January 31

The Beginning of the End


He would not tell her what that paper said,

Turning pale after scanning what it read.

“Why won’t you share? What is your fortune?”

She thinks they both need to hear something fun.

Ghostly, glaring he eats the cookie instead.


He flicks the crumpled slip her way with dread

“A new love is blooming” the fortune read.

Eyes lift up from the words, “what have you done?”

He would not tell her.


“What have you done?” repeatedly she plead,

Heart and stomach dropping, as if of lead.

Knowing the challenges have just begun,

Knowing this was the ending of their fun,

Knowing the life as she knew it was dead

He would not tell her.


(A Rondeau Poem)

January 30

Foot Stomping


I am not too old

For wishing for a snow day.

I am not too old

To have a very large toy box.

I am not too old

For bike riding with my friends.

I am not too old

For making snow angels.

I am not too old

To dance to the songs on commercials.

I am not too old

To enjoy pizza dinners and ice cream desserts.

I am not too old

For stopping and smelling the flowers.

I am not too old

To slide across the floor in brightly colored socks.

I am not too old

To strap into a snowboard and slide down a mountain.

I am not too old

For coloring colorful pictures.

I am too old

To bother staying within the lines.

I am not too old

To fling myself through rapids in a little boat.

I am not too old

for learning.

I am not too old

For lifting bark on rotting logs to look for bugs.

I am not too old

To leap from boulder to boulder.

I am not too old

To try new tricks.

I am not too old

That the glorious feel of cool crumbly soil escapes me.

I am not too old

To delight when my skirt puffs up as I spin and twirl around.

I am not too old

For falling in love again.

I am not too old

To do anything that makes me happy.

I am not too old.

I am not too old.


(An Anaphora Poem)

January 29

Life Among the Living


Lichens and Moss

Pale blue, gray and dark green

Damp and ruffled, delicately layered

Decorated branches

Weighted with


With weighted

Branches decorated

Layered delicately ruffled and damp

Green dark, and gray, blue pale

Moss and lichens.


(A Palindrome Poem)

January 28

First Egg of the Season


Today I found the first egg

Tucked in the pine flakes of the nest.

I am not sure which of the flock

Of colorful happy hens

Decided to lay the harbinger of spring



This perfect pale pink egg was first

Hopefully of many an egg

Laid throughout the spring

Deposited into the nest

By the chatty hens

That make up my flock.


I’m enamored by my flock

Though they aren’t my first

They are smart and chatty hens

That lay colorful eggs

Blues, pinks, browns fill the nest

Late winter summer fall and spring.


Their productions ramps up in spring

And busy stays my flock

Rotating from coop to yard to nest

The same speckled lady comes to the door first

As I let them out and then check for an egg

laid by one of my personable hens.


I just love my feathered fluffy hens

Molting in fall, laying in spring

Regularly producing eggs

Chirps and squawks from the flock.

Without a rooster they don’t awaken first

Then after a morning wander they return to their nest.


Each day I check for a surprise in the nest

Left not by choice but by instinct by the hens.

I feed them and water them first

And let them roam free on the warm days of spring

They make a friendly boisterous flock

Talking back, starting trouble, announcing an egg.


There is nothing like finding eggs tucked safely into the nest

Produced by my flock of happy colorful hens

Though they produce a lot summer fall and spring the best is finding the first.

(A Sestina Poem)

January 27

Woodland Hike on a Warm Winter Day


Slick mud

Boot prints, paw prints, bike tracks

Damp fall leaves not yet decomposed

Ice in the most shady and tucked away spots

Rocks in the trail decorated with the dried patterns of sneakers and boots.

Frozen waterfalls slowly eroding in warming drops.

Layers of fleece and wool and down.

Hiking boots laced tight

Pant legs folded up three turns.

Slippery trails filled with people and

Dogs on leashes

Bright blue sky

Rock climbers on belay

Cliff drops above

Creek burbles and winds and runs below.

Sliding down to shore, hoisting up to ridge

Bare branches

Exposed roots

Red brown rocks


(A list poem)

January 26

On the occasion of Robert Burns’ 259 birthday yesterday.


My love is like red red roses

Uttered Bobby Burns to she

Newly sprung in June he supposes

Good thing he didn’t say it to me.


I know those new red red roses

Aphids and beetles do assail

While fragrance goes up our noses

They are blitzed by fungus and scale.


Bobby Burns you can keep your rose

I have no interest in the work.

Why is it a red rose you chose?

You didn’t do your homework, jerk.


(A quatrain poem)

January 24



Plate full of pistachio shells

Those salty nuts are delicious

On the calories I won’t dwell

But at least they are nutritious.


At eating these nuts I excel

The cracking gets repetitious

It’s at least one thing I do well

And they say they are nutritious.


Take them away and I will yell

To share them I am judicious

There really is no parallel

I promise they are nutritious.


The number eaten I can’t tell

When few are left it gets vicious

Eat too many and feel unwell

But at least they are nutritious.


(A Kriele poem)

January 23

The rain says what words cannot

The rain tap dances to the ground

Shuffling and sliding down roofs

Off beat and syncopated the

Drops create the day’s theme music.


A cloud based choreography

The rain tap dances to the ground

The rhythm of sound and silence

Beating into paths and puddles.


Fluid hypnotic drops amble

Complex, complicated lightly

The rain tap dances to the ground

Both corrosive and restoring.


Intricate, delicate tempo

Off-beat, in-time, gentle shuffle

Music is what the eye hears as

The rain tap dances to the ground.


( a quatern poem)

Credit to “What the eye hears – a history of tap dancing” book by Brian Siebert

And to Martha Graham who said “the body says what words cannot”

January 22

I come into the presence of still water

When confused, overwhelmed muddled or unsure I

   grab my boat, my paddle, my vest, my gear and ask friends and family to come.

We set shuttle, we change clothes, we unload gear, we quietly, gently slip into

the water of the moment, running river, ripples and rapids, the

current slowly, maybe quickly carrying my boat and my worries and doubts away, requiring presence.

Focus, concentration, joy settles in place of

doubt and confusion creating a mind and soul that’s still

despite the movement of the water.

(A Golden Shovel poem Featuring a line from The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry)