Poetic Reflections: Blood On The Moon

By Lori R. Lopez

Bursting at the seams with poems of a very broad interest and range, BLOOD ON THE MOON is rich in short gems of horror and sparkling baubles of wicked elbow-tickling whimsy, not to mention some cutting glimpses of Reality. Many of the poems tell stories. A number of them feature vivid characters invented by the author-poet-artist . . . an accomplished storyteller and songstress as well as a bard to rival the wordplay, wit, and depth of Shakespeare.

Each chapter bears a theme based on one of Lori’s “Poetic Reflections” columns, which introduce the unusual verse with quirky prose.

The eerier pieces of poetry were published in Lori’s 2017 collection DARKVERSE: THE SHADOW HOURS, an Elgin Award Nominee and Poetry Finalist in the 2018 Kindle Book Awards.

Look for the Illustrated Print Edition featuring uncommon artwork by the author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lori R. Lopez
• Release date: Jan 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463795743

Lori R. Lopez

Lori R. Lopez wears many hats as an Author and Speculative Poet of Horror, Fantasy, Suspense, Humor and more. She illustrates her books and has written songs, while being an Activist for animals and children. Growing up, Lori roamed graveyards and conducted funerals for dead birds, squirrels, insects and spiders. Her offbeat books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, Darkverse: The Shadow Hours, Odds & Ends, and The Fairy Fly. In 2023 Lori won Third Place in the Long Category for the SFPA Poetry Contest for "Wake Unto Death". Her Poetry Collection Darkverse was nominated for an Elgin Award and a Finalist in the Kindle Book Awards. Her poems "Crop Circles" and "Nocturnal Embers" were nominated for the Rhysling Award in 2020, "Social Graces" and "The Whistle Stop" in 2021, "Biting Sarcasm" in 2022, "The Whippoorwill" and "If Houses Could Talk" in 2023. Poems "The Maw" and "creatures of the macabre" received Editor's Choice Awards among other honors. Stories and verse have appeared in The Sirens Call, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, Spectral Realms, JOURN-E, Weirdbook, Bewildering Stories, Dreams & Nightmares, Impspired, Altered Reality, Aphelion, and anthologies such as California Screamin' (the Foreword Poem), HWA Poetry Showcases II, III, V, VI, and IX, Journals Of Horror, Grey Matter Monsters, Dead Harvest, Fearful Fathoms I, Terror Train I and II, Trickster's Treats #3, Speculations III (Weird Poets Society), and In Darkness We Play. A member of the Horror Writers Association, Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association, and Lewis Carroll Society Of North America. Visit the Fairy Fly Entertainment Website Lori shares with her two talented sons, and their YouTube Channel @FairyFly. They have a Folk Band called The Fairyflies.

Book preview

poetic reflections

blood on the moon

by Lori R. Lopez

Fairy Fly Entertainment

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any

media without written permission from the author, except

brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles.

This is a work of fiction. Any and all references to real persons, events, and places are used fictitiously. Other characters, names, places, events and details are fabrications of the author’s imagination; any such resemblance to actual places, events or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Lori R. Lopez

Artwork by Lori R. Lopez

Cover Design by Fairy Fly Entertainment

Author Photos by Fairy Fly Entertainment

E-Book Edition (EPUB)

Table Of Contents

poetic reflections

Table Of Contents

foredrawn conclusions

1. imperfect

imperfect

the sight for sore eyes

whimsical

out of sorts

A Good Thing

Squishy Parts

observations on a brick wall

Perfection

Deliverance From Evil

A Dark Impulse

the bridge from beyond

the bridge to nowhere

The Hill

The Day That Was The Night

Timeless Encounter

The Dark

ONE OF A KIND

Rose Jungle

2. blue moon

blue moon

a reckoning

The Shudders

quantum

blood on the moon

Nightlife

Moonness

An Ode To Odd

Blue Moon Rising

Lunar

Oddness

Moon Song

More Trick Than Treat

The Gondolier

Hell’s Corner

The Corn God

Drive-Thru

Politics

Gray

Moonie

Moonsight

Route Thirteen

The Ballad Of Dizzy Baxter

fairytales and fables

THE MOON IS HALF FULL

once upon a monster moon

The Woman In The Moon

3. serendipitous

serendipitous

the silence of the birds

poetic justice

Without A Map

Sonshine

A Chivalrous Age

Three-Point-Oh

Legend

Consequently

Cross-Stitches

Someone

Warnings

Bio-Hazard

Moderation

Mistic Resonance

4. chocolate-covered eyes

Callous Alice

Down A Dark Road To Death

chocolate-covered eyes

chocolate-covered eyes Part Two: The Strange Mister Strange

chocolate-covered eyes Part Three: Inside The Box

Dotting Eyes

House Of Chocolate

odds and ends (the poem)

