RSS Feed

Tag Archives: holiday poem


Your Christmas biscotti (our favorite gift)
is gone. We took it from its freezer bag,
dunked and ate the last of it with
our breakfast coffee, before my almost
graduate went back to college.
Holidays are done. School begins,
biscotti reduced to crumbs,
our angels packed away.
Here we are again
in this season called
Wait for Spring.


Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends —Emerson, Lake & Palmer

With champagne and confetti,
we welcome you,
New Year, cold and small and dark,
so unsure of yourself, here at the start.
Trust us. We have done this many times.
We are full of rich food and resolutions,
and dedicate your birthday,
to revelry and resolving, both revolving
round again and again.
Trust us, fresh and uncertain year—we
are full, more than full—
overflowing with our good intentions,
wrapped packages of presents and promises,
all for you.

Store Clerk Of My Dreams

After hours spent calling out, Next, please, fluorescent light paling their skin and making eyes water, at the end of their shift they go home to their quiet home, pet the big, gentle dog who greets them at the door, hang up their jacket and the handmade scarf that was their favorite gift, curl up in a chair with a borrowed book and a mug of tea—only heated water, only leaves and herbs, and by soft candlelight stretch into themselves, thankful, thankful, to not be who they served all day, those sad and desperate, ravenous shoppers with their naked needs.

Boxing Day Lesson

This is how it’s done:
The children must be
stuffed into snowsuits, overheated,
dragged car to store to car to another store
until they learn to beg
for one more shiny thing,
one more bit of brightly colored plastic.
Some get there quickly. Other, stoic, stubborn children,
determined to daydream about dressing up the cat
or building forts from empty boxes
and ripped wrapping paper—these children take longer.
But they are, after all, only children—
in the end, each one succumbs
to heat and hunger and greed.
Then finally, finally, a grownup can take them
home again. Sighing over how spoiled
the children have become,
an adult can carry them home to
the naps and quiet they both needed
all along.

Lights At Every Window

adorning trees and doorways,
staircases, banisters,
edged along the ceilings,
stretched out and glowing,
as all of us—
Evolved Pagans,
Recalcitrant Christians,
Faithful Followers,
the Uninvolved But Jolly,
and the
Perpetually Uncertain,
go forward, feeling our way for
the electric plug, the match to the candle,
the spark to the night,
mostly blind to each other,
but working at the important work:
Holding back the darkness, together.

Holidays Take Their Toll

Like a toll road
you must pay to travel,
away and back again, or
like the wreath on our front door
built years ago by a little girl–
Apples, cut into circles, dried to
dark brown, glued onto Styrofoam
in overlapping rings.
The little girl is long grown,
but the wreath remains,
disintegrating year by year
as the holidays take their toll.
Now the Styrofoam shows at the edge
a clue to what holds everything together
despite the years and the wearing away.

Instructions For The Season

A found poem, composed from song titles in an old book of traditional Christmas carols.

Dame, get up and bake your pies
Now, light one thousand Christmas lights
Come, mad boys, be glad boys
O, come little children
O, come all ye faithful
Deck the halls
God bless the master of this house
While shepherds watch their flocks
Sleep, Little Jesus

Build A Box Workshop

Holidays are boxes
built by plaited years
to hold what happens.
Your house is an open box
where costumes and pumpkin seeds,
masks and wigs and jack-o-lanterns,
giant spiders and tiny candy bars
still tumble into the world
fashioned by a crowd of busy children
into an enormous orange box decorated
with light sabers and false eyelashes
and labeled Halloween.

A Hundred Falling Veils

there's a poem in every day

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment