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    Poetic Reflections: The Queen Of Hats: Poetic Reflections, #2
    Poetic Reflections: The Queen Of Hats: Poetic Reflections, #2
    Poetic Reflections: The Queen Of Hats: Poetic Reflections, #2
    Ebook395 pages4 hours

    Poetic Reflections: The Queen Of Hats: Poetic Reflections, #2

    By Lori R. Lopez

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    About this ebook

    Volume Two of the POETIC REFLECTIONS book series, THE QUEEN OF HATS is packed with craziness as well as eerie and thoughtful pieces. Chapters are framed by thirteen eccentric or brooding columns, followed by a rich array of additional content for each theme. Lori's writing style is wildly original and evocative, providing much to think about in this sequel to KEEP THE HEART OF A CHILD. The print edition includes black-and-white illustrations done by the author.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLori R. Lopez
    Release dateSep 1, 2014
    ISBN9781310697654
    Poetic Reflections: The Queen Of Hats: Poetic Reflections, #2
    Author

    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.

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      Book preview

      Poetic Reflections - Lori R. Lopez

      poetic reflections

      the queen of hats

      by Lori R. Lopez

      Author’s Draft

      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 © 2014 by Lori R. Lopez

      Artwork by Lori R. Lopez

      Smashwords Edition

      Fairy Fly Entertainment

      A collection of very unusual verse, ranging from wacky to dark to narrative. Lori R. Lopez writes her own way, whether poetry or prose. This book contains both in an odd yet artful balance.

      Volume Two of the POETIC REFLECTIONS book series, THE QUEEN OF HATS is packed with craziness as well as eerie and thoughtful pieces. Chapters are framed by thirteen eccentric or brooding columns, followed by a rich array of additional content for each theme. Lori's writing style is wildly original and evocative, providing much to think about in this sequel to KEEP THE HEART OF A CHILD. The print edition includes black-and-white illustrations done by the author.

      What is an Author’s Draft? It is an original concept devised by Lori R. Lopez: The author’s true voice; the author’s pure and untampered vision, preserving her idiosyncracies and eccentric stylings!

      contents

      foreceps . . .

      1. unstructured

      2. scrambled

      3. hatitude

      4. the root of all fear

      5. gothic

      6. tanks

      7. yuleogy

      8. the years

      9. intricacies

      10. happy endings

      11. thoughtlessness

      12. Nothing!

      13. reverie

      belated

      about the author

      A Word Or Few

      To my

      fellow poets and dreamers,

      the moody kindred brooding souls

      like me

      in a world of stone and steel

      who beat like butterfly wings

      against the cold hard truth

      of Reality . . .

      herein lies a dark perspective

      born of shadows,

      the shade on a brighter day,

      the grays that slide beneath

      clouds that flicker

      between rays of gilded sun;

      that is where

      you will find me,

      or scratching in the early hours

      of the morning

      from nightfall to dawn,

      nocturnal —

      that is when I dream

      awake.

      foreceps

      and other ways to snag your curiosity or grab your attention, snatch your interest (I couldn’t decide so I called it all of the above since this is just a title and it doesn’t have to be short or long or anywhere in between; I think I’m done now)

      Oh, I can’t just put a title as the preamble? Are you sure? Come on, you’re making that up, right? You’re not kidding? Really. Well, that is news to me. I saw nothing about this in the preamble for the monthly memo from The Preamble Society. I think they would have let me know if they were changing the rules. Not that I heed the rules, necessarily. I don’t find it necessary in either my poetry or my prose; why then would I begin in this preamble to my second collection of verse?

      Actually, it contains some prose but that isn’t the point. I’ve lost track of the point at the moment. I’m sure it will return like a boomerang to whack me in the head.

      Probably just when I’ve finished preambling, but that’s beside the point too. Oh great, now I’ve broken the point like a pencil lead. I hate when that happens!

      Excuse me while I go sharpen my point for the next preamble I might possibly wish to write. In the next volume of verse or other. I don’t know, it could happen. I may need a point eventually.

      Sorry, we’ll have to skip the preamble entirely. It has gotten away from me, causing a good deal of wincing on my part I might add, perhaps even some eye-rolling or twitching or ticking or tickling, so I feel it is best to simply move on and get to the point elsewhere. Somewhere in this book. Keep turning pages and you could find it. Hopefully. Go ahead. Nobody’s stopping you. Hop along.

      (I feel I need to clarify that this isn’t the preamble. I think you’ve missed the point. Wait, I forgot there is no point. Nevermind.)