Lonely Eyes

THEM

Insight

sidelong

An Open Mind

The Beholder

Bag Of Meat

Chocolate

The Box Of Chocolates

The Eyes Have It

5. the little things

the little things

The Jeez

trickle

Apogee

A Simple Thing

Out There

The Flea Circus

Legion Of Littles

Humbugs

Lost Marbles

OPINIONS

Cryptozoan

Unburying The Dead

The Bed Bugs

Unscheduled Stops, Part I

Unscheduled Stops, Part II

Fishiness

something in the light

A few ant lines

The Nits

6. being off

Troll Doll

graveyard of ghouls

a zombie in the closet

The Ballad Of Grim Garrett

Being Off

Barrel Of Fun

backseat driver

This Thing I Fear

The Sadness

A Monstrous Situation

Offen Times

Headless

Bouncing Off Walls

Discombobulation

The Hopeless Romantic

faces on a train

Clubfoot

Batless Belfries

The Runover

A Hard Rain

Shrunken Heads

Too late

Brain Boil

7. envious

envious

ravens and crows

the green-eyed monster

Occupant

Occupant Part Two

Dreamhouse

burying the hatchet

The Glass Looking Back

day of the dead

Amaranth

Good Will

maybe it’s me

Forty-Nine

harpies and shrews

Black Widow

Coast Of Gold

No Fairytale Ending

The Gubbagule

The Experiment

Breakfast

dormant thoughts of an idle manner

8. horror she wrote

horror she wrote

inconceivable

belated valentine

stone cold

A Storyteller’s Proverb by Lori R. Lopez

A Sympathy Note

Coastal

California Dreams

Meeting A Horror Author

the writer’s demise

Poetic Denial

We Write

Author Selfie

A Clown Lament

Clan Destiny

Night Terrors

That Step

The Late Tour

The Grimalkin

Unnamed

The Horror

Leery Lane Excerpts

Sounds

the calm after the storm

Lorna Moon

9. stark raving mad

stark raving mad

madmen and monsters

temper tantrum

the craze

Cold Feet

Unhand Me!

fearing the worst

The Problem

Gibberish

The Last Nerve

Keeping It Inside

Possible Dust Clouds

The Agony, The Anguish

Ode To Peace

Claptrap

Shiftings

Headslugs

The Verse Unwritten

Gallery

The Mud Slid

America-Dot-Com

10. never a dull moment

never a dull moment

dubious certainties

the wackadoo

the brightness of dull

Origami Snails

DARKVERSE

Persons Unknown

The Bizarrity

I Met A Gaunt Man

The Thing About Owls

Colliding

Driftbucket

Oddzilla’s Ode

Monkeyshines

The Wumpalump

Dadgummit!

Somewhere

In Memory Of The Moon

Senseless

Word Gumbo

Everything Is Nothing

This Verse Was Supposed To Rhyme

The Twang

How Odd About Frankly

Mumbletypeg

The Silly Bus

How Odd

Contrariwise

Oddzilla

The Pirate Song

11. night howls

night howls

old socks

Comatose Joe

Wraith

With The Moon’s Embrace

they stalk the night

Dreamcatcher

Fear Itself

The Mumbles

The Midnight Chorus

outspoken

Nightbeast

Banshee

The Boggart

Deadman Tales

The Darkest Hours

UNHALLOWED

Frightfest

The Negative Side

Nocturnity

12. horror haiku

Horror Haiku

tree verse

digging up my beloved

More Horror Haiku

Through The Woods

Past Due

Split Seconds

Unhealed Wounds

Choosing Sides

Eyeteeth

peace and quiet

Old Moments

The Red Bus

Knowing Stares

Death’s Cream

Terror’s Hew

Lost

Such Things Befall

A Lost Cause

13. horror haiku too

Horror Haiku Too

homicidal

the cellar

More Horror Haiku Too

Black Cat

Memory Lane

Rapt Appraisal

Monster Cafe

Midnight Assassins

Dead and unburied

The Human Beast

The Taking

The Undertaking

Torchlight

Sundown’s Curse

Retirement

Halloween Haiku

Nobody There

The Devil Calls

when all is said or done

Sample Illustration

About the author and artist

More works by Lori R. Lopez

This dark, silly, and serious sequel to Keep The Heart Of A Child and The Queen Of Hats is the third volume in Lori R. Lopez’s Poetic Reflections book series.

Bursting at the seams with poems of a very broad interest and range, Blood On The Moon is rich in short gems of horror and sparkling baubles of wicked elbow-tickling whimsy, not to mention some cutting glimpses of Reality. Many of the poems tell stories. A number of them feature vivid characters invented by the author-poet-artist . . . an accomplished storyteller and songstress as well as a bard to rival the wordplay, wit, and depth of Shakespeare.

