Baby New Year is Coming

 

Bouncing Baby New Year,

is about to be born,

blubbering and babbling,

blowing bubbles and

burping, like all babies.

 

A New Year, on the cusp,

ready to shove more insanity

in your already sunburned

faces, smearing you with

baby New Year ick.

 

I’m not sure of the lessons

learned in 2024, or if there

were even lessons at all,

seemed like people wanted to

go back in time, having learned nothing.

 

I did learn to hold precious those

that I love and keep them close,

to acknowledge the love of others,

a practice I’m still unfamiliar with,

and to be gentle.

 

2024 reinforced the need for

civility, kindness and a general

return to respect, things I fear

will be in short supply in the new

year of 2025.

 

Which is also odd to say out loud,

“2025”.

For those of us of a certain age,

2025 was supposed to be an age

of incredible technological and

human advancement.

 

Yet I fear 2025 will be slingshots

and muddy feet.

But I still hope for the best,

the future is always full of possibilities,

unless of course Baby New Year goes

on a horror film style assault against

humanity.  

 

Happy New Year!

A Poet at Christmas

 

A Poet at Christmas time,

is a curious beast,

whose only desire is to write a

cozy, comforting piece about

family love, or good tidings,

peace and joy.

 

A nice poem about, perhaps,

settling in by a roaring fire,

as chestnuts roast and

the firelight glitters on the

garland and tinsel hanging from

the softly lit Christmas Tree.  

 

But a poet at Christmas Time,

is strangely burdened by the

emotional weight of the Holidays,

the excesses of material desire,

the many hungry mouths and

shirtless backs.

 

Donations can be made,

goodwill wished,

but there’s always this nagging

sensation, as we sip hot chocolate from

white mugs and stare out windows at the

gentle drifting of light fluttering snowfall,

that there’s too much pain and too much suffering.

 

In a world so largely connected,

yet separated by it.

A division that can’t be healed,

with egg-nogg, or any nogg for that

matter. Just a revolving door

of well wishes and in-action,

thoughts and prayers, in

actionable times.

 

Gifts for loved ones,

wrapped under the tree,

but nothing for those we do not see.

And it weighs on me.

But we do our best and what

we can, and we let it be.

 

(Sip) Mmm… good hot chocolate…

(Blinks) – Hmmm… snow falling…

Happy Holidays, from poetry.

Whatever Chicanery

 

My knuckles are cracking

as I type out these words,

the petrification of my joints,

being worked out,

as I considered my self-imposed

heartbroken silence; word by word.

 

We’ve entered (re-entered?)

a time where the worst fears of

my like-minded peers have come

true, much to our collective

chagrin.  A shocking jolt of…

whatever chicanery it will be.

 

I’m not sure they even have

a name for what it will be called

as of yet. I certainly haven’t had the

words for it, much less the intestinal

fortitude, to devise a moniker for the

debacle that may await.

 

There’s still a large part of me,

so stunned and shocked, that I hardly

believe it happened, but I’m reminded

of my own words and what must be done,

what price we have to pay,

to be vigilant and unbroken.

 

As I emerge from this unsure silence; I remind

myself to be more loving, patient and

considerate, to the point that it

sickens those that would rather wish

ill-will than extend a helping hand.

Yet I’m cautious, since I’ve been hurt.

 

It’s a wound that will take time to heal,

and a scar that will take revision;

to overcome the potential future

of a world I no longer recognize,

an unfamiliar zeitgeist, and a strange

populist fever dream I’ve no desire to have faith in.

 

It is, however, by a renewed faith, that I move forward,

perhaps quietly at first, shaking the cobwebs

from my joints, until I am full-throated and

my fingers are nimble gymnasts, tumbling and

flipping like Olympians over the keyboard,

expressing the poetry inherent in our times.