      Okay, my hair is in knots from this very tangled prefatory clash. I do love a good prefatory clash, of course, but not when I am not prepared for one.

      I can’t help feeling we have gotten off to the wrong start on the worst foot, or something to that effect. Whatever I mean, let’s skip ahead to the better part if there is any.

      Kindly ignore the aforementioned mentionings, if you don’t mind. And if you do mind, whoop-de-do.

      ~ the poetaster, I mean poetess

      (yes, that’s what I mean)

      1

      unstructured

      (Original Publication Date on

      Trilllogic Innoventions: June 28, 2010)

      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

      but there it was inside my head at the usual inopportune moment

      the words that occurred fled and I found myself at my desk typing a description of the event like an aftermath or afterword only it isn’t

      it’s more of a beginning

      this is my first column that hasn’t been crammed inside my volume of verse ‛poetic reflections keep the heart of a child’

      the only thing I managed to retrieve from that rushent gush of lines in one ear and out the other whispered by my muse was a single term

      unstructured

      which is the theme of course

      so i now have to stare at the word and contemplate why it’s here

      what it’s doing on my page

      i assume it has something to do with the abandonment of structure

      wow that is really brilliant even for me

      it’s also very different for me because i tend to be a stickler for structure and adore things like paragraph indents and punctuation and capitalization yet here i am typing without the aid of those conventions which feels incredibly brave and reckless

      not to mention slightly peculiar

      not that there’s anything wrong with peculiarity because i rather enjoy being peculiar myself as you must know if you’ve read any of my more peculiar poems

      but this truly is a stretch since i am a big fan of accuracy and correctitude when it comes to particular aspects of language and writing

      other aspects i just toss out the window

      it’s especially difficult for me to type the pronoun i without hitting shift

      yes that takes tremendous willpower

      eccentric a writer though i am i do cling to certain traditions as you can see since i have not been able to bring myself to let go of the apostrophe

      i just can’t seem to pry it from my feeble grasp

      oh well at least i’m doing fairly well for a scribbler as bound to the tools of writing while breaking most of the rules

      and here i am shattering some more

      look ma no hands i’m typing with my feet

      okay not actually

      i can’t lift my legs that high

      and i still can’t recall the words i was supposed to write

      i am left with one profound thought in my head with which to compose a poem

      it’s a good thing my volume of verse is already being released or i’d have probably stuffed this into it too

      no no that’s not appropriate for a poem so i must think of another profound thought