Each chapter bears a theme based on one of Lori’s Poetic Reflections columns, which introduce the unusual verse with quirky prose.

The eerier pieces of poetry were published in Lori’s 2017 collection Darkverse: The Shadow Hours, an Elgin Award Nominee and Poetry Finalist in the 2018 Kindle Book Awards.

Praise for Blood On The Moon:

The latest from Lori R Lopez wearing the most sumptuous of her multiple hats — writer. If you are new to her art, I envy the trip you are about to take. A wordsmith in every sense LRL never shies away from mixing genres, myths and modern premises into one glorious stew. She will entice you into her story, make you laugh and relax just enough to forget about that skeletal hand hovering just inches above your shoulder . . . ~ Jaye Tomas, Chimera Poetry; author of NOCTURNES and CARNEVALE

Lori R. Lopez is a must-encounter true-quality individual to bear the tag of Poet indeed! Lopez has that rare ability to take the basically over-used tropes & themes and expand them into a fresh and original subject matter, yet still nicely keep her own voice! Truly Lori is one wordsmith that Clark Ashton Smith would feel fit to what he meant by stating the best poetry in such fields as dark fantasy are not escaping reality, but merely an extension of it into one’s awareness — CAS’ label Imaginative Poetry. However, do not limit Lori’s material to merely the currently labelled weird . . . Lopez’s poetry stands tall in the literary mainstay as much as a Charles Baudelaire! ~ Frederick J. Mayer, multi-award-winning Poet/Poetry Editor

Dedication

Ever be

that which you aspire toward

in great gambolling leaps and unbounds,

with the wind at your heart’s canvas

as you paint with waves of stormy

furlous frothent imaginings

untold till now

in your wildest dreams.

For Maria,

who loves the Moon like me.

And

Aline S. Iniestra-Reider —

also known as

"Chiquita Bananas" .

A very special thanks to

my friend

Jaime Johnesee,

author of the BOB THE ZOMBIE series,

for

years of believing in my verse and prose,

reading my Poetic Reflections columns,

calling me The Lady Of Lyricism,

comparing my writing to

"a painting by the Masters"

and my recitings of it to

"the great ones"

such as Vincent Price

for cadence, lilt, and emphasis

on just the right words

at just the right time,

along with other effusive

yet heartfelt praise . . .

Please know that

I appreciate and believe in you!

foredrawn conclusions

In this third volume of Poetic Reflections, you can expect to read offbeat ruminations on many topics, like the verse itself. It is a collection of verse. You just have to find the poems between the meandering introductions and the middling maunders.

You might also anticipate a few so-called Blonde Moments, because I was born a Blonde and enjoy a good joke about how goofy they can be. My hair later grew Golden-Blonde, like Fourteen Carat. You may suppose I had fewer Blonde Moments due to the sun not cooking my brain quite as much or something to that effect. Is this a theory or did I make it up? I can’t recall. Nowadays my hair has darkened further, yet curiously I feel I am having more Blonde Moments than I used to, which is a little paradoxic. I think. Or is it ironic?

You should know that I can be a touch idioddic, both an idiot and odd. That’s me. Having little oddysseys here and there. If you ever meet me in person, be warned. There are bound to be eccentricities and idiosyncracies and just plain odd behavior. Unless I am too shy to be comical and merely appear addled. I tend to be a lot of things at once . . . usually all of the above and then some.

In case you wish to quote me from this book, please disregard the drivel and other contents. I’ll give you something better. Let’s see. Hmmm. Oh, here’s one: I always like to leave a store wearing a nicer hat than I came in with. Wait, that makes me sound like a Klepto. Not that I am insulting Kleptomaniacs. Take no offense. I am simply stating a fact. I know there’s a difference between joking about something you are (like in my case crazy, weird, bananas) and a group of people to which you do not belong.

I love Horror, and I use that as a kind of general statement to explain everything. Along with being born a Blonde. No offense to the folks who are still blonde. I used to be, and I think it is a humorous stereotype, not a demeaning one. We know better, right? And that’s what counts.

~ the Poester (it’s a word . . . now!)

1. imperfect

(First published online on July 31, 2011)

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, it simply flows and pulses and is. That doesn’t excuse accidental mistakes of spelling, punctuation or grammar. But my perception of those things may differ from yours too and besides that, nothing is perfect. Ever. So the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can stop expecting it and being disappointed by life and the people in yours. Whether friends, relatives, significant others, neighbors (oh yeah, neighbors are prone to not being perfect). Pets, celebrities, heroes, politicians (politicians will say what you want to hear, and paint a rosy picture of a perfect world, so of course they will let you down — but those who achieve something notable are the ones to remember).

