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.
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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