Bedding Down In Communal Winter Lodgings

Safe above 

The nocturnal prowling 
Of neighborhood cats, 
Where once there was one 
Lone small brown sparrow 
Perched every night 

On one of the three 
Forgotten rusty construction 
Guide line nails stuck 
In the stonework near 
The top of our portico’s arch, 

Now there are three, each 
On a nail of its own, 
In like company, their tiny 
Talons locked tight, holding 
Fast to the common dream 

Of outlasting one more night. 

Know Thyself, Poet

You tell yourself you’ll know 
Better the next time and not 
Make the same mistake, yet 

There’s another voice inside 
You telling you by the time 
The next time comes you’ll 

Still be your old self made 
Over in another image, 
Making the same mistake. 

Narcissist Not Worth A Plugged Nickel

For what it’s worth, 
Here’s my two cents: 

If you can’t stop yourself 
From saying what you’re made of, 
Bite the bullet, shoot your mouth
Off as usual and tell us 
What you aren’t. 

That'll Be The Day At The Old Poets' Home

Your most serious fault, old chum, 
And one that’ll more than likely be 
The death of you is pretending 

You’ve finally found that grave 
New world of poetry you have 
Been searching for so long— 

On the other hand, if you have 
Truly discovered it, please 
Do us one last favor and stop 

Your traipsing back and forth 
Before that dumb old looking glass 
Looking oh so gleefully glum. 

Wintry Consolation

One gray, one white, both 
Faded, the weathered 
Plastic chairs keep 
Each other close 

Company under the torn pale 
Blue flapping porch 
Awning of the lately 
Dearly departed 

Couple.