Recognition

Hooray for Fiorella the Magnificent! Last night, she fulfilled her self-assigned assignment and moved all the rest of the Christmas decorations--every one of them bagged and secured--not only only to the dining room table, but to the kitchen island and then off to the garage. And Fio didn't have to go out and buy special containers  for breakables because, penny-pincher that she is, she wrapped everything in several layers of the plastic bags that had been accumulating in the pantry closet.
     Today, she'll be taking down her beloved Japanese Christmas tree for the last time, then haul it, branch by branch, to the side of the road for pickup by anyone who wants to try to put it together or, if its time has come, to be hauled away by the trash service. (Sad face emoji.)
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 Have you read any of the long poems that Nicholas Kastinovich posts on Face Book? He disarmingly calls him self "just a simple man," then goes into blusterous, repetitive, badly-rhyming rants against the current administration. Now, your Fio isn't fond of Trump and his cohorts either and has written some quite withering poems about them, but she always strove for not only bull's-eye context, but good form. Kastinovich's poems do neither, yet "K," as he calls himself, has about three-hundred followers on FB alone.
     Why hasn't Fiorella's poetry attracted that many fans? This year's Christmas sonnet, one of the best she's ever written, should have at least catapulted her onto the NY Times.
      But non-recognition is a glass wall that Fio's run up against all her whole life. She's a talented artist, but while paintings of wide-eyed cartoon children were grossing hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars, she could only pick up small-pay commissions. Fio also has a talent for music and has written several short performance pieces, but--again--no market. And, while she's had a couple of books published, she did not know how to ballyhoo them into the spotlight.
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Recognition....maybe Fiorella will get it after she dies, but more likely, her poetry, music, and writing will be swept into the dust bin of history, only to be hijacked by someone down the line who will claim the credit and know how to publicize himself.