e have all heard it said that “the little things” mean a lot, “the little things” are most important, and when we are in a thankful mood we should appreciate “the little things”. But there are people in this world who are terrified of “little things”. I would therefore here and now like to be a voice for them. I am certain that while others gather with loved ones around a feast and pause to be grateful for all they have — the little things included — whether daily or but once per year, those poor nervous souls are quivering somewhere in a corner, scared and sweating profusely! We’re talking buckets! Buckets, mind you, of cold clammy perspiration!

For them a little thing can amount to a great big whopping colossal thing. The teeny tiniest of spiders, perhaps, might elicit an enormity of terror. Mice are not so large, and often provoke a shriek of dread. Cockroaches, eeewwwww, need I say more? To the clean-minded, a particle of dirt or iota of gunk will induce grave angst. A single solitary germ, invisible to the eye not peering down a microscope lens, is cause for alarm to the health-conscious among us. A “little thing” like breathing, which many of us take for granted, could be a monumental struggle to another. And that blemish or zit upon your face might seem an exorbitant disaster!

That’s right, I’m talking to you. We all have our challenges, our weaknesses, our worries. Some of them big and some of them small. We all cringe at the thought of certain itsy-bitsies. But what about a wrinkle in an otherwise smooth day? Event? Relationship? That doesn’t sound so bad. Nobody’s perfect. We can’t expect our lives to be devoid of bumps or snags any more than we can expect the road ahead to not contain some twists and wrong turns. A few potholes and roadblocks. An occasional washed-out bridge. A dip or fallen tree or breakdown to impede our progress.

The manner we go about coping with the excruciating little setbacks and hindrances of an imperfect life, well, that can vary dramatically. One might be a screamer or curse a blue streak. One could have a panic attack or a hissy fit. One might grow quiet and harbor the anxiety within. Or one could stay calm and deal with it rationally, confront the issue and work it out. This is a choice we make, wittingly or subconsciously, and that choice can change according to the circumstances.

In coping with a tenacious wrinkle, you may try plugging in the old iron and giving it a hardy once-over. Maybe twice. No matter how much elbow grease is applied, however, certain creases or crinkles are tough to subdue. And some minor problems will not be wished away or simply ignored, but need to be handled with patience, with understanding and concern. They demand attention, acknowledgement, respect.

The fine lines on your face, are they not the greatest common fear?

They just mean you’ve lived. And experience has left its mark. They mean you’re not as young as you once were, but you are also not as impulsive and unwise, as shallow and uncertain. You are a better person for them — layered, more accomplished, more interesting. As those lines deepen, so does your character. And isn’t that what truly counts? Being yourself, who you are inside. Who you are to the world. As well as who you believe you are. Looking young is rather overrated; it’s temporary. Looking poised, comfortable with yourself; exuding an aura of confidence and satisfaction, of depth and maturity, that is infinitely exciting and profound!

If we can’t iron out every wrinkle, soothe each fright or insecurity, at least we can learn to be a bit braver instead of whittling our fingernails down to the quick. At least we can take time to notice the little things in life that amount to so much, in a positive or negative sense. At least we might be aware that such details are not trivial; they may add up to something major and significant. Something that shouldn’t be overlooked.

And whuther we are plagued by wee nagging nibbling gnawing rodent doubts . . . or given to arachnophobic qualms, we must not let our trifling negligible willies and woes get the best of us. Daunting our steps. Presenting insurmountable barriers. For then we could find ourselves overwhelmed, perhaps cowering in some corner without a thought in our heads except unintelligible utterances about nothings in particular. Yes, that wouldn’t do. So let’s not do it if you don’t mind. Let us not belittle the Little Things or belabor the obviousness of Big Moments. Enough is enough, I say! And I have said, “Enough!”

On with the poems . . .

the little things

Is it true? Could it be?

What magnificence I see!

How it glitters and gutters

As it sparkles and sputters!

