Do you thank them for their service, those kidnappers who executed illegal orders, abducting a foreign leader? Will you praise the sacrifice of our noble troops when they march in arctic camo through downtown Nuuk, exterminating the Greenlandic threat? Will you salute our soldiers as they occupy the smoldering ruins of Toronto, Vancouver and Montreal after Trump declares poutine an addictive drug?

Made a list of things not to do in the new year— checked two off today

January: Found a chapter of weather control spells in an antique book purchased in Scotland sticking snow for first time in years February: Did own research online had expensive backyard pharmacist remove all vaccines from body March: Tried cooking a recipe from scratch tasted good though had to replace all kitchen windows April: Spent most of the month in bed…

I'm proud to announce that My Dog Bobo is appearing on MasticadoresUSA today. While he's a little older and a little slower than we wrote this poem, Bobo seemed pleased when I told him about the publication. Of course, he seemed just as pleased when he coughed up the stink bug that got into the house this morning. My thanks to Barbara Leonhard, for accepting our treatise on canine aesthetics.

Dark side — light side different face every night but just one moon Happy First Day of Kwanzaa!  My fellow poet and blogger, A Cornered Gurl, recently posted a flattering review of my book, Milkshakes & Chilidogs. It's not too late to give one last gift in 2025. Thanks, trE!

I get sent to bed early on Christmas Eve but do not sleep— I suspect they're lying. There's an oaken babydoll cradle hidden, unwrapped in my parents' closet, obviously my gift, obviously crafted by my father the carpenter, obviously not from Santa nor made by elves. But it seems important to play along so I settle into a long winter's nap…

Married under the honey moon, when barely sprouted, we soon fruited and multiplied when days were forever. Learned the wisdom of autumn, as illustrated by the equinox, the need for balance, leaves yellow, hair grays. This morning the birdbath is frozen, hoarfrost reaches to the sharp dawn. Days shiver. The full moon casts her gauzy halo, recalling the veil. We've lived our long lives, now hand in wrinkled hand, wheelchairs side-by-side, welcoming the long, dark night. (Happy December Solstice!)

A tornado of starlings writing poetry with wings of ink on the blank page of the sky

If you find my journal Best keep the clasp tight not for any secrets sitting within (poets don't write those down) but for everything that might spill out A stem of heather picked in the Ring of Brodgar on the winter solstice A credit card receipt from the first date with a tragic muse An autumn leaf collected in April while eating street…

Long night stars firm in the firmament mulled wine and you

Like snow that doesn't stick I'm waiting for these aches To accumulate into regret over you (For Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt and Living Poetry's Monday Prompt.)

Soft as kitten paws It sleeps like a fleece blanket comforting us all

If you're looking for a poetic gift this holiday season for the Foodie in your life, may I humbly suggest my chapbook, Milkshakes & Chilidogs. Only $1.99 on Kindle or $5.45 for a physical book.

Feels like a bear hug warmth of a fellow human you're not alone (A further expression of gratitude: my thanks to Barbara Leonhard, editor at MasticadoresUSA for publishing one of my dog poems, I dreamt I was walking my dogs under the light of the moons.

Big brother is impatient for little sister's decorations to come down like a sugar high. He doesn't like her goth aesthetic of black and orange. He'd rather be of good cheer, all bright and flashy. And here I sit between them at the kid's table, avoiding politics to keep the peace. But I have the best food. (The initial version of this poem was conceived with my pals at…

The crescent moon smiles in the twilight as the rain, fresh fallen from the trees, taps out exotic rhythms on our path. Your eyes crinkle when you look at me and I know my luck will run out someday. But until then I will feast on the vision of your face as we walk through the faint moonlight. Thankful for the beauty you lend my life. (Written for Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt and this week's Living Poetry Prompt. Happy Thanksgiving!)

Dance on the slip of an abyss Inspiration below — Willing to fall Just like a poet (Yesterday I attended a talk at the Science Café entitled, How Pilot Whales Make Dinner Plans. During the lecture four Living Poets were writing and at the end we shared our ink-wet poems with the crowd. This haiku is a reduction of my poem.

The soup is boiling over burnt to the bottom of the pot leaping into the fire

I fluff up my nest and my graying fur, ignore my doctors put on a few pounds, fill the freezer with Impossible burgers and microwave burritos. Night freezes the birdbath, so I lock my doors, secure the shutters but leave one candle burning in a window so solitary travelers know the world hasn't gone completely dark. (For this week's Monday Poetry Prompt stolen from Sunday's Living Poetry Germination Workshop with minor revisions.)

Secluded booth Sharing a bottle of wine Dessert to go

All cemeteries should have Spanish Moss draped from their trees. This is what I learned while wandering through All Saints Church Cemetery in Pawleys Island, South Carolina. I was searching for the grave of James Dickey, Poet Laureate of the United States. Before discovering his grave was near my writing retreat, I only knew Dickey from his novel and film…

The stainless steel is cold in my hand, except for the place touched by my lips where I blew as hard as I could and barely heard a whine. Rabid dogs came running, tails wagging, mouths foaming, ready to vote for anyone promising to hurt folks with a darker skin. Some of my best friends are Black. The War of Northern Aggression…

We lay an offering on the alter.For great-grandfather Whilum,a trowel encrusted with the earth.For great-grandma Emma,a bowl of butterscotch candy.For grandma Mary,a feed-sack apron.For grandpa Boppi,a dancing harmonica.For my father Peter,another flashlight magnetic and powerful.And for my mom— rye,sweet vermouth and orange bitterswith a Luxardo cherry. (Another collaboration with my friends at Charles House after I read some classic Halloween poems for them. Let's honor our ancestors!)

In the graveyard, mist rises under the moonlight as the veil draws thin.

She slinks over to me sitting at the bar, touches my arm, twirls her red hair, asks about my job and family. Tells me she loves to bake. Her oven is always hot. Calls me cute and with a wink says she just wants to eat me up. Says I should come for dinner, which I do. Her cottage deep in the woods is painted like a gingerbread house.