This collection gathers holiday‑themed poems written between 1999 and 2022, pieces once shared on my old site before it vanished into the digital ether. Some of these poems carry warmth and light; others slip into gloom, memory, and the quiet ache that holidays often reveal.
What remains here are the ones that once lived publicly, now restored to their final home.
A small archive of seasons past, bright, dim, and everything between.
Little Cupid
Here we are to take a walk,
soft steps beneath the shadowed talk.
Birdsong drifts through thinning air,
a dove coos low no one there.
Sonnets wilt, half-written, tossed,
while lovers drift, unsure, and lost.
An arrow cuts the quiet sky,
no warning, no place left to lie.
It feels like spring, but something’s wrong,
the bloom too brief, the breeze too strong.
Is this a trick, a cruel delight,
or just the sting of love’s first bite?
Some say the archer’s aim is blind,
but still he strikes and leaves behind
a wound, a sigh, a fading trace…
That’s little Cupid’s soft embrace.
Little Groundhog
Wake up, little creature,
the frost begins to fade.
Today they call your name aloud,
a pageant half-parade.
They cheer and clap and chant your lore,
as if you hold the key
to thawing earth and blooming fields,
to springtime’s mystery.
But you, curled deep in borrowed dark,
beneath the roots and stone,
have heard this noise a hundred times,
and longed to be alone.
They say you claimed the coming sun,
they say you make it sing.
But what if all you ever did
was fear the touch of spring?
Don’t be a bump upon the log,
don’t hide behind the fog.
This day is yours, they say again
but you are just a groundhog.
A creature caught in ritual,
a shadow on the wall.
They want a sign, a prophecy
you only want to stall.
So rise, and blink, and face the light,
though winter clings like glue.
The world will watch, and make their wish
…and never ask what’s true.
Groundhogs can’t predict,
yet tradition will stick,
and the torture continues to loom.
Each year they drag you from the gloom,
a trembling prophet pressed for light,
forced to answer winter’s spite
with nothing but your shadowed doom.
They cheer, they chant, they call your name,
but never see the fear you keep
a creature woken from its sleep
to play a role in nature’s game.
So rise again, small herald caught
between the frost and early bloom.
They want a sign; you want your room.
And none of them will spare a thought
for how the cycle seals your fate
a tiny oracle at the gate.
Brand New Toy
As I walk along the snowy path of Christmas Eve,
I start to believe in a spirit of Christmas joy.
Each girl and boy lays their head down
to sleep. There will be neither a peep nor a weep
of sorrow on this night as all the lights go out.
Children have been tucked in tight, and they dream away
of presents on Christmas Day, and maybe even
one sleigh ride. The world outside grows still,
frost gathering on every sill,
as moonlight drifts across the snow.
The night feels soft, as if it knows
the hopes that rest in every room.
A quiet magic starts to bloom,
waiting for dawn to break the dark.
A child cried out for joy
as she awoke to a brand new toy,
her laughter rising through the cold,
a tiny spark of wonder told
to anyone who paused to hear
the first sweet sound of Christmas cheer.
