POETRY BY LORI R. LOPEZ

A wearer of hats and spinner of tales, Lori R. Lopez has been known to draw peculiar pictures when she isn’t scribbling darkly odd verse and prose. She loves to create characters as strange as she is and has many more lurking beneath her brim!

Lori has been nominated for Elgin and Rhysling Awards. Her poem “Wake Unto Death” placed Third for Long Form in the 2023 SFPA Poetry Contest.

Books include The Dark Mister Snark, Darkverse: The Shadow Hours, Leery Lane, Odds & Ends: A Dark Collection, The Witchhunt, and An Ill Wind Blows.

Her writing appears in various publications including The Horror Zine, The Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Under Her Eye, Space & Time, Dreams & Nightmares, Weirdbook, JOURN-E, H.W.A. Poetry Showcases, The Weird Cat, Dead Harvest, Fearful Fathoms, Shunned Houses, and California Screamin’ (the Foreword Poem). 

CRICKETS

It started with a single hesitant chirp or cheep,
on a perfectly placid afternoon as I sipped a sweet
yet sour Lemon Tea in my Easy Chair, feet up.

Then, gaining confidence, a solo performance
by a Virtuoso Violinist, the name unknown . . .
Mildly annoyed, I hoped he would grow tired.

Hop away in search of avid attention, a far more
appreciative audience. I refused to applaud, striving
to ignore distraction—read a nice Murder Mystery.

Eventually I heard it everywhere, and nowhere
at once, keen vibrant refrains from all directions;
each conceivable perch and nook and crevice.

Sawing little legs, rubbing limbs, rasping knees,
whatever it is they do to create such macabre music:
that surrounding grating head-drilling clamor!

Echoing ear to ear, occupying an empty expanse
in my skull, a chaotic symphony of tin percussions!
Pounding, resounding, hounding my thoughts.

A plague of eerily loud Head Lice or Locusts.
Leading to, I feared, a massive reverberating cranial
Concussion: chiming, chittering, chattering.

Invading outer and inner space with their ruckus,
their racket, their cacophonous jibber-jabber—
interfering with my mental processes and peace.

Chafing from my closet, below my bedframe,
beneath my pillow—behind the very walls!
Under rugs and hat, inside ears and mouth . . .

Disturbing the sanctity and solitude of my home.
Intruding upon the quiet enjoyment of my dwelling.
Disrupting the isolation and loneliness of my life.

I could trust no hiding place or surface to be safe,
no corner snug; no spot or refuge to stay untainted,
clear of the blight, the foul incessant pestilence.

Endlessly—day or night—I dreamed of that din:
that teeming, gathering, maddening, miserable choir!
In the end there was only a chorus of Crickets . . .

I their fetching, groveling, brainwashed Host.
Vaguely cognizant of better days serving only myself;
bowing and scraping to none, my own Puppet.

I did like to put on a good show for the neighbors—
a Bay Window my stage, my screen, my spotlight—
but String Sections prefer it dark; the curtains closed.

And that Virtuoso is truly the best. Mesmerizing.

CAT FEET

My cat is a sensitive persnickety soul, quite unlike
her aloof reputation. One should never judge a kitty by
comparison to another—even sisters are insulted at
the hint they bear a whisker, blink or caterwaul in common.
And never accuse a cat of Burglary! (Just ignore the loot
dragged in.) Always tread respectfully around a