Posts Tagged ‘new year’s resolution’

Except Him, Of Course! Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

January 2, 2013

Maybe my New Year’s/
resolution should be to/
learn I need no one.

My New Year’s Resolution: Revolutionary Improv Haiku

January 1, 2013

Increase epicness/
of me, yet with who I am/
be still satisfied.

OR
To increase in my/
epicness, yet be satisfied
with who I am

New Year’s Observation: Romantic ImproVerse Haiku

December 31, 2012

My observation:/
Me going to a dance is/
no fun without you.

Remembering A New Year’s Resolution: Revolutionary Blogging Poetry

May 12, 2011

It was cold
last New Year’s Day.
Someone was sick.
I thought maybe
she was dying.

It was not my place
to worry.
I had no familial ties,
no vested interest,
but I did.
And I do.

So I called, then,
that frigid January day,
caring,
a caregiver
relative,
who I cared for.

No answer.
Cold she was,
thinking I was prying.
She didn’t understand
that people can care;
that people call;
reach out;
try to find out
what is happening.

My roots,
Midwest deep,
tell me to probe.
To ask.
To be concerned,
as I want people
who should care
to care
about me.

But it’s not her
culture.
It’s not her
way.
And on that bitter
New Year’s Day
I learned.
She gave me
harsh
reality check
insight
into the way things are.
I
and my caring,
is lost on her.
I am not welcome,
and I lost her.

But out of bitter winter,
thaw comes.
Seasons bring change.

Ice melts,
and water comes
and goes,
and flows
under many
bridges.

She returned.
So you’d think
I’d have learned,
and not burned
bridges again.

Scenarios replay themselves,
so we may learn
from them.

Once again
sickness stalks,
and I, as a friend,
am worried.
I call.
No answer.
I ask again.
No response.

And though Spring
has warmed the sky,
the soil,
and grown seeds
and relationships,
the memory
of that cold
sub-zero
New Year’s Day
sprouts,
blows back into me
and my mind,
and stings
like that bitter wind.

Do I care?
Yes.
But those who don’t care
that I care
may again howl
as uncertainly,
fiercely,
and coldly
as last winter’s blizzard,
and water my eyes,
and burn my cheeks and ears,
and take away my breath.

So I turn my back
on the potential,
threatening,
miserable cold,
the chill memory,
those feelings that could stop
my heart.

Instead,
I lift my head,
face the warmth
of the red-rocked
sunset
and walk out
and on
alone.

Tonight’s moonset,
tomorrow’s sunrise
may bring news.
It may be good.
It may be tragic.

If it comes,
I will hear.
But I will not ask.
Here, in the land of
“This is The Place!”,
asking is not my place.