All Nonsense, Fingers Crossed

Day 6: "write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom,” by which we mean something objectively odd that someone told you once, and that has stuck with you ever since."

I've chosen to write about the superstitions I grew up with - I remember my mum having one for almost every occasion, far too many to list in a single poem, but here's a flavour.   


My mother was a repository of superstition, 
Adept at avoiding bad luck, and attracting the good. 
We scoffed at the silliness, conformed 'just in case', 
Grew in her wake with our luck intact,
Throwing spilled salt over left shoulders,
Retrieving her glove if it fell from her grasp, 
Playing a weird hopscotch over cracks in the pavement,
Willing tiny spiders to cross our palms, 
Making wishes on Sunday wishbones, birthday candles. 
She would never pass on the stairs, walk under a ladder, 
Let a second person pour tea from the pot,
Wear green, allow an opened umbrella through the door,
Give the gift of a purse without a penny inside.
Most of these customs disappeared with her passing, 
But live on when my daughter salutes single magpies, 
When I touch wood, cross my fingers, 
Bless you when you sneeze. 

© Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved


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