Lori Boulard

Lori Boulard Poems

HIS name? Please. What man
among us lives solely for
the touch of your lips
and the “mmmm” that oozes

a really good song has your throat by the first eight-count
owning your heartbeat as it opens up wide

it lays on your tongue smooth as chocolate

You ask why I write.
Why I stray in open spaces,
settling in corners, seeking
paper, leaves, anything

you exhaust me
your curiosity frustrating
I wish I could hold your energy
just enough in a bottle

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,

promise me
that when all is said and done
there will not have been
precious moments wasted

In the hours before dawn I like to eavesdrop.
Muffled by their worn leather bindings,
the writers converse-
Shakespeare pleads a play

I am not brilliant.
I highly doubt I ever will be.
I chased it once, came face
to face with it, was stared

He gives me that look
and I know what's coming.

I set down my book and we get to it.

I read the headline slowly, a second time,
Just to be sure:
“Aspiring Poet Drowns in Hudson Trying to Save Poems”
It seems a young body threw itself into the river

I dreaded this day for weeks,
watching the black X on the calendar march ever closer,
regressing back to toddler years in my mind.
As I pull into the parking lot

paper shards of lives
Standing in line to jump in

Lulled by bells
of cathedrals and cattle,
my mind turns left
down a road out of town,

It is time. Time for changes.
Time to open windows
and let breezes of inspiration in,
sweep out the echo of lingering laughter,

Sunk in my seat in a meeting at 3,
in a chair better suited for interrogation,
I officially sign off my attention
and jump visually out the window.

Have you ever seen your soul
Or felt it outside of yourself?
My soul and I are at peace, like
Lifelong long distance lovers

Menacing clouds join their hands above my head,
tearing me from the arms of my lover, the sun.

Trees shoot their annual fireworks display,

What force compels my left hand to write?
My right hand wants to know
For it is seriously

cast my soul up to the sky
for I no longer need it
it was never really mine to begin with

It is not the death of youth
that shocks us into grief,
but the sucker-punch reminder
we were never in control.

Lori Boulard Biography

Like the sun I seem to gravitate west, venturing into uncharted territory whenever possible. I enjoy sharing with others who love poetry and reading their work, so if something moves you - in any direction - I'd love to know.)

The Best Poem Of Lori Boulard

My Hot Black Love, Or, Ode To Java

HIS name? Please. What man
among us lives solely for
the touch of your lips
and the “mmmm” that oozes
only if he’s really good?
No, my love is ready for me
on demand,
waiting patiently for my
Soothing every injury
Smoothing every edge
Offering clarity in a blurred existence
Inspiring me to face my fortune
or frivolity
Mi amor, unlike mi men, judges not
the words of my lips,
travels impeccably well,
and sets my heart’s pace each
and every morning.

He is?
Columbian Blend
and he’s calling my name.

Lori Boulard Comments

Sylvia Frances Chan 08 December 2021

CONGRATULATIONS being chosen as The Poet Of The Day by PoemHunter and Team! I am very happy for you, please KEEP WRITING POEMS!

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Max Reif 15 November 2005

Dear Lori, I look forward to wit, passion, and often wisdom when I see that a new poem of yours has come over. Yours are among the most telegraphic I read-I almost always 'get' them immediately, which is not at all to say they're superficial-they're not. Just communicative!

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