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Poetic Reflections Column

m’friend

I'm writing this poem on the birthday of a friend.  She knows who she is so I don't have to pretend.  It's one of those things that you can't say enough:  "Thanks for being there; I'm sorry it's been rough."

I'm writing this poem for someone in particular.  If the words speak to you, then that's . . . specticular?  (I hope you'll forgive a few bad rhymes.  You have to admit, it's not the worst of crimes.)

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trust

There are lighter topics I could choose, yet I find myself able only to speak from the heart.  A heart that beats too loud, too strong, too fast at times.  Or thuds faintly, wounded and gasping.  A heart that is too often betrayed in this world, that bleeds too easily.

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bon-mottery

I have managed to avoid most addictions along my journey, yet I must confess here and now that I am hopelessly — helplessly — haplessly (take your pick) passionate about words.  There, I've said it.  Spilled my guts all over this page.  I feel less burdened by the dark dire secret I have carried for too long.

'Tis no laughing matter, but a rare and serious cravence that affects the odd bibliophilic scrivener once in a purple moon.

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preposterosities

The mood strikes to write in a peculiar manner.  To speak of that which cannot be described except by the bizarrest-meaning terms.  To stretch vernaculars like putty, craft the craftiest of hodgepodged whimmeries, then skip off merrily through the leavenings of Fall like a bansheed fairy!

Thus we have the following, the result of all this "linguistic linguini" — to quote Volume One of my lifestory — a poem about the sheer oddity of it all.  Whatever "it" might be.  So, without further t'ado . . .

 

 

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hallowing

Did I spell it wrong, as in "Halloween"?  Or "Hollowing", as to carve a pumpkin's snaggled grin?  Let me rub my chin and contemplate.  Nay, I think the word should be this way.

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the silent resonance of regret

Another month, another poem.  When all is said and done, as I look back on my achievements — and lacks thereof; the list of unfinished goals — this column is one thing I will not regret.  It reminds me to exercise my love of verse.  To spare some minutes for a cherished pursuit.  I have too long forsaken my songwriting passion.  Too easily ignored other beloved penchants, the dreams and druthers that shape who I am.  It is these glaring omissions that plague me most as Time courses too swiftly past.

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