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Poetic Reflections Column

hatitude

Finally, a discussion on one of my favoritest topics:  Hats!  There are all types, as many as there are varieties of birds.  But don't quote me on that because I haven't counted either.  What?  Speak up!  I hate when my mind mumbles.  Does yours ever do that?  Extremely irritating.  Some people have heart murmurs.  It's probably just as annoying.  Okay, I'm listening!  Sorry, you'll have to talk louder!  And enunciate!  I can't understand your gibberish!  You're right, it might help if I quit shouting.  This isn't about hats you say?  Well then, I must've misunderstood. 

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scrambled

I'm sure you must be wondering what I mean by the title up there.  That's what I'm trying to figure out.  I'll let you know once I do.  You see, I was beset by ideas for a variety of verse, as if a storm blew in and showered me — instead of droplets, with letters that collected into puddles of words on my mental parchment.  As I sit here drying off, tapping keys to convey and capture the essence of the deluge, I have been attempting to glean some thread of grand design that binds them all together.  A theme of sorts that I could slap up there and prattle about at succinct

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unstructured

i waited all month for this column to zap me with a bolt of inspiration as they're apt to do until i had nearly despaired with three days left in june

 

as luck or fate would have it the theme snuck up furtively and i was thinking about it before i even knew that it was the theme of my next poetry column

 

pretty sneaky if you ask me

 

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thirteen

So here I am, having been struck over the head by Inspiration (as well as encouraged by a fellow author and friend named Lynn Tolson), which suddenly compelled me to compile a volume of my verse entitled Poetic Reflections:  Keep The Heart Of A Child.  It's the thirteenth month and I find my brain waxing astutely — well, maybe it's more "ergutely" but I can't seem to find it in the dictionary; not that it's ever stopped me from using a word so all right then, ergutely it is — about everything and nothing, and anything too, but least of all something in particular

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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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bewary very

So what is there to be very wary of?  I'll tell you.  Come closer so I can whisper it:  "Everything."  That's right, you heard me.  Everything!  Not that I'm paranoid.  Or maybe I am.  Maybe you should be worried that I am.  And maybe it's contagious!  Maybe the mere suggestion can leap to your brain and burrow into your subconscious where you will be subliminally infected.  Maybe it will spread like germs to every surface, on every breath, until it becomes one big whopping flipped-out pandemic of fear.

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