the editor looked through a pile of poems,
where mine hid, with a smear of mama’s anointing oil,
wrapped in the first prayer I mumbled after my last rejection.
(Is there even a thing as last rejection?
Is rejection not a long endless string,
A prayer bead writers only stop
fingering when Death hosts us)
I have watched many of my poems
return with a reverberating ‘no’
& have had to deal with losing yet another editor’s nod
But I never stop wishing I could go out,
& stand in the same way my poem went,
when it bade me farewell, as it set out
to a journal or magazine.
Don’t you wish you could hold your poem tightly,
plant a kiss on its sweaty dusty verses,
& welcome it home after each rejection?
Don’t you also wish that the return of
your poem was not as sudden
as the beep of a new email,
that you could actually watch it
walk back into your arms
so you can see it’s beauty
one more time?
Don’t you wish rejection
was just a word, you didn’t
have to spell with many
& silent sighs?
Photo Credit: Pixabay.com
1 day ago
The streets are empty. There is as much fear as there is oxygen in the air.
The prices of foodstuffs have been hiked and even hope is not cheap at this time.
Still, like these flowers, you can take a sip of the sun rays without wilting.
While staying safe, visit the eboquills website, let's help you hone your writing skills.
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