      it’s tougher than i thought

      i’m sure i had some earlier

      oh well as usual i must pen my next poem without a single thought in my head

      at least that hasn’t changed

      great now i’m getting deja vu as if i don’t have enough to deal with

      it’s so creepy i’ll just have to write a poem about it

      unstructured

      how does one communicate

      with only words to use

      no question marks or commas

      is likely to confuse

      and yet some poets manage

      errant writers do as well

      for me it’s very hard you see

      but at least i can still spell

      i won’t give up apostrophes

      and spaces between terms

      i shun the lack of paragraphs

      as much as i hate germs

      yet here i am composing

      in verse and also rhyme

      if i release my inhibitions

      it wouldn’t be a crime

      to let my spirit free

      unleash my fuddydud restraint

      set inner beasties loose and wild

      i feel a little faint

      somewhere it has to end

      it’s getting too informal

      without a dot to punctuate

      how can my thoughts be normal

      i don’t know where it’s going

      it’s running quite away

      i’m hanging on to what i can

      of this swervent come what may

      if i ever find my style again

      i will be more cautious after

      not to take such risks or if i do

      i will have to face the laughter

      yet isn’t that what i’m about

      stepping out upon a limb

      i like to tread where ice is frail

      the ledge narrow as a whim

      i prefer to challenge not accept

      experiment and improvise

      to try new things at least for me

      incorporate surprise

      or else creativeness could turn

      prosaic moldy witless stale

      i guess i’ll keep exploring

      there’s more than one right trail

      the broken dawn

      an indescribable thing occurred

      like the silence in a yawn

      an awakening of my soul

      at the breakening of dawn

      right on that ecliptic precipice

      the instant morning splits from night

      i poised for just a second

      on the edge of dark and light

      it’s a fine line that we seldom glimpse

      in a glance or in a stare

      we can’t touch it with a fingertip

      for it almost isn’t there

      as i stood inside a tornado

      the unblinking eye of a hurricane

      air furiously hurled around me

      yet all was frozen calm and sane

      things pass before us every day

      too swift for consciousness to grip

      we cross such lines without a thought

      until our step should slip

      and we falter in that space between

      out of balance gone too soon

      far too fleet to even ponder

      if we hear an eerie tune

      next time i’ll take a picture

      so i’ll know that i was in

      the middle of the broken dawn

      where the day is very thin

      even slimmer than the break of dusk

      when afternoon melts to sunset

      more startling is the change of guard

      when the rays arise from jet

      as my eyes adjusted black to white

      at the glare of mornful contrast

      something wept in me for I could see

      the division of present and past

      in that tweenfold glean i understood

      what such moments represent

      a chance to pause on the verge of day

      and rethink what life once meant

      deja vu

      a tingling suspicion

      the sense of the familiar

      a nagging supposition

      that something new has been

      like a speculative impulse

      ringing in your head

      you can’t shake this feeling

      whether subtle or strong

      that you’ve seen this scene before

      it can flatten me like a boulder

      without a warning rumble

      or touch me like a feather

      as fuzzy as cotton fluff

      it may be light as a distant memory

      or firmer than a solid wall

      it might land on my head like an albatross

      or worm its way inside my brain

      and nest between my ears

      sometimes it doesn’t go away

      if i run it simply follows

      i detect its footstep close behind

      with an echo of similarity

      i could jump into a lake and wait

      my breath held tightly in my lungs

      but that vexful pest would not be fooled

      by tactic or diversion

      like a swarm of bees it lingers

      deja vu i am so tired of you

      go plague some other mind

      i’d like for once to not seem in a dream

      or as if i’m psychically attuned

      why must i think that what’s happening

      is from the future or heaven sent

      why ask myself time and time again

      if this already was or it wasn’t

      it would be really nice not to know

      a walk through random places

      soft respectful treads

      the footfalls of a wanderous heart

      without a destination

      without a place to start

      a stir of leafen boughs

      the whisper of a breeze

      and rustle of my clothing

      i am grateful for all these

      a dip or slant ahead

      the mystery of an unpaved lane

      a glint of sun across my journey

      i cannot complain

      do i blaze a trail

      or trail behind

      am i leading the way

      or being led to find

      greener fields unfurrowed plains

      another place another day

      a scattered promise to the wind

      the randomness of where to stay

      an undecided morrow

      a restlessness inside

      the yearning ache of something more

      of what is left untried

      where will my stumbling gait lead to

      i cannot see that far

      i am following the path i’m on

      as i pen my life’s memoir

      when i’m there perhaps i’ll know

      or perhaps i never will

      it’s the steps that truly matter

      whether up or down the hill

      there is no highest point

      only steps along the hill

      if you’re still with me this far and haven’t flown the coop of pigeon english over my nearly total lack of structure aside from apostrophes then there is still a chance to end this chapter with a trace of dignity

      it’s like a poetry apocalypse or something

      hey that could be my next poem

      the or something part

      i hope you didn’t think i meant the apocalyptic reference

      okay you probably did and i know that is an extremely popular subject these days but i like to be different so i tend to avoid the popular in favor of the less traveled lane if you get my drift

      the slow lane

      not that i don’t love a good apocalypse

      oh fine now i have to write an apocalyptic piece because it’s stuck in my head

      thanks a lot

      but i am still going to write the other idea too because i also enjoy a good challenge

