Lori R. Lopez's Blog: Poetic Reflections, page 5

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...

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...

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 . ...

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...