Category: My Poetry

Christmas Poems

Inspired by Alison Bernhoft.

On a Dubious Tradition
For any mass of mistletoe
The answer still is “no, no, no.”

Since stockings yield such limited loot
This year I’ll hang a red jumpsuit.

Strategy II
I left three dozen cookies for Santa’s midnight snack –
He might be coming down but he’s sure not going back.

Twice a Year
Some people only go to church on Easter and on Christmas
It’s easy to forget that’s not the only time God’s with us.


Low Res(olution)

Some folk’s resolutions are quite grand in scale
But despite best intentions, they’re most doomed to fail.

My own resolution is somewhat more terse:
Don’t. Get. Worse.

Short and Sour

It’s not that I don’t like you,
You’re just a bit like haiku:
Less is more
(but also, you’re a bore).


Synonym Poems

Inspired by Alison Bernhoft.

An Unscrupulous Used Car Salesman
He’d sell you a rusty dustbin on wheels
And claim it’s the very sweetest of deals.

Each front-page headline loudly cries.

Dylan Moran
A tousled frown, a tipsy grin –
This Irishman’s as fun as sin.

If only activities occupational
Could somehow be more recreational.

Writer’s Block
A glowing page of purest white,
This Word file is zero kilobytes.

I see a cavern gaping wide
And steer my tires on either side.

J.S. Bach
A musician fanatical
Writing music mathematical.

Night Owl
I stay up early and wake up late;
Before noon my brain can’t computate.

Our Dog, Frank
With his mix-and-matched looks and a need for sedation
It’s no wonder he’s named after Shelley’s creation.

Twice five is the number of fingers and toes
And the year Wang Mang outlawed the use of crossbows.


Nail Polish Haiku

Nail polish chipping,
Flaking all over.
What a waste of time that was.



You tilt backwards in your chair,
Head thrown back, unaware
Of your peril, and laughing.

You turn pages, sip sweet tea
And prove ability
To replace sleep with reading.

As Beethoven’s Seventh plays,
In beauty and pain’s maze,
Your old soul is transforming.

On a mountain top you stand,
So tall, crowned with life and
Sceptered with all life’s meaning.

You jealously guard your space
But still scan each new face,
Half-hopefully and searching.

Or perhaps it’s only me




Little girl, leans back, hair flowing,
Gaining momentum, feet don’t touch the ground –
The swing carries her up and down.

Eyes closed, the world sways,
Tree leaf shadows flicker on her face.
Warm summer days.

Time, the persistent pendulum works
Legs grow long, feet drag on the ground.
Work to go forward, work to go back
A little motion sick perhaps.

Eyes wide open, the world jolts past,
Clutching the chains doesn’t prevent
Long week days, and short ends.

Dusty shoes, with many passes
Wear ruts in the ground.
Perhaps a place to land or
Perhaps to hover gently,
A paper’s width between life and childhood.