[musings on a frustrated submission]

Were they “really saddened,”
as much as I was,
when they informed me
“that my works (hmm not I)
were not selected
for the current issue?
And did, they say to me,
apologetically,
perhaps to appease me,
(as if it were necessary):
“We have read
so many promising pieces
that we are unable to publish,
but that does not lessen
their beauty and worth.”
And then, tell to my aging face:
“However, we encourage you
to refine your writing
by joining campus/community-based
writers groups that foster
constructive critiquing
and applying for regional
and national writers workshops.”
The hell! I am too old
and too busy to attend those,
And there is no special session,
for seniors and late bloomers,
And I do not intend to win
the Nobel for Literature
nor the Philippines’ Palanca.

Take my pick?
“The piece didn't "grab" the editor.”
- We’ll I never intended it to.
“Some (or all) of the lines were too long for the site's formatting.”
- So Walt Whitman’s won’t be a thing.
“The poem read too much like a prose paragraph.”
- Much like the best free verse the ancients mocked.
“The piece had numerous simple grammar errors.”
- and Percy Bysshe Shelley will not pass your course.
“The piece was overly derivative or unoriginal.”
- you mean somebody else was thinking for me?
“The piece contained copyrighted material not owned by the author.”
- Of course, my poems are mine! I’m quite sure of that.
“Limited space in the schedule.”
- so, why then call for so many entries?

Appease myself?
Why do I write poems?
To win awards? No!
Put my thoughts into words? Yes!
Express my feelings? Yes!
Happiness? Mine? Of others? Yes!

Are these poems? Is this a poem?
I don’t need you or anyone to call me a poet
but this is my poem.
Who defines what a poem is?

Many a box
                         can
                         inspire
                         poems . . .
                         But
A poem is not

a box.

Poetry

is

freedom.

Freedom is

Poetry.

Poems are free.

My thoughts are

free –

f

r

e

e –

free.