my dog can dig anywhere
he has six acres to dig up
so where does he dig?
two places
under the neighbor’s fence
and under my feet, throwing dirt into my sandals
today he is digging a new hole to Siberia
throwing dirt on his brother
another dog, brother by another mother
They don’t understand me; call me a weed.
But, like their flowers, I grew from a seed.
I’m just as pretty, if they’d let me live
And, in the right place, I’ve so much to give.
But no, as soon as they notice my shoots,
They reach for a trowel and dig up my roots.
Then, although I haven’t committed a sin,
I find I’m consigned to the compost bin.
I try to hide in amongst all the flowers
And they find me in a matter of hours,
But, if the compost bin’s where it all ends,
At least I’m there with a lot of my friends.
Yet, if they’re driving along the highway
And I’m on the verge, they see it my way.
I get the treatment I’ve always deserved.
I’m a wild flower and I must be preserved.
Memories freezing like a winter day
Somehow I lost you I couldn't find my way
Hang on so loosely never fenced you in
Now I'm without you sometimes love never wins
Nothing lasts forever
Is it a sin?
When you played my last heartstring
You left me hanging again
Memories freezing like a winter day
How did I find out that I lost my way
Pack up my suitcase
Fold up my hands
Dig up my freedom
Help me understand
Nothing lasts forever
I guess I just can win
When you played my last heartstring
You left me hanging again
JB 2026
Waiting is like a chair.
Grabbing onto things in your mind.
A benchmark.
An emphasis on none.
Waiting is like a circus of fear.
Wavering trapeze.
A type of thing that is in a list.
Aligned but falling almost.
Waiting is like a door hinge.
Fragile somehow.
Waiting is like a wedge.
Nothing to despair over, but trips me up.
Waiting.
Just an implosion of “X marks the spot.”
Take me over to dig up bones of bones.
Waiting is like a chair!
Waiting is like a chair.
Dragging all over.
Is real.
The trapeze all over.
I waited twenty minutes that day.
Somehow, the room didn’t tip over.
And twenty minutes ran out.
And ran out of me.
It’s not always the big things that break us—
it’s the shimmer we miss
on the ordinary day.
When grief doesn’t arrive with a wail,
but as a subtle ache,
a missed beat,
a song that plays when no one’s listening.
I remember being happy once—
but I don’t trust the memory.
Too many mirrors,
too much static.
I learned to smile in sepia.
And when the world said, “Move on,”
I walked backwards.
Into the arms of ghosts
who knew my name before I lost it.
I wanted to be a woman who dances,
but I became a woman who waits.
I became a lighthouse with no boats to guide—
only fog.
We don’t always cry because we’re sad.
Sometimes we cry
because we can feel again.
We make altars out of wine glasses,
rituals from selfies and shopping carts.
But when we whisper to the stars,
we mean it.
I mistook money for meaning,
and silence for peace.
But the wind has a memory,
and my skin still listens.
I came here to remember.
To fall apart on purpose.
To dig up the bones of who I was—
and build something truer from the ruins.
Observation
Dig Up All
The Sediments
Under The Seas
Make Them All
Frothy And
Opaque.
Pour All The
Cool Waters
Under The Trees
Then Watch How
They Run To
The Lake.
Clouds Burst &
Starbursts...
They Know What
They Like...
They Didn't
Need Me To
Delight 'Em.
Rain Moves
The Mountains.
We've Got This
Thing Covered!
All The Wrongs
We're Gonna'
Write 'Em.
-Gray Squirrel
05-24-2025
Sugar was my very first pup,
With floppy ears and a tail stuck up.
Eyes so wide, full of delight,
Chasing sunbeams morning to night.
We ran through fields, just her and me,
Barking at clouds, wild and free.
She’d dig up secrets in the yard,
Then zoom around, a tiny guard.
She loved the breeze, the muddy streams,
And napping deep in dandelion dreams.
