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The Happy New Year

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Below is the poem entitled The Happy New Year which was written by poet Willy Munyoki. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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The Happy New Year

 A dozen of months of despair, or a year of hope;
Of despair- as one to the verve to move would utter nope,
Of hope- if a mortal be willing and dreaming that far to reach,
And to fail and again, and again to try yourself to teach.

To make the twelve as right an epoch of belief and faith,
And design and deeds of practice of what your tongue saith;
Or the year a whole to make of jokes, and to yourself a play untrue,
And mark it's end and a begin of another with unending rue.

To die and try to peace invoke, and the twelve to give some light,
And deeds of dark and things black every to paint pure white.
Your abode to make clean and clear, for eyes to see and tongues to say,
'That glittering they get, the lot who well spent their months and day.

To use the the hoe and sow the seeds, and the shoots to tend and prune,
To choose to use the sickles to garner, and be of prosperous tune;
Or to sit and eat the little remained, and to sow say no and never anymore,
And wait to reap where you didn't sow, and Chap, you will feed on sore.

To be sad to all and hard to listen and ever to say it's fit to fight,
And mark your toe with sore and grief, and your face and fore with disgrace write;
Or pause and ponder and matters weigh, and out of wits mine out their meanings,
And brother, a good diet you will ever carry in your innings.

And if you can why can't you man remember the will of Providence,
The Saviour way, that beautiful ray, to swallow and be safe and sound, and hence and hence;
And forget the lane that's dark and bane, and where is lurking the she Wolf,
To bruise and eat and stop you use, the God given and wonderful twelve.

There can be best and worst of times and the first choose I,
Why thus do I told me Jesus, and I will tell you why;
Listen to now, to repeat I vow not, 'I never can like to die,
And waste the twelve and fall for the Wolf, and fail to soar on High.

And hope what I make will take me to Heaven, and not the other direct way,
For carefully I trod and right I hold, my June and well my May;
And January I spent and on I went to pause and ponder, and used my hoe and ear,
Thus mine became and I give it a name, 'Happy New Year.'

Willy Munyoki

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