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I’ll cry tomorrow
Today I have things to get done
Too many errands to run
Tears can’t unload this washing machine
Regret won’t make a ***** house clean
Self-pity doesn’t get the kids fed
Falling apart won’t get them to bed
If you have something to say
Just please hold off for today
I have too much to do
To spend time worrying about you
So if it’s my heart you plan to break
Break it tomorrow
Not now, not today
I’ll cry tomorrow

© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.
Most of these lines came to me as a song I made up while doing laundry. I attempted to explore the juxtaposition of emotional drama and the physical reality of daily chores that plays out in life, especially for primary caregivers.
I wear my past like a cape
Superman’s got nothing on me
now that I’m free

All I’ve overcome
widens my stance
straightens my shoulders
I didn’t die
so I raise my chin up high

Shame, regrets, fear
in bullet-shape
bounce right off
my bullet-proof drape

Finally, I truly mean it
when I say, ‘I’m fine’
for I wear it like a cape,
this past of mine

© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.
Can anyone relate to this poem?
Joan Zaruba May 20
Morning is my mass,
my holy ritual

burnt edges of toast, the incense
yellow yolk of egg, the communion

Standing on cold kitchen tile,
I begin a confessional assessment
of this new day
I forgive my shortcomings,
nod knowingly at my humanness

With solemnity,
I watch the holy procession
of morning rain
sliding down the kitchen window

This communion wine
is dark, caffeinated
cinnamon, the frankincense,
heaped in large scoops
until breathing in the steam
burns like smoke

Too hot to drink,
I swallow anyway
This wouldn’t be a holy ritual
without a little pain,
some sacrifice
of pleasure

© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.
It has been years since I left behind any ties to organized religion, so I was surprised when my Catholic upbringing insisted on playing a key role in my creative analysis of morning rituals.
Joan Zaruba May 19
Have you rested
on an old blanket
‘neath the big pine trees
feeling a warm breeze
and the ****** and dips
of the needle-laden ground?

Have you eavesdropped on the birds
as they gossip
woo
brag
calling amongst
the sticky pine needles?

Have you spied on the ants
on their no-nonsense march
or counted wispy clouds
that lazily float by
laying on your back
on a scratchy, faded blanket?

Have you ever marveled
at the wide, wide blue
that’s neither near nor far
feeling time pause
under pointy branches
lost in restful ease
‘neath the big pine trees?

© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.
It was a pleasure to revise this poem I wrote more than 25 years ago.  It takes me back to the glorious pine trees that I spent time with during my childhood.
Joan Zaruba May 10
Hills, trees, rocks, cold waves
A city wrapped in the wild
Duluth, steel and heart
I spent a few days in Duluth, MN and wanted to challenge myself to capture its essence in a simple three 5/7/5 syllable lines.
Joan Zaruba May 4
I need truth & light,
not lies & fights.
Emotional security,
not shame &  anxiety.
I need love that’s true.
Sometimes ‘Hello Me’
is pronounced ‘Goodbye You.’

Not every promise is golden.
Sometimes, vows need to be broken.
Leaving was brave,
given how you behaved.
Not every ending is unhappy.
Sometimes ‘Goodbye You’
means ‘Hello Me.’

I’d rather be single
than a married martyr.
I’d rather laugh & mingle
than keep on trying harder.
I need something new.
Sometimes ‘Hello Me’
is pronounced ‘Goodbye You.’

I choose my mental health
over double-income wealth
Wellness over weakness,
happiness over secrets,
freedom over familiarity.
Sometimes ‘Goodbye You’
means ‘Hello Me.’

© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.
I played around with the order of these stanzas a lot before finally settling on this order.  I also debated the title.  At first I called it "Sometimes" but I worried it weakened the declarations of self-discovery within the poem.  Does the flow work for you as a reader? How about the title?
Joan Zaruba May 2
Your family hates me for leaving you
They don’t know
I would have died had I stayed
Even a cactus can die of thirst

© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.
These lines came to me this morning while grieving the loss of ex-family.  Despite the pain of being misunderstood by those who used to call my daughter and sister, I have no regrets about choosing my wellbeing over martyrdom.
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