Each day is a gift
some sparkle as rare diamonds
others purple socks.
haiku by Lori Boulard
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0002 Sleeping Under Stars (1)
Hot August nights
before my brother left
to serve
I would sleep outside
on the wide balcony
next to my parents’ room,
stretched out
on a lounge chair
like an offering
to the stars, my eyes
seeking out
familiar patterns
of gods, winged horses
and thundering archers-
men with fierce weapons
I still saw as heroes.
poem by Lori Boulard
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Normandy - Lost in Translation
Lulled by bells
of cathedrals and cattle,
my mind turns left
down a road out of town,
probably lost
so far from Paris
pollution and I think
of something worth
writing, give up
the best seat
in the house and slink
off to a corner
for a pen, quickly,
before the words jumble
like a license plate number
after a hit and run.
I always write
alone, like an injured
animal afraid
[...] Read more
poem by Lori Boulard
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The Difference Between Us and Them
There is a word in Farsi that means
you, me, him, her, us, them, nature,
and God. One word to voice the pure,
common life-force winding through us all.
If only we'd known sooner. This mess
of understanding could have been avoided.
For in English, we have no
such word. In America
at least, nature is not pure. It is
a formula, ripe for tampering.
In America, nature is relative.
And God? He is not free,
though on sale this week at Wal-Mart.
In America, God is a man.
He is a capitalist.
And he is Pay Per View.
poem by Lori Boulard
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Life Outside the Box
There are times when I swear my life is like the daily mail.
I will dress for the occasion, attempt to curb my excitement
for the far-fetched possibilities awaiting me,
and even venture out into the elements
to embrace whatever fate has delivered to my doorstep.
My inner child will conjure up frivolous fantasies of
lottery winnings, undeserved and unpurchased,
warm, heartfelt connections from long lost friends,
or some unsolicited adventure reaching out
to change my Sleeping Beauty into sublime Cinderella.
And, as usual, I’ll gather my paper wits about me,
sigh facing an overabundance of sales pitches,
empty promises and mistaken identities,
and retreat to the familiar comforts of my interior
deciding once again that, at least for today,
exploring my imagination is far more satisfying than
anything tempting me on the colder side of my door.
poem by Lori Boulard
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003 Senior Portrait,1986
There I am, freshly straightened smile,
features still familiar in that academic pose-
the round cheeks, the wonder in the eyes,
the youthful bronze of leisure all obvious enough.
What remains out of view, just below the pearls
along the frame's bottom edge, are the freckled
souvenirs of those precious college summers,
and my left hand, home to pen, paintbrush,
and eventually, a brilliant symbol of a union
in gold. In my right, if you could see it, rests
a thin red leash to my best friend, who led me
through my childhood as best she could on all fours.
This particular shot overlooks the knees,
the left later patched like a snow tire -
a permanent Alpine lesson in limitations -
along with lesser scars and psychological sutures;
[...] Read more
poem by Lori Boulard
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Controlled Rebellion
Trouble always starts with a smile,
especially when punctuated with deep
hazel eyes. Come seven on a Saturday,
my heartbeat syncs with the song on the radio,
my left foot sinks as it races nightfall,
and the goblin within heads for
where the wild things are.
Wild nights – Wild nights! Were I with thee…
we would charge the alleys of hailstorm abandon.
But beware the badgering foe of fun:
the Lilliputian leash of children asunder.
A mental head-on collision ensues,
night racing past me twenty years to victory.
I surrender the sport and retreat to the driveway.
I am far from curfew,
and this is not my parents’ home.
Yet, I am doomed to restriction nonetheless.
[...] Read more
poem by Lori Boulard
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