilight skies bring
sighs of melancholy.

Record Rainfall Continues

Alas, the rain falls endlessly, ever pounding relentlessly
and each single drop seems hellbent to call its cousins to the fore.
Ah, winter you have cheated me, I thought for sure that you would be
a wonderland of alchemy leaving magic at my door.
My lowly home would be a castle with your crystals at my door
but this rain is such a bore.
And the dismal darkening sky ,  this sobbing January cry,
seems to have no goal but to try to sour me to the very core.
Ha! I share my frolicking glee, as I sit sipping steaming tea.
The shovel is in the shed and I am happy to be free,
free from frozen fingers’ misery
and those January chores.