Killing Me Softly

Most every year I have essays, poems, and articles that are accepted for publication (and some that are purchased) that never show up in their respective pages.  For years, writers have called these dead-end pieces "killed" . . . as in "the editor killed the story" or "the publisher gave me a kill-fee".  Some writers even work these "kill fees" into their contracts, but these are the successful writers, and not dead-beats like me.

I have, however, amassed a rather hefty supply of killed pieces, and otherwise dead work, that I might as well "publish" now on this blog.  These are pieces that were slated for publication, but never made it into print.  Some, I believe, are quite good.  (But then, I have low standards and so does my wife . . . as evidenced by the fact that she married me.)

Below is a portion of a rather lengthy poem that was slated for publication over a year ago, but was then cut when the publisher wrote informing me that the magazine was no longer publishing verse.  The poem was a longer series of verses on punctuation marks (the period, the semi-colon, the comma, etc.).

This one is about parentheses.  I like it a lot . . . and apparently, so did the editor who was once willing to pay me for it. I died a bit when the publisher told me they weren't going to use it.

Parentheses

((Considerations aside)
Interior monologue
Is often captured
In nets
And even
The unspoken
Ponderings
One remembers
Or forgets.
And between
These bookends
One discovers
A refugee
Lost in the far country
Of a familiar home.

(Parenthetically)