I have dreams of being organized and disciplined in my writing with everything neatly catalogued and filed away under proper headings. But oh, dear me! I’ve got notebooks crammed with copies of poems or stories sold, sample copies of magazines in which said stories or poems appeared, notebooks filled with my writings which editors bought right alongside copies of stories and poems that were rejected one time too many. Why on earth did I keep all this stuff? It looks like junk and probably would be to anybody else. In 50 years or so of writing, believe me, I have amassed not a fortune, but a plethora of paper. I don’t mean that I’ve made a lot of book sales. To date, only two of my books have been published but modesty aside and truthfully speaking, I’ve made quite a few sales to children’s magazines, even a few songs to a Christian magazine, poems, poems, poems, articles, stories and…did I mention poems? Having said all that, I’d like to introduce you to one of the poems I dug out of my stack last night. As far as I have a record of, it never saw the light of day…that is, no editor bought it. But today, I’m giving it a chance to come out of its dark, cluttered corner and let it take a look at the wide world, thanks to you my readers.
The Cottonwood
At Grandfather’s farm, in back of the house
Stood a large, ancient cottonwood tree.
How it weathered the years and stood fast in storms
Was a wonder and marvel to me.
My grandfather said that the tree had strong roots
Sinking deep, holding fast to the ground,
For the earth never lost it though wind tore and tossed it
And lesser trees fell all around.
I remember that tree when storms threaten me
And I’m battered by dangers and doubts
For I’m kept by the love of my Father above
And my roots are both anchored and stout.
–Blanche Day Manos
That’s a great poem. And, don’t you dare go throwing out any of your writing!! We want them all.