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Poetic Reflections Column

Holey cow!

What if, instead of holy, cows were holey?  If the black spots on the average dairy breed were empty spaces rather than splotches?  Where might the rest of the cow be?  Would these pieces just pop out like donut holes and roll away?  Or would they sprout into new cows once they hit the ground?  Perhaps they would remain that size, a herd of Mini-Holsteins grazing at the hooves of the normal ones.  Maybe they'd scuttle off in search of greener pastures to avoid being trampled and squashed by accident to cow pies, then sizzled and slapped between the halves of buns.  Or to

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horror haiku too

Creating Horror Haiku was so much fun, I decided to take a second sojourn into the art of the concise.  For the sake of brevity, I shall keep my intro short and to the point like last time, only this time it will actually not be long!  To prove that I truly can be brief, even in prose, I shall simply state:  Let the poetry begin!

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horror haiku

There is an art to brevity.  For once I shall strive to be brief, though my poems are generally anything but that.  As are these perflaffly, pregumptuous, extracapitulated, conundrum-hummous intros.  Bet I made you slow down there and ponder either the pronunciation, meaning, my sanity, or all of the above.  But I think I've proved my point.  And if anyone's left reading this . . .

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night howls

We've all heard them.  Banshee yodels in the dark.  Sometimes rattling the windows.  Other times a distant shriek.  Maybe an unheard scream building up inside:  a peal of effusive all-out joy; a slowly awakening dirge of unleashed sadness turned to madness from the depths of your being.  The kind that will tickle your stomach until you have to let it out.  Be it laughter or anguish, it's those night howls that seem to echo on and on.

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never a dull moment

Life is full of contrasts and paradoxes, things that add up and things that don't.  Things that fall into place, and things that contradict themselves.  Take the brightness of dull, for example.  Pure absurdity.  You're probably thinking with an accusative scowl and these big glaring eyeballs, What do you mean?  That isn't a thing.  It isn't an expression.  You made it up!  Well, sure I did.  That's what I do.  I'm a maker-upper.  Some might call it being creative.  Or hocus-pocus.  Call it what you will.  It has nothing to do with the matter at hand.  What I was

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stark raving mad

Is there a level at which one can be considered "stark raving mad"?  Some mark on a graph or meter that measures the drop-off point of sanity?  Or does it vary according to the individual?  I'm just curious how near I am.  On the brink or not even close?  Halfway there?  What signifies that specific division between genius and delusion?  If one's writing sounds insane, is this enough to qualify?  Well, I have always been fond of strait-jackets, and there is something about a good loony bin that I can't resist or refuse.  But I must confess that my tales are simply not ade

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