In the think of a blink

And the space of a wink

Flits a fairy or sprite

By the dawn’s pearly light

As defined with quintessence

The gist of Life’s lessons

For true wisdom earned

Like a candle is burned

Till it’s down to a stub

A mere remnant, the nub

And the moral of each story

Is the agony and glory

Ere the tale should suspend

Never skip to the end

Where the little things roam

And there’s no place like home


How they laugh at despair

On the verge of a care

Every jester will court

A disaster in short

That’s so low to the ground

It has never been found

With autonomous greed

And avuncular heed

Thus the rapscallions fiddle

At the wails of the middle

While the baby dolls weep

As the cuckoo birds sleep

Nothing ventured is gained

In each truth unexplained

And the little things romp

Stunted feet going stomp

Bits of wits bumping heads

Giving cause for the dreads

How they scurry and scamp

While their tiny feet stamp


And all over the land

There is little demand

For the greatest of ease

Or the grandiose pleas

From the largesse of giants

Feeding swill to their clients

While the sea urchins play

As their ships sail away

And the gumchuckers hum

Till the scumsuckers come

Marching row after row

Putting on quite a show

Peeling up sticky globs

Jeering, “What messy slobs!”

As the world’s stomach turns

There’s a shortage of ferns

Even statues have wept

For the promise unkept

How the little things grin

At the trouble we’re in.

The Jeez

An age-old debate upon the spelling of a term

Has prompted exhalations, caused my very blood to squirm!

I must end it once for all to see, and leave no room to question

If my sanity is vanity, or I’m prone to indigestion . . .


The Jeez, if you please, is all powerful and knowing

It is cosmic in design, and a bit like lava flowing

While composed of idle chatter, a bit of this, a little that

It makes sense that should you geez, you’re bound to screech much like a cat


But be assured ’tis most reliant, by the light of a slivery moon

That it is coming, it is humming, and will it cackle like a loon

In the waft of wily wonderence, there can be no trace of doubt

For if I jeez, it is no sneeze — whether a whisper or a shout


It is merely an expression of what was needing to be said

I am not fooling, spitting, frothing . . . nor will my face transform beet-red

It is The Jeez and not the geez that shall keep ringing in your ear . . .

Like the echo of a silence, as the plainest truth is clear


And as its radiance releases to spread the word across the land

The globe must beam lit up with smiles, for all will finally understand

How every wheeze is not a geez, and every groan may not be so

But in The Jeez is found the meaning of a nearly perfect glow


In every heart there is a place for such emotion to be sheltered

From the advent of a storm, when our last hopes are dashed and weltered

Shall its honor shine eternal like the sun upon the seas

To ignite a path of rightness. Lead us not into the geez.


Along the deepest creepiest lane did stalk

A sinister minister in a darkish frock

And a wide-brimmed hat that with it went

As if undertaking a devious bent

On a frightish night like a wicked brume

An evil nature might skulk the gloom

When a fickle trickle was the only sound

Yet no water in sight for blocks around

A chill, a thrill went up his spine

A cloud, a shroud drifted saturnine

To cling in a murky sulken vein

About the preacher, who was insane


Marcus Morbidee slithered through the black

Contemplating his altruistic lack

With an eager meager glint of teeth

And a zealous jealous heart beneath

Every tread that echoed rang with ire

For within him burned a perditious pyre

Yet a crickle trickle did offend his ear

Underlying, crying, he was struck by fear

Like a hint of memory nagged the lagging flow

With a tortured trill did it seep too slow

But he almost thought he discerned a sigh

In the steady dribble that just wouldn’t die


The man’s pace did falter to call “Hello?”

And the stream would answer a bleak “Don’t go!”

Morbidee the sinner, no grinner, did glare

And demand to know who was lurking there

Forlorn was the figure that stepped to the gleam

And confronted the pastor as if a bad dream

An infant, flesh gray, eyes hollow inside

A soulless babe with nothing to hide

Stood rotten and scowling before the ghoul

Then joined by another and others that drool

He had drowned the lot, absorbed their lives

So they ate him now, fangs and claws like knives.

~ Published ~
November 30, 2011

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