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.

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.


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.

The Third Day of the New Year and…

Even the ceiling is pure white,
not a crack or a stain  anywhere.
The windows are all sealed tight;
the door jambs are square.
There ought to be some imperfection,
anything to spawn inspiration.
Everybody knows it’s the cracks
that invite the light to come in.
Even the Aflac duck has deserted.
I think his boat must have sunk…
or caught in the limbo of holidays gone
with no paddle and nothing that floats.
Woe is the poet in the garret
with naught but a pen and a sigh,
and a dream of the masterpiece poem
that he plans to write bye and bye.

Alice’s Winter Reverie

“Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage,”
Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
In the casual plane of an inner world
barren with ravages of drought,
flutes notes filled her soul with song;
gone the bustle of traffic.
The cacophony of a chaotic city
disappeared and she found herself
barefoot on a carpet of green
as plush as any velvet,
not manicured like formal lawn
but fringed and free with butterflies
and honey bees.  The breeze a warm caress,
a kiss on her face.
From deep in the forest
came that silver tune of a flute,
a sampler of sound, more scale than song
and each note brought a picture to mind
and each picture meshed with the next.
Birds gathered ’round, silent in their awe;
all the animals stood still and listened.
Even the squirrels, busy with their thievery
and hoarding, stopped what they were doing.
The trees began to sway; pine and oak alike
heard the same song.  When forest and meadow
and all that inhabited either had become of one mind,
the music turned to rain, a misty glistening rain.
Thirsty wild flowers opened
and from out of a bed of stone
a wee creature rose on delicate wings,
dragonfly or angel or maybe a wisp of energy,
it’s hard to say
but the music grew softer
and the sun shone again.