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poetic reflections

Poetic Reflections

Mothers

I was planning to call this “Blank”.  I had even typed it up at the top in preparation, but at the last minute I decided to change the theme, so I guess you readers have dodged a bullet.  One that creates much noise and smoke while signifying nothing.  Just a typical exercise in poetic reflecting, or columnity, or something to that effect.  You know what I mean.  Hopefully.  If not, don’t worry.  You are not alone.  There are many out there who have no idea what I mean most of the time; possibly all of the time.  Besides the ones who have never heard of me, let alone met

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Horror Limericks

Time, time, time.  I think it’s time.  Yes, that’s what it is.  The next subject for a poetic reflection.  No, no, no.  Scratch that.  Well, it is high time for a new column.  I mean, here it is the sixth year of writing them (having passed the fifth anniversary ten months ago).  It is nearly the seventh year, in fact, and I’m just getting around to it?  I would say this is long overdue.  The clock has been sprung, and the pendulum has flown off the handle with the cuckoo bird.  It’s a lot like that time-changing nonsense where we are instructed to set our clocks forward

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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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