In January, I worried for a friend. I didn’t do Dry January, once again.
In February, I trod old ground; it felt good. I didn’t rue the quick passing of time that made my youngest an adult.
In March, I felt hunger and a lack of direction but I didn’t rest on my laurels. I campaigned!
In April, it was all about those Mystery Jets. I paid no heed to the miles clocking up. Each one was worth my time.
In May, I sometimes found myself in need and wanting; not quite sure what for. I wrote and I mooned then, in a moment of decisiveness, I took the ugliest selfie ever and consigned it to a decade of haunting me every time I travel. I can live with that.
In June, I celebrated 21 years of my best work. I made lists. I didn’t care a jot for the consequences of my hairdresser turning my locks hot pink. There were none; it would have been a waste of precious energy
In July, I felt so goddamn proud. That’s it. No more to say.
In August, I danced then I made a mistake, I felt old and less than myself.
In September, I bounced back, wrote poems, laughed lots and was blown away by teamwork
In October, I relaxed and reconnected. I savoured the cathartic energy of the sun’s rays. I saw paradise, fleetingly. That’s the best most of us can hope for.
In November, I brought things for those that I love. I didn’t stop until I was satisfied that all were catered for. They deserve it. I’m sometimes unsure whether I deserve them.
In December, the plummeting temperatures couldn’t dissipate my warmth. I grew increasingly excited, woke early, reflected. I didn’t beat myself up, even the mistakes were fruitful, necessary and part of the ride.
Poetry for Dullards 