Biography of Lori Boulard
Lori Boulard Poems
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
004 A Really Good Song
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
Poets - Why I Write
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,
One Simple Wish
promise me that when all is said and done there will not have been precious moments wasted
04 The Real Theory Of Relativity
In the hours before dawn I like to eavesdrop. Muffled by their worn leather bindings, the writers converse- Shakespeare pleads a play
Brush With Brilliance
I am not brilliant. I highly doubt I ever will be. I chased it once, came face to face with it, was stared
A Lover Of Sorts
He gives me that look and I know what's coming. I set down my book and we get to it.
To Dennis Kim (Victim Of Poetry)
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
Reflections From The Dentist's Chair
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 souls children Standing in line to jump in
Not Another Smoking Poem
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.
007 Spring Cleaning
It is time. Time for changes. Time to open windows and let breezes of inspiration in, sweep out the echo of lingering laughter,
007 Spring Cleaning
It is time. Time for changes.
Time to open windows
and let breezes of inspiration in,
sweep out the echo of lingering laughter,
and wipe away the stains of family, friends
and Shiraz tipped by the fire.
Put to sleep in their albums snapshots
of a time not wasted. Pack up the waste.
Set it out for prompt and permanent removal.