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poetic reflections

Poetic Reflections

paranormities

Although I tend to be old-fashioned and behind the times in many ways, whether by choice or budget or for some other reason probably a bit more peculiar, I do on occasion manage to be on time.  It is purely by accident most of the time.  It’s not as if I have some big or little clock I consult like a crystal ball to guide me.  It just sort of happens, as it would happen, and of course I have to make the best of the situation.  What choice do I have?  So here I am on the four hundred and fiftieth birthday of William Shakespeare (wow, this guy’s old) writing an introduction

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lake monsters

Fishing about in my brainpool for a suitable title and theme of my next poetry column, I hooked a big one.  You know the beast, one of those grandiose whoppers that gives birth to legends.  Despite the magnitude of its dimensions, it is a little odd as a subject for a group of poems, yet that has never stopped me before.  In fact, it only seems to encourage me.  And now that I think of it, perhaps it is high time for a column that is rather outlandishly off the track and around the bend.  I do love a good venture into the Land Of Odd.  Also known as Tinker Town, Bananaspl

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horror sisters

'Tis that time of year, my dear, when it must be mentioned unmentionable things.  You know what I'm talking about . . .

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havoc

In life there are periods of calm punctuated by phases of unrest when things become hectic.  And then there are times when You-Know-Where breaks loose and we are thrust into a state of absolute havoc.  But that isn't what I wish to discuss.  It's simply an observation.  We all have those sudden cliffhangers when the tension is cranked beyond our limit.  When we're dangling by a scrawny filament or skating on a brittle sheet of ice.  We may even feel disoriented, like our life is not our life.  Picture if you will a cuckoo bird landing on a crab-apple tree, surrounded by g

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inspiration’s perspiration

Yes, you read correctly.  This is about perspiration.  But not just any perspiration.  No, no.  The stuff of inspiration.  More to my point, the sweat of inspiration.  I'm not talking about sweaty armpits.  I refer instead to the beaded brow of an artist slaving feverishly to convey the resplendent vision of an illuminated mind struck by . . . you guessed it . . . inspiration.

I am going to be uncharacteristically redundant, so please bear with me.

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bombilation

There is a lot of static in the world.  The drone or buzz of contention in the air.  A steady hum in your ears if you're like me.  You can hear it if you stop to listen.  It's there, whether soft or loud, in the electric wires; in the throb of pulses, the steady march of Time.  In the heat of a moment when everything stands still and some messed-up misguided member of society feels alienated or miserable enough to contemplate something unthinkable, drastic, catastrophic . . . in a vain unconscionable effort to balance chaos.

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Lori R. Lopez

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