Personally, I demand imperfection! It saves me a lot of time and trouble. Trying to be perfect in an imperfect world is like swimming against a tsunami. You really shouldn’t try that!

Give in to the slightly off. See the beauty in the asymmetric and quirky elements around us. If everything looked the same and unextraordinary, think how dull the world would be. There must be madness, must be corruption, must be treason, must be canyons, must be volcanoes, must be bad weather, and must be monsters.

No matter how perfect a person may seem, there will always be tiny (or glaring) defects and wrinkles that bring to light the fact he or she is merely human. Not that I’m saying we shouldn’t strive to be as close to perfect as possible, to improve ourselves and seek to do better when we fail or falter. I’m just saying that we shouldn’t sweat small stuff or refuse to inflexibly forgive. Sometimes to forgive is to love and we shouldn’t blame others for our own flaws or lack of understanding, for the inability to listen or give compassion. We shouldn’t consider mistakes unforgivable without considering first the heart and mind, along with the circumstances and prevailing winds that drove this individual to commit an error of whatever proportions. Within reason, we should do our best to not give up on someone we love.

That which defines us is rarely our total sum, but rather some of our most outstanding features. And then there’s our own perception of ourselves, the way we imagine we are. This can deviate dramatically from the way others view us. It can tilt and shift and grow as we cut ourselves slack, or realize that what we think is bad might seem pretty darn good or not half so bad to somebody else. Like those minor imperfections we blow out of proportion that don’t matter to anyone but us, and perhaps a gaggle of people whose opinions don’t really count.

Yet we may form habits that are not so good and need to be given up, sacrificed or abandoned because it isn’t who we are anymore . . . isn’t healthy or wise, rational or proper. Maybe it hurts those we care about deepest and least wish to harm. The ones who are close enough to be the most injured, the most affected by reckless or compulsive acts.

It can be difficult to improve. Sometimes we just need somebody to believe in us to make us try harder. Somebody to serve as a moral compass, a Jiminy Cricket, an angel on our shoulder. Whether reflected in the glaring light of scorn or gazing from the lenses of our introspective looking-glasses, we may excuse and justify lapses in judgement as easily as to criticize ourselves and others. Don’t give in to the Dark Side. Be yourself, as long as you can live with who you are.

Sure, we expect products we buy to meet certain standards. We expect people to behave within limits. We impose restrictions and regulations in an effort to achieve a sense of justice and peace and stability in an unjust and chaotic and unstable world. Some causes are worth fighting for and we have to try. We have to keep trying. We can never give up the battle. As we can never stop aiming to do better, be better, live better, and find happiness.

We can be happy in an imperfect world. Not every second. Not every day all day. But for moments, and sometimes immense measures. We can find joy. And peace. And hope. Whether it’s inside ourselves or shared with others. Whether it’s fair or unbalanced or complicatedly uncommon. We need to accept and adjust to an offbeat tempo, to the highs and lows and topsy-turvies, while remaining true to our hearts. Not perfect. Not plastic. Not without problems and suffering and knots and blunders. Just human. And trying our best to stay that way.

imperfect

A stray inkle-think assembled

Out of the froth of one surly eve

And flutter-flappent through the street

Would land upon a peeve

A chicken crowed she had laid an egg

How the coop did whoop and celebrate

On this day was born a marvelous thing

For the shell would glitter and vibrate

What could be inside? Were the hens aflutter!

They clucked and cackled and surmised

Nothing too outlandish for their guesses

But in the end, all would be surprised . . .

What should hatch and wiggle from the egg

Was the queerest creepiest abnormalty

So imperfect that they thought it evil

And named the creature Frickassee

The poor demon spawn had many peepers

A spider smirk and bumpy skin

It growled and puled and flapped bald wingtips

On ostrich legs most tall and thin

Featherless, its mottled flesh

Would crawl as if a mass of bugs

Uncute it was, and twice as ugly

The chickadee had lips like slugs

Well, nothing strange can be accepted

Without some fuss and a price to pay

Being treated as an abomination

The inferior critter stomped away

To travel endless trails of searching

For other oddness and different strokes

While the hen who laid the unnatural egg

Would become the butt of chicken jokes

At last in a slanting and distant village

Of moose-horned goats and alpen sheep

Sad Frickassee must meet his doom

From a pitchfork posse without a bleep

The mob cooked him up and ate him gladly

And Frickassee did they call their meal

Wanting more, they would seek the poultry-geist

But complete imperfections are never real.

the sight for sore eyes

There are sights to behold around the world

Both wonders and atrocities

The vast, amazing, and incomparable

The horrors of wars and poverties

In none of my morbid predilections

Have I ever doubted what I could view

Until one day my eyes opened wider

And everything suddenly seemed brand new

I gazed around in startled glory

Enthralled by a vibrance never seen

Shades ne’er so black in stunning contrast

To the brilliant tones of this newfound sheen

How I danced and skipped, sang a merry tune

Feeling young again and so alive

It was like the world had been recreated

And I from a dark sleep must revive

Yet it seemed too good, too beautiful

That I had to ask, Could this truly be?

