On September 26, 2018, I published a post about a poetry contest I was interested in entering. I expressed feeling a great deal of self-doubt about my talent and ability to produce an entry worthy of submitting into the contest. After receiving several messages of encouragement, I decided to throw my hat into the ring, and I entered my poem into the competition. Now, as with all contests, the waiting begins. I will find out either way by the end of December whether or not I placed or not. Fingers crossed.
Greetings Morning Glories,
You may have noticed I haven’t been posting on a regular basis during the past week or so. I’m getting ready to have carpal tunnel surgery on my left wrist, so I’ve been busy getting last minute projects done in anticipation of only having one good hand for several weeks. I had my right wrist operated on in 2016, it was an instant success, but taking care of my mother with one hand proved to be very difficult, so I’ve been putting off having the left one done. As a result, now my left hand is always numb and tingling, and even though my anxiety over having surgery (even minor such as this) is through the roof, I am looking forward to finding relief from these symptoms. I’ll try to post a few more times before the big day next week and then take some time off to recover.
Why did the turkeys cross the road?
To go back and forth again
And again and again.
I sit in my car watching them,
Watching me with their tiny eyes.
The scene is repeated in the car
Across from me.
Several cars are stuck
In this spot in the road.
While these birds
Try to make up their mind.
Which side of the road
They would rather be on.
There is this poetry contest I was excited to enter. I had this wonderful idea for a poem and have been tweaking it for weeks now. As the deadline looms; however, I’ve found my enthusiasm waning and self-doubt rearing its ugly head. Does this happen to other writers? Have any of you decided to enter a contest or submit something to a publication only to experience these feelings? I keep telling myself that my work has just as much of a chance as anyone else. And I’ll never know unless I try and multiple other platitudes that sound as hollow as a ping-pong ball. Over the past few days, it’s been amazing how many ways I’ve found to not work on the poem. The deadline is October 1st, it’s creeping up so quickly and the apathy I’ve developed towards working on it has been astonishing. I want to put my writing out there. I want as many people as possible to see my work but I’m questioning my own work like it’s out to get me. I also know that a big part of being a writer is being able to handle rejection. Rationally I know how most of what I submit won’t be accepted. But it’s always that self-doubt isn’t it? That lingering fear of what I put forth won’t be good enough. The countdown continues and the poem remains unfinished. I’ll keep you posted on what happens.
Slowly…slowly… I am losing my mind
I can feel it happening, one thing at a time
Like the sands in an hourglass
Slowly slipping through.
Falling into some dark abyss.
I don’t want to bid adieu.
To all the times in days gone by
Whether good or bad.
They are still my memories
And losing them is sad.
So now I’m obsessively writing
Jotting everything down
Every thought and memory
Scraps of paper now surround
This little spot I sit in
With my paper and pen
So when memories are no more
I’ll be covered in them.
Like a post-it woven patchwork
A wondrous little covering
I’ll be wrapped up in them
And old memories I’ll be discovering.
Now the seasons are running down
Cooler weather has come to town.
Soon the trees will be colored brightly
And windows will be opened nightly.
To let the cold air of fall inside
And under blankets and quilts, we’ll hide.
Then comes the night when once a year
Children dress to cause terror and fear
They parade around the neighborhoods
To collect all sorts of goody-goods.
They mingle with other witches and monsters
There’s no way to tell the real from imposters.
Then when they are all tucked in tight
And their dreams are filled of creepy delights
Do the goblins and witches fly away home
To wait another twelve months to roam.
My dog is malfunctioning
I’ve noticed it outside
I don’t know how to describe it
Or if it can be classified.
I throw him the ball, and he runs
And catches up with it.
And then instead of bringing it back
He plops his butt down and sits.
He never brings the ball back
It’s a skill he sorely lacks.
While I’m running back and forth
He just seems to relax.
So it’s time to face the facts folks
Denial cannot be spoken
The poodle in him works just fine
But the retriever is definitely broken.
Is too mild a term
For what I have.
I have a writer’s
Great Wall of China
Twisting and turning
Through my brain
With no way around or
I just stand in
Looking one way and
Viewing the same scene
I found a little feather
Sitting in the in the sod,
I knew this miniature perfection
Could only be from God.
His hand touched and created
Its tiny, little spots
I’ve never seen a feather
With such perfect polka dots.
I’m hiding under my covers
Like a frightened little child.
With one eye, I peek out
As my imagination runs wild.
I make sure I’m totally covered
That I am out of sight.
As I hide from the blinking cursor
Because I don’t know what to write.