Friday the 13th

Seasonal flowers

Seasonal flowers

Before 9 a.m. today I received two rejection notices.  That made three for the week.  Enough already, I thought.  It’s hard not to be stung by rejection.  I know I am not alone in this.  One of the members of my poetry group talked this week about how she used to paper her walls with rejection letters.  Looking on the bright side, I thought, well, that just frees up some poems that I can send somewhere else.

It’s a beautiful September day, albeit Friday the 13th.  My husband and I headed out to a garden we had not visited before and it turned out to be a delight.  We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and the weather.  It was lovely not to think about the “business” of poetry.  However, when I checked emails upon our return home, I discovered I had won a contest with a little poem I’d submitted … cannot say more until they publish it, but I have to say, I got really, really excited.  Yea!

Here is a rejected poem that was written for a very specific call for poems and I really cannot place it elsewhere.  But I like it.  It’s a tribute to my friend Marian who died several years ago but whom I still miss.  She was about twenty years older than me, and she was prickly and opinionated, but I enjoyed her company a great deal.  I think we each learned a lot from one another.

The title, Little Things, comes from the last line of Kahil Gibran’s poem, On Friendship:  “For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”  The last line of Little Things comes from these lines:  “For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? / Seek him always with hours to live.”

Little Things

You, prickly, talked in asides, critical of the speakers.

Look at the art, you said.  What do you see?  Now, look again.

You, grudging, allowed me to follow you, sticking like chewed gum.

You, rolling your eyes.  So impatient.  Never tip on the tax, you said.

You told me I was stuck up.  I told you I am reserved.


plane watching at O’Hare
making tea according to your directions
shopping for a leather foot stool
slow art at the Biedermeier exhibit.

You made me attend a party I wanted to avoid.

I taught you how to join a Yahoo Group.

Why did you think I could save your violet?

A present from you:  homemade salsa.

A present to you:  a Christmas ornament that said, “Naughty.”

We had plans for the coming week, lunch or just visiting.

I sought you always with hours to live.  I did not know how few there were.


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