I know nothing’s perfect, I expect the worst

For my luck is fraught by misery

Would the vision last or fade to gray?

Could a dream survive in my waking hours?

Now my hopes and heart had been uplifted

So I made a wish to the higher powers

That I could believe in this miracle setting

And not wake to find it all in vain

A shattered myth, a scattered memory

Of something treasured just cheap and plain

When the landscape wavered as if to dissolve

I expected a barren wasteland behind

A flimsy veil masking harsh terrain

And gone what had taken a lifetime to find

Then I turned around and there it was

Solid and shimmering, not a mere dream

Yet fallible too, a bit dimmer at times

But a better life waited for all it could seem

Dare I trust in this splendor to resist my fears?

It takes time and courage, some compromise

To embrace on faith an uncharted journey

Through the spirit and soul of a sight for sore eyes.

whimsical

What have you when there isn’t anything left —

A blackholish void in which all is consumed?

I bet it would swallow itself in the end

And nothing would have nothing whatsoever to do!

In the absence of everything I’d be rather bored

So I hope it won’t happen anytime soon

I prefer to ramble about something or other

And may wax a bit whimsical, a daffy loon

It’s my habit to blab it what pops in my head

Be it incomprehensible spillious gab

Out it must come or my brain would quite rupture

Flinging out thoughts like a nuclear confab

So listen to me or avoid me like plague

If there isn’t a choice then there’s no hope for you

I’ll warn you to cover your ears and escape

Lest my whimsical nature should infectuate you

Yes, run while there’s time unless it’s too late

At which point you will soon be a babbling fool

I will spread through your veins until you’re addicted

The last stage is madness and there may be some drool

How I pity your plight should you be so unlucky

It’s a tragic loss to wind up like me

Unable to speak without sounding silly

There’s no cure, no hope for the whim malady.

out of sorts

Once upon a monster

I stubbed my toe in fear

And there before my very eyes

Did everything glow sheer

By alabaster moonshine

And scintillatious fog

The dead did rise with creakish clamor

Fit to tie a hog

I’d never have imagined

Nor even been as daunted

If not for clammy palms of corpses

Slapping me so haunted

When from a tombish corner

Did separate a Goth

The type of which could steal you blind

A frigid behemoth

His graven visage furrowed

A million wrinkles churning

While mist arose like steam and smoke

And set my soul to burning

I’ll never be the same

Nor ever less afrighted

As if dubbed Scaredy Skittish Daredy

And by a banshee nighted

It left me out of sorts

And certainly disgruntled

For from the cloak of pithy murk

Would slither Fear confrontled

A dank perditious scamper

Of many dainty feet

The tiptoed trepid tootsies tapped

A bold staccato beat

As petrified I stood

Within my gloom and doomish thrall

Exacerbated by

An angry warbler’s piercing call

Hair prickled on my nape

A tingle jangled up my spine

And ever would I hope

To grab a stick and etch a line

Until the ground arose

A cloud of whorling dust and sand

Ungainly in its depth

Enveloping my second hand

But here my tale concludes

As I was drawn into the gullet

Of my greatest terror, flying dirt

And from there I’ll have to mull it.

Hello there once again. ’Tis I, also known as me. And sometimes Y. Though I am not sure where that came from. Hmm, Outer Space perhaps? Did it just float downward and radioactively creep or seep through my skull to infiltrate my Gray and Pink Matter (which might also be White, or Yellow, or Black, or Blue — depending on my mood, kind of like those Mood Rings) . . . . . .?

I wonder what the Y stands for? Some kind of name, I imagine, like Yikkle or Yaak. Yuksmy, Yukon, Yaardvark. Yupper, Yippie, Yumble or Yoopsnik.

Well anyway . . . back to the point. Something I tend to miss entirely, much like throwing darts or firing arrows blindfolded and hoping for psychic insight to guide the projectiles straight (and safely) to their intended target (hopefully not a living breathing target, because that would be very unfortunate).

As you may have surmised, I strive to be imperfect rather than the other way around. And it is really much healthier, from my perspective, because trying constantly to be something impossible to attain would challenge anyone, even the more perfect among us — which I am most definitely, certainly, absolutely NOT . . .

A Good Thing

If the world were perfect,

we poets would all write of love

and have no pithy statements

to impart. What revolutionary

views could be exhorted, what

thoughts provoked?

