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treedom

This is my twelfth and final poetry column.  I shall miss these monthly maunderings.  But will my voice be missed?  It seems I have developed such a small and furtive following in one year that if I spun about suddenly, I might think I was alone.  It's very sad.  Tragic, nearly . . .  Fooled ya!  This is not the last Poetic Reflections, no matter how unread I may be.  (What a relief!  I'm glad to hear it.  I almost tricked myself.)

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Ravens And Crows: Two

What is creepier than Mister Sandman, stealing toward your bed or cradle, dragging the dusty velvet mantle of Sleep?  What is scarier than a dense hair spider squatting with menace upon the floor?  What, oh what, could be ever so daunting as the middle of a stormy night when the next lightning flare could reveal a dark shape where it doesn’t belong?  What else but the wrath of an inner tempest, lashing out at all who dares to trample the contours of my sanctumonious impliety.

 

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Ravens And Crows: One

Imagine, if you will, the sloooooow aggravating creak of a chamber door that swings inward upon cobwebbed hinges. Musty seldom-breathed air, thick with sediment inside a claustrophobic dungeon attic, suffocates your lungs. While the throbbing irregular rhythm of a heart being squeezed by the tense grip of dread shudders in your chest.
 

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Lori R. Lopez

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