A lot had gone through my mind when I wrote the quote above.

Why January 1st? Other cultures have other dates to celebrate a new year.

The actual day seems so superfluous. How is one new day newer than the new day you were just given the day before?

The beginning of a new year is not about starting over. Anyone who has made a resolution can attest to the attempt at a fresh start that only results in abject failure and the return to usual habits. We need endings just as much as we need beginnings. This is why the ball DROPS. And because most fail to see opportunity in ending and beginning every morning when the sun rises and our feet hit the ground, it has to be done in a lavish and attention grabbing way such as wearing sparkly clothes, getting wasted with your friends and for the rednecks in my area, maybe blowing something up. We aren’t celebrating an uncertain future. We’re burying the past and sending it off with a bang. Auld Lang Syne is the funeral dirge for Father Time.

Government and business need to close their books. We need a sense of finality in small increments. Otherwise life seems like one big run on sentence. In fact, life’s way of getting women to quit talking so much is called a period. (I kid, but it is funny, you gotta admit). All these cycles in life… it’s just dead eggs down the toilet.

A new year is the obvious result of what must be done: Ending.

It doesn’t matter when. It just has to happen sometime.

Call me morbid, call me Debbie Downer, I don’t care. It’s the truth and we all know it.

We’re all gonna die and we need to rehearse one year at a time.

.

I am boarding up my windows,

filling my pantry,

compacting my bones

so moisture cannot

penetrate the joints.

The world will forget me more

but I am resolved to

avert the chill

with hunkered down loneliness,

oceans of tea,

fleece swathed solidarity.

Removed from frigidity

I am stone

alone

with my CB radio and scanner

leaning close

listening for chatter

flares and afghans at hand

in case the roof caves

If you find me in the thaw

Put a can opener to my lips

To hear the hiss and murmur

Of  secrets lonely women hold

In their ever sliding glacial hearts

There are storms no one can endure

And measures that are never enough

To save a home without love.

I’m beside myself
but still alone
you’ve checked out
so has my clone
the lack of change
is still the same
but I’m not to blame

I’ve played the game
Of Stepford wives and bedroom whores
The thanks I get is a Cold War
Shoulder over ice in cocktail cups
I’ve had enough
I’ve given up.

But the lioness deep down roars
To fight for the man you once were
Regardless of fruitless scars
I’ve earned
I suppose I’m still willing to be burned

…for a cause worth fighting for.

you dance below

as if it is snow

and you are a child

wild

with joy.

once I shine

I will be with you boy

our new start

will be

polished

to blinding

and I am finding

corrosion through tears

just puts me

in proverbial junkyards,

a discard.

it’s this hard

to say sorry,

scrub myself clean,

ask wizards for hearts,

abide in your

absurd dreams.

I’m the trophy of redemption,

the machine of simpatico,

and a tool

with rosy cheeks,

ready for the sequel

to my virgin ignition

You are the oil of ambition

to reach a place like home.

those haunting habits,

permeating every drop of DNA,

sprinkled with the crumbs

of our ancestor’s sins,

are difficult to cleave,

could make us bleed

centuries all at once.

Carving it out

is as immense a task

as retrieving past breaths

fooling death,

and choking elusive phantoms.

These family trees

with gilded limbs,

wrought in cancerous desire,

bound in wires

mere mortals strive to prune.

Changing the course of fate

is a futile feat

but I’ve seen great men beat

these invisible wraiths.

To strangle an unseen foe

proves an eidolon from a hero.

I know there is power in you;

enough acid

creeping through your veins

to erase the possession,

and etch lessons,

you will never forget.

there is but one that’s just right

Like reaching into the darkened skies

to pluck a star so bright

I pull it down and plug it in

to complete the string

You are the exacting gem I want

amongst the everything

vibrations

in perfect sync

with the quiver

of my cells

every pluck

my heart swells

guitars, harps,

ukes, violins

banjos, cellos,

mandolins

they all sing

with their entrancing strings

matching the pulse in me

trembling

harmony