There would be nothing to

change, no dreams to voice

wistful-toned, not a single hope

to wish for on a starry night.

There might be less to ponder,

yet more need to reflect on

the meaning of things,

for it all could become somewhat

meaningless . . . banal.

It might seem bland, these

idyllic moments — a little too

placid and uneventful. Unless we

imagined the opposite.

Horror would be a mainstream

genre for jaded teens

and bored adults, weary of

endless unbroken good old days.

Veterans might yearn for action,

if any are left, chafing like dogs

with naught to chase and bark at.

Drug and alcohol sales might

suffer the most.

There would be no tobacco,

and no excuse for swearing!

Wouldn’t that be swell?

It’s a little mind-blowing,

and quite a bit boggling, given that

human nature can be very

contrary and rather unnatural

in certain regards, such as enjoying

curse words and vices.

There isn’t enough modesty or

decency anymore, as Polite Society

seems a thing of the past,

tossed in the trash, resigned

to History like so many things in

times of transition. Especially after

the Internet has made some of us

ruder; ideas good and bad

as widespread as dust or dandelion fluff

on the wind, floating randomly around

a smaller and smaller globe!

Even so, it’s probably

a good thing

humans could never be perfect,

as things might not seem that interesting

with nothing left to improve.

No causes to march and strive for.

I think we will never be entirely satisfied

either way. However close to paradise

things get. We would still be anxious

for something else; hungering for a taste

of adventure, excitement. There will

always be horror fans, whether an era

is turbulent or smooth. Perhaps

we need the contrast to spice up and

flavor a lackluster existence,

or help us cope in a perilous age . . .

Bucketfuls of bad luck or blood,

unfairness, terrors, deceit, madmen,

and the blues.

Even Death keeps us on our toes —

guessing, praying, hoping, achieving.

Being in the moment. Mortality

reminds us to appreciate Life.

But that doesn’t mean

we shouldn’t have hope, yearn for

better; aim for peace and happiness,

health, longevity, prosperity.

It is a good thing

when there is no tragedy,

no catastrophe in the news.

When the world can draw a big

collective sigh of relief that

the worst of a disaster is over.

For it is the good things,

the highlights

and ups, not the downs

that keep us going.

Squishy Parts

At times the darkness is too dark

It chills me to the depths of oblivion

With a morbid mantle that blinds

My vision, constrains my breath

Clenches my heart’s shudders

Until I must burst, lungs a-gasp

With that desperation of drowning

In an airless void

The unfathomed ocean of The Unknown

Where we float in sleep, in the briny

Thick of dreams

Twinkleless toes stumble dimly

A rocky path I have tripped across

To get there from wherever I may be

From a wistful youth spent too long

On waiting for better days that are never

Quite what you expect and just pass

Before you know they were even real

I have pondered the thoughts of a fool

A jester without a cap

My head in the fluff of clouds

Or a nice foggy soup and vice versa

I’ve dansed macabre, tripped the clumsy

Bounds and leaps of faith that demanded

Too much, carried me too high too fast

A dizzying altitude where I must spin

And somersault like dust in a windstorm

Without oxygen or gravity; without

A suit, a helmet, a parachute

No umbilical or tether, holding my breath

Afraid of catching my death

In the cold empty space of my forgotten

Reveries, the musings and notions

That slipped away like lost dreams

Backwards I flipped, reeling in a vacuum

Just hoping to collect in some corner; to collide

With an asteroid, a stray planet, or be sucked into

A merciful black rabbit-hole, the embrace

Of a star, before settling for the usual

Commonplace down-to-earth mundanish

Complacence of too late too little

I have cracked like shells, desperately fragile

Against the walls, the gates that refused

To bend or yield. I have ached from beating

My brow, striking my bow like a ship in the

Tide; like a bird or insect against the side

Of the bottle, this bell-jar I was born within

Attempting to fly, wings battered

Folded in dejection from straining

To be on the interior peering out

The other side of the looking-glass

I am seldom one of them

The ones who know, who are accepted

I sail off in my own directions

Out of the loop, doing Figure Eights

For what seems an eternity, flapping my

Arms, singing a mournful silent tune

And maybe I will never be part of

The crowd or in the circle

Because I am so far out on a limb

And I say it doesn’t bother me

But now and then it does, it cuts

Through the too-thin skin that protects

Emotions, seals a vulnerable soul

My loose and squishy parts

The mush and splatter of feelings

Sheltered by the delicate contours

Of this wall I have built, hope by hope

Like stones or bricks and mortar

Around my wishing-well heart.

observations on a brick wall

The small red ones are my favorites

Neatly arranged in a pattern

Of alternating alignment

The special order that bricklayers

Have down-pat between mortar

Evenly distributed by trowel

In an orderly manner

With just enough variety

To maintain interest, hold attention

I marvel at the texture and art

The discipline overall, neatly fixed

Into place to endure the worst storm

You can count on such walls to stand

Well beyond our span of years

And be universally comprehended

Answering the same when spoken to

In whatever tongue; there is no

Translation for silence, you see

It doesn’t exist in a way, certainly not

As loud and final as it can ring

The larger bricks vary greatly

In hue, shape and size

From brown to white

Rust, red or pink

Tan or multi-colored

The pale concrete blocks

Don’t count if you ask me

They’re like distant cousins

On a family tree of Ungulates

Ranging from dolphins and whales

To deer and hippopotamuses

How’s that for a stretch

Of the imagination?