A heart so big, her joy so loud,
My best friend—I was so proud.
Through woods we wandered, side by side,
She'd sniff the trails where squirrels would hide.
Every stick was treasure found,
Every puddle her stomping ground.
But more than all the fun and play,
Was how she loved me every day.
Her warm little body curled in bed,
Her soft sighs near my sleepy head.
Sugar, my first, my brave little soul,
Filled the cracks, made my young heart whole.
An adventure, a gift, wrapped in fur—
A lifetime of love, because of her.
rubberneck neighbor
she knew too much about us
dont dig up garden
I live in this continuum,
Where I sit, I scroll, I rot.
This blissful poison hypnotizes me in,
An artifice far deadlier than I thought.
It promises me sweet lies,
Feeding on the pith of my mind.
I grow my own nicotine,
A toxin that turns me blind.
Stronger than any drug it seems,
It drags me out of reality.
I escape to the realms of fractured dreams,
Only to suffer their calamity.
I live in this continuum,
Where my soul resigns to the comfort I crave.
In this abyss I dwell,
I have learned to dig up my own grave.
23/01/25
It won't be fun without you, friend
I'll miss the times that we would spend
Chatting, dreaming, many things
Like you on vocals, me on strings
Our conversation, easy flow
As effortless as it could go
Goodnight, good morning, also gone
Accepting that my own now on
I didn't mean to dig up love
Though real and true, regardless of
The fact we'd only share in this:
Klimt and Rodin's art, The Kiss
Unless somehow, someday should come
With you and I, the total sum
Of all the parts, us two as one
A love that could not be outdone
Jennifer’s adoring husband built her a castle greenhouse
surrounded by a gorgeous brick wall with round banisters.
she spent spring and summer out there, planting flowers
poppies, lilies, tulips, and roses were her favorites.
She also nurtured wild flowers like woodland sunflowers
Queen Anne’s lace, mosses, violets, and wild strawberries
Her husband rarely ventured out into the wilds of her garden world
Those who did were amazed at her quintessential green thumb
She would dig up plants that looked like they were not going to make it.
Do magic things to them, and not only would they survive. They thrived.
Jennifer, the gardener, am amazing woman with a magic garden kingdom.
Whose beautiful garden brought life back to her neighbors.
April showers
Drip drip drop,
Little April Showers,
Falling from the clouds,
The rain drops down
Each drip and drop sounds
Different as it hits the grounds
Natures musical melody
It's healing harmony
Pittering and pattering,
Splishing and spitting,
Black clouds are forming,
It's the sky's final warning,
Before the heavens dawning,
And then the rain comes pouring,
Crashing and clashing,
Splashing and sploshing
It's time to dig up some recruits,
Your wellie boot troops,
Raincoat is armed for any puddlish pursuits Umbrella up, stand and salute.
Drip drop,
Drip drip drop,
Drip drop drip drip drop,
Little April shower raindrops.
In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.
Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?
Repose is something grinding-study denies her.
Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like we’re going there?
What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist
Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig up Caesar, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up
Me, half-dead inside
Dig up into your surface
Heart cry out confide.
Prisoner Of Language
Will time live eternal
or just its retelling
A prisoner of language
whose paradox mined
Dimension in contrast
ill-fated contrition
To look but not touch
—and hope they align
(Rosemont College: December, 2023)
Through A Vacuum
Biologically tethered
time is the demon
Your flesh and your blood
by nature defined
Each tic of the clock
your heart beats in cadence
Dogmatic in method
caught up in the brine
What if your consciousness
took a leap forward
Abandoning reference
erasing the lines
Polarity exits
its jail through a vacuum
Releasing reversing
—becoming sublime
(Rosemont College: December, 2023)
Starting Over
Dig up the foundation
requestion each premise
Wade through the bathwater
the baby must go
A leap when it’s quantum
still subject and object
Fly out of the portal
—rejecting what’s known
(Rosemont College: December, 2023)
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