      bring it on baby

      i can be unstructured if i want to

      completely off the page

      off the wall

      off the chart

      off the beaten path

      even off my rocker

      oh yeah that’s me

      my unstructuredness is only exceeded by my unruliness

      so here goes nothing and you can probably take that literally

      or something

      it is true that i am not a twig

      although i was willowy a time or two

      so i might have once been but a sprig

      in a distant life maybe i was yew

      if our essence is at all like hope

      and can spring eternal much the same

      then we’re like a magic piece of rope

      that rejoins itself from whence it came

      i could be better now than i once was

      or something worse than what i’ll be

      whether it turns out a mere bit of fuzz

      i’m a work in progress eventually

      i may twirl one moment prance the next

      then sparkle so bright it blinds your eyes

      there will always be a few defects

      but expect each dawn a new surprise

      it’s a leap of faith as we flash in the pan

      a shimmering jewel of rain in the sun

      awaiting its flight on a clouded wingspan

      before this turn is said and done

      we are present such a brief sojourn

      life tripping by in a cartwheel of time

      too short for all that we must learn

      so many hills we have to climb

      we barely know our inner selves

      the nuances of this earthly spin

      ere the books are tucked back on the shelves

      and our heroes do not always win

      i thought if i could find the right words

      i might caution us to make the most

      of every chance to soar like birds

      or something clearer than a ghost

      apocalypse

      there are days that go awry

      oh they begin with promise

      shiny and new

      like any other

      rich in possibility

      ripe and juicy with potential

      sweet as a bite into a plum

      but then one thing

      sometimes a minor upset

      can topple the cart

      spill the apples, oranges, pears

      and suddenly it’s all bananas

      the type of days that make you wish

      you had stayed in bed

      i’m having one of those

      riddled by unfairness

      everywhere i turn

      unfairness can be frustrating

      when you are the only one

      who realizes the truth

      i hate that

      like now when i am alone

      at least i feel that way

      and the world is against me

      i don’t know why

      whether it happened gradually

      though the change was swift

      like justice or judgement

      and we didn’t believe

      wouldn’t accept what was there

      right before our eyes

      or if there was simply no way

      to prevent this

      a cause or consequence

      we were unable to predict

      it has been that kind of day

      puzzling and confused

      since waking up to the dawn

      of an apocalypse

      a state of bewilderment

      and abandonment

      by friends and family

      who are no longer the same

      no longer on my side

      it’s a hollow sensation

      confronted by shock and betrayal

      panicked and paranoid

      forced to hide from loved ones

      to avoid human contact

      because i may be the last person

      on earth still alive

      intact

      what a scary thought

      yet i need to hope

      i will find others like me

      survivors of a grim harvest

      the holocaust of souls

      this heaven or hell-sent madness

      natural or man-made

      prophetic or dumb luck

      if you walked in my shoes

      if you were tangible

      not some figment or fabrication

      a holographic semblance

      that lingers flickering

      for sanity’s behest

      the mere hallucination of

      a kindred spirit

      misery’s companion

      i am certain you would waver

      as i frequently slip in and out

      of a light and shadow dance

      between faith and condemnation

      what else is there

      but acceptance or denial

      to embrace or rail

      at the whims of fate

      or destiny’s cruel joke

      simple

      it doesn’t take elaboration

      to express what is deepest felt

      a simple phrase suffices

      and can hover on the tongue

      yet be the toughest thing to say

      as if to wring it from the heart

      wrench it free of a beating tomb

      or strip it from your fiber

      unpeeling strand by strand

      perhaps dredged out of the marrow

      between one’s bones

      it’s like pulling teeth

      for it can be that difficult and painful

      as if fettered by invisible restraints

      shackled by our own timid nature

      wrapped like veins and tendons

      composed of fear and shyness

      despite how urgently endured

      sometimes due to habit

      an awkward sense of custom

      or a self-imposed constriction

      binding the tongue

      sealing lips like mortician’s twine

      hindering arms from being able to hug

      as if reclining in a casket

      as if in life we are frozen

      attending our own funeral

      vapid as a ghost leaden as a corpse

      chained and gagged by a weak spirit

      watching and incapable

      of breaking through the barrier

      that doesn’t exist

      it’s simple

      just say what is on your mind

      speak with your heart

      do not wait too long

      or the moment will pass

      to show how much you care

      about others

      under the rainbow

      (first published on SERVANTE OF DARKNESS, 2014)

      so here i am

      holding my umbrella upside down

      to catch the drops

      that fall under the rainbow

      out of starry eyes

      wrung from the hankies of clouds

      who do not all have silver linings

      that’s just a myth

      some of them are shaped like ogres

      and sundry sorry critters

      that go bump in the night sky

      not all nursery rhymes end happily

      just as fairytales can be grim

      and wishes could make the stars collide

      like marbles or billiard balls

      which crack and thunder

      in delayed measures

      of rimshot or bass-drum moods

      to cymbalize the hot sparks

      of cosmic temperament

      so here i stand

      absorbing the sorrows

      of the universe

      catching rain with my umbrella

      saved for a sunny day

      when i will turn the umbrella over

      and stand in the shade

      to bask in my tears

      2

      scrambled

      (Original Publication Date on

      Trilllogic Innoventions: July 12, 2010)

      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 length to introduce these jumbled thoughts that will hopefully spell out poems.

      All I could come up with, I’m afraid, was scrambled. These notions seem to have naught but differences. No common ground. They are as random and unrelated as snowflake patterns; the faces in a crowd. Unless it’s a family reunion, I suppose. Or a circus of fleas performing stunts on the back of a hound. (Fleas all pretty much look alike, don’t you think? Or is that a misconception? I certainly don’t mean to make prejudicial statements, even about insects.)

      Where on earth am I going with this?

      I wish I knew.

      I wish you knew.

      I wish somebody knew something and would let me know!

      I really appreciate you for reading this. And any of my other convoluted disconcerting

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