When it comes to bricks

I suggest that if you’re speeding

Not to use a wall of them to brake

Or you’ll indeed wind up broken

And please don’t stand beneath

A ton of bricks that’s falling

They’re much harder than mud or clay

Baked like raisins and cookies

You wouldn’t want to eat a brick

They make far better buildings

And if you stare at a wall of them

For long enough, you might

Fancy that one moved

It probably did; either that

Or you need your eyes examined

Along with your head

Might as well get your ears checked

Or you’ll start to think bricks can sing

I have no opinion on the matter

Though I may have heard them hum

Whatever you do, be careful around them

Whether you hit them or they hit you

It could be messy

I doubt you would live to tell the tale

Ditto if you meet a brick wall with

A message someone painted

Rather rudely across its face . . .

Do not attempt to decipher meaning

Ignore the letters, the words

Back away or turn and flee

That would be your only hope

Your sole chance to not be blamed

Whatever you do, don’t laugh

They hate that

Never mock a brick wall

If you value your safety

They can be the harshest critics

Saying nothing in the coldest of tones

And they resent smart-alecky inscriptions

Carelessly scrawled, marring the beauty

Tainting the purity, the poetry

Of a unique unblemished countenance

A richly embossed surface

Minus graphics or graffiti, tinted

With an artful glaze, embellished by rough

Imperfections; there is no blankness about it

That’s the first thing you notice.

Perfection

Someone trying to be perfect

makes me wonder what is wrong

with them. Has to be something.

Nobody’s perfect. Always a secret,

a shame, a hint of disaster,

a hidden agenda. Something!

If not, then what is missing?

We are often judged by

what we are not

rather than what we are.

Everything good ignored over

one or two errors,

lapses, possibly a gaping flaw

that seems enormous now.

In a hundred years, in five, perhaps ten,

what will it matter?

And then again, at the time

it may cause less of a kerfuffle but

in some later age, accomplishments

might be forgotten, disregarded.

If the bad by far outweighs the good,

it is deemed modern justice to be

branded, blackballed in public.

Even that is figurative,

not a mark or stain across the brow.

It can be overlooked,

explained, tempered by perspective —

depending on the talents

or fanship of an individual;

the personality or hubris.

Anti-heroes and villains can inspire

huge followings,

be elected to lofty perches,

become role models for masses

of impressionable children

and young adults.

We are never safe, all of us

at risk of exposure one way or another.

To faulty examples, leadership, laws.

Gossip, scandal, innuendo.

Unfortunately, there are cases

where exceptionally minor

supposed infractions are punished by

spontaneous unpicked juries

dealing reactionary convictions

in abbreviated and misspelled sentences,

four-letter words,

clever memes and labels.

Posses and lynchmobs of

self-appointed critics wielding

social stigma as a banner, a weapon,

at times a death sentence . . .

doling out the searing whip-burns

of hostile backlashes.

Even if bad and good are

in equal measure, the attention

can be unbalanced.

It adds up to a lot of negative esteem

for some, which can be difficult

to overlook; to get beyond. These days

people might have shorter attention spans,

but History and the Internet

have longer memories.

Most of us possess good hearts —

yet we can still be damaged, degraded

for a handful of trivial imperfections.

Over a few mistakes.

Or one

that we ourselves cannot forget . . .

much less forgive.

Deliverance From Evil

Oh, the tides of misery and chaos

That drizzle and drip like a mist,

A shroudy fog of dismal unrelenting rainfall

O’er the bare heads of the fraying

Unraveled rabble which streams in

The lanes and gutters of endless pity,

Awash with the mundane turmoil of

Daily strife, mourning long-forgotten

Dreams and galoshes.

They are the soggy masses, the huddled

Muddled current of human toil.

Common laborers who lost their umbrellas

Or left them at home, disbelieving reports

By experts at sticking their minds out windows.

It’s nobody’s fault if they drown in their sorrows.

Of course, the majority of us learned back in

Kindergarten not to

Eat glue and to don protective gear.

Then it was yellow slickers.

