A query is a letter
And could be
a starting step
To discover
if an agent
Might become
your writing rep.
It’s a
process, I am learning,
Which takes
hours of your time,
Often never
making progress
Up the mountain
you must climb.
The advice
that I have gotten
Said, “Be
patient and expect
Many, many
more rejections
Than
attempts that might connect.”
That makes
sense, so I won’t wallow
In predictable
defeat,
But my query
theory lets me dream,
And fantasy
is sweet.
I don’t remove or change my rings;
All four I’ve worn for years,
Unlike my huge collection of
What dangles from my ears.
My necklaces and bracelets
I switch out and do with care,
Depending on the style of clothing
That I choose to wear.
Around my wrist’s a watch;
I own a few (one even winds!)
And when I’m sockless, on my ankle,
Chains of varied kinds.
My husband wears his wedding band
And that is the extent
Of jewelry he sports
(Though somehow watches came and went).
Displaying our adornments
Is quite personal, it’s true,
But it’s also a reflection
Of ourselves that others view.
Sometimes it’s better to open your mouth
But on other
occasions, it’s not,
For declaring
opinions may often go south,
So decide if
you’re taking that shot.
There’s a
certain relief when your views are expressed,
Yet it could
lead to some confrontation
And you
might then regret not just letting it rest,
Thus
avoiding a bad situation.
How to know
what to do is a balancing act -
Neither
spewing nor stewing’s ideal –
Though perhaps,
with finesse and a sprinkle of tact,
You can
calmly explain how you feel.
A coveted bench in the shade,
In my world,
means that I’ve got it made,
For tomorrow
will be, I’m afraid,
Much too
hot, so I wouldn’t have stayed.
But today, I
can watch the parade
On the river,
as boats are displayed
And
attention, of course, must be paid,
To the
pigeons, who visit, dismayed
That I offer
no crumbs in a trade.
Still, I
hope, as my rhymes start to fade,
That my
writing has somehow conveyed
Just how
peaceful is all I’ve surveyed.
I’m very disappointed
The remaining 3 won’t quit,
Since “60 Minutes” took a real
Below-the-belt type hit.
The correspondents who are left
Gave reasons I found lame,
Because we know that long-loved show
Will never be the same.
Presenting a united front
Would make the message clear,
But who am I to give advice
On somebody’s career?
I’m sure they talked amongst themselves*
Though I could only sputtuh
When I heard what they’d decided,
Which was very unlike buttuh.
*Couldn’t resist the Linda Richman reference
(Google her on old Saturday Night Lives)
My skeleton has brittle bones;
That’s what the test reveals,
Another prime example of
What aging often steals.
I could take some injections or
A course of daily pills
To build my bones back, just in case
I suffer any spills.
Though if I manage not to fall,
My bones are working fine.
Still, if I trip and break my hip,
I’ll know the fault is mine.
The quandary I am in is like
A coin toss - tails or heads?
To trust my balance not to fall
Or cave and take the meds?
Right now it’s 50 - 50.
Will my osteoporosis
Leave my no-meds skeleton in peace
Despite my diagnosis?
The tree man toured my property,
Which was at my request.
I wanted some dead branches gone
And figured he knew best.
He put some ribbons ‘round the trunks
Of trees he thought should go,
One big one next to my back door;
I’ll likely tell him “no.”
That tree’s been here before my house;
It’s sturdy, tall and strong
And where it started growing first
Is where it does belong.
Yes, twigs and leaves fall on the roof,
But I don’t have the heart
To have it ripped out from the ground
Where life, for it, did start.
My husband disagrees; he says
To trust the tree man’s eye,
But someone else can hire him
To do it, when I die.
