One Year

This year looks much like

last year.  Blank slate, pen

in my hand, resolute, intent

for a personal best.

Two thousand fourteen.

The only one I’m given.

One glorious year

to orchestrate,

then await

my fate.

One

First day of a clean slate
blank pages, new opportunities
to make or break what comes
of the next
three hundred and sixty-four.
Our choices and fate intertwine.
I try to stack the deck
with good choices and resolution.

Resolution

 

Each year my priorities seem scrambled

by December I’m bringing them to mind.
This year my nagging mind presents me
with my biggest slack of year.

I’m a writer, I write, so write each day!

If it’s crap I write,  I’ll be satisfied with that
for I’ve been faithful to my love.
I’ll spot the sparkle from a gem here and there,
polish them, put them on display.
I’ll choose the ones that have the highest sheen,
then send those away.  Not because I don’t want them,
don’t own them,
but because I want the world to see.