I’ve wasted seven bags of salt;
a handful flung for each small spill,
supposedly keeping the devil at bay.
My granny said I should!

I’ve lost the chance to meet my fortune,
all because of old wive’s tales:
I’ll never venture past the garden gate
if the thirteenth falls on Friday in the month.

I’ve followed folklore’s fussy warning
and spent several silly hours looking daft;
dodging the cracks in the pavements
and hammering horseshoes to my lintel.

Yes, I know that it is true; superstitions
have made me act foolish, but the teachings
of old must surely have merit and what
dangers may lurk if I dare to ignore…

©Cindy Taylor 2008


4 Comments Add yours

  1. opoetoo says:

    I wouldn’t take any chances. 🙂

  2. theonlycin says:

    I draw the line at carrying a rabbit’s foot though 🙂

  3. nrhatch says:

    Interesting poem ~ awareness of the likely wasted effort involved in honoring superstitions . . . but unwilling to let go “just in case.”

    Sounds like South African superstitions and supersitions here in the US are quite similar.

    Thirteen is my lucky number . . . and I adore Friday the 13th whenever it makes an appearance.

    1. theonlycin says:

      Our superstitions are deeply ingrained, we continue to hedge our bets.

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