Later we were taught to always wear

Our beige rumpled obligatory trenchcoats

In every type of weather, for these

Are all that can defend us from Evil;

All that will ward off the temptations and throes

Of Huggermuggery;

All that might stand between our toes

And the bottomless pit of Perdition.

Nevermind that I did eat the glue. And the paste.

Also the plastered-on elbow pasta.

It’s all in the past. I’m better now, and I cling

To the handle of my umbrella.

I love a good strait-I-mean-rain-jacket!

Soaked or dry, sweltering under the Sun

Or too thin against a fierce gale,

The semi-dapper retro longcoats

Guard from demonic possession

Like tinfoil hats, aluminum pajamas

And hoodies serve to deflect unwanted

Waves. A Full Metal Jacket may shield

A bullet or flesh from impact.

Suits of armor may deflect the blades of

Swords and daggers, the pincers of Crabgrass.

But cannot keep the soul intact.

There is something to be said for

A red or white and black umbreller,

Which will shade from harsh rays

As well as buckets of ice and

The dilutional downpour of

Extreme moisture; foul-weather events.

(They come with no guarantees in the

Case of Fate’s most drastic dire droppings

That can hit you out of nowhere . . .

Pianos, Jumbo Jets, Space Debris, Tsunamis,

Asteroids, Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles.)

Do not fear the rain. It will purge your

Heart, cleanse your grief and wash away

Your grime-stained gritty cares.

Too much and you will lose all concern

For safety and preservation.

It is best not to stand in the rain longer than

You must for a nice purifying soak.

Moderation is the key, and don’t forget

Your trenchcoat to ward off

Those fits and spurts and vagaries of

A capricious moody climate.

Button up your overcoat and face

Deliverance like a man or woman!

Uphold your umbrella, keep a stiff

Upper lip, and slosh through

Life’s deepest puddles in wading attire.

Galoshes are only suitable for the shower.

Accept your lot and quit crying about it,

Because you’re getting my shoes wet

And I didn’t bring rubber boots.

A Dark Impulse

Suicide is a preventable disease.

It is a vain regrettable act — futile as tilling

a barren field without seeds. To end one’s life,

a mere glimmer of thought, a fleeting tendency —

a moment of weakness, fear or pain that can

alter perspective, change on a whim, float in the air

like an option . . . be erased by a smile.

A warm touch. By love, the greatest healer

of any wound. It is a dreadful loss,

a terrible choice, a tragic waste of life and time.

Suicide may be perceived by the taker

as a sacrifice. As courage or strength;

a heroic deed like a grand Hollywood gesture

on the silver screen, larger-than-life.

The truth? Seldom noble, often misguided,

typically rash, on the lens of human perception

it is viewed as a jerk-of-the-knee reaction

to depression, anxiety, fears and hurts too deep

and dire to bear — or so it seems in the final

decisive hour. Those grim seconds.

Brave or cowardly, Suicide is a dark impulse

poised between life and death,

so fragile, often uncertain, mostly a cry for

aid or concern. Reaching to a void —

The Great Mystery — for comfort, instead of

to others. Shutting out family, friends, counselors.

Excluding loved ones; granting no chance to

intervene, save a life, show they care.

Or simply wishing to avoid the struggle, the shame,

another twinge of agony when all else fails.

Suicide causes harm to more than one’s self.

To every life brightened by that presence.

Every heart that must be torn by grief and loss,

by the guilt and despair of not reaching out

in time to prevent it . . . Not saying or doing

enough; the right thing!

That, that is Suicide’s last blow, and

its repercussions linger, felt forever, disrupting

destinies and courses. Leaving children

along the way unloved or unborn;

deserting spouses with tremendous burdens

of loneliness; severing ties to

the living that can never be replaced;

abandoning a link in the chain of generations

that creates a gulf, a gaping hole

where someone should be; ending the

promise, the achievements of an incomplete

journey; shattering lives and happiness

forevermore. Giving in, surrendering to

a voice that isn’t real and doesn’t care.

A conniving tone that lies and cons and twists,

pushes and provokes, plays on tender spots,

divides and conquers, promotes false confidence.

Listen to the voice of reason — to the many

reasons for staying alive. Know that someone

needs you. Someone wants you to feel better.

Realize you can change your mind before

it’s too late, as many will do.

If you take the step toward oblivion,

there may be no turning back.

Suicide is not an answer, only a question:

Can I go on? To which the sane response

is YES. Anything else is irrational,

a lapse in judgement: a leap from a cliff

or ledge or bridge, pulling a trigger or wire,

swallowing pills or poison.

Bailing, using blade or bullet as a parachute,

taking the easy way out. (It isn’t.)

Succumbing to darkness when

there could be light ahead! (And is.)

Suicide is not a lack