Let’s be serious. (A very stern look.) Ha, fooled ya. Probably scared you a tick or a tock if you’ll admit it. You won’t? Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain?

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

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.

’Tis that time of year, my dear, when it must be mentioned unmentionable things. You know what I’m talking about . . . all the things that get swept under the rug the rest of the time . . .

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 . . .

Yes, you read correctly. This is about perspiration. But not just any perspiration. No, no. The stuff of inspiration. More to my point, the sweat of inspiration.

There is a lot of static in the world. The drone or buzz of contention in the air. A steady hum in your ears if you’re like me. You can hear it if you stop to listen.

If people could save all of the time in a bottle that they spend in retrospect . . . clinging to what was or what could have been instead of looking forward to life, moving on . . .

Some days I think I’m turning into Poe. (I really think so.) The air of doom, the gloom, the morosity and sombrerity. (I threw in a hat pun . . .

Some of my column intros actually make sense. And then there are those that go skipping off in their own misdirections through fields of shruggeries and flowered flumpheries, amid the bognacious trills . . .

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?

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

“It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light . . .

In a movie I just watched, one woman cut off the face of a younger woman who was like a daughter to her, then wore it like a mask to fool the guy both women wanted.

This time of year there is much talk of Seasons and Greetings and Winter and Weather. Especially if your T.V. only gets The Weather Channel. And you leave it on day and night.

We have all heard it said that “the little things” mean a lot, “the little things” are most important, and when we are in a thankful mood we should appreciate “the little things”.

When presented a box of bonbons, has it ever crossed your mind that the center might not be what you expect? Of course, it’s anybody’s guess what hides inside a mixed assortment of chocolates!

What if you are minding your own business and a curious stranger passes you by, carrying a sack that wafts a fragrance that strikes a chord — reminiscent of an intangible emotion . . .

A moonlit night is oft described as silvery, defined by a pale sickle or floating saucer illumining the blue-black sky. It can represent a comforting presence against dark uncertainties . . .

Let me state unequivocally that if you were hoping to read something perfect, sorry, not gonna happen. I write to my own beat, an irregular rhythm that doesn’t follow rules . . .

Have you ever dreamed while standing up? How about while standing down? And how do you know that you aren’t dreaming this very instant? You could just think you’re reading this.

That is the answer. So what is the question? What’s on my mind? I think not. There is generally some absurd notion or other ping-ponging in my head . . .

Have you ever had to walk around without a thought in your skull? How about an absent mind? It occurs to me. I can be a very thoughtless person.

Reality check: Life is not a fairytale in case you weren’t aware, and it isn’t always fair. Sometimes it ends badly. Sometimes it begins badly. Sometimes the middle goes from bad to worse.

Shivering at my desk from cold that cannot be warmed by four sweaters, one of which is pretty thick, I must compose a series of words that say a great deal . . .

Being an optimist (except when my paranoid paradoxic pessimistic side kicks in), I am starting this year determined to accomplish great things. That is generally how I start any year . . .

What, it’s December already? Wasn’t it just Halloween? Oh yes, every day is Halloween in my head. I think I do recall something about Thanksgiving whizzing by, now that I mention it.

I meant to write about “thanks”. And the opposite. How ungrateful we humans have been to Mother Earth. How uncivilized civilizations have been toward other civilizations. How backwards . . .

Oh yes, I am treading there. Creeping down the woebegone highways and byways of gothic-style horror this Halloween. What could be more appropriate, methinks, than to honor that dark . . .

Fear is a dreadful topic. Even for an author who occasionally dips her pen in the inky genre pool of Horror and Suspense. And yet it seems almost kismet that I should delve headfirst . . .

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.

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.

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 . . .

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 . . .

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

Well, what about it? you might ask. I'm getting to that; hang onto your berets! Oh yes, I’m the poet. Hang onto your chins then . . . Philosophically, "Existentialism" relates to free will.

Like the question about a tree falling in the forest, I wanted to see if I failed to post this monthly column whether it would be missed.

'Tis another month and I must keep the promise to myself of writing a new poem. Why did I get myself into this? I have absolutely no idea what to express.

No matter what anyone may say, it is our belief that Poetry is not dead. We are a family of poets, and we contend that the world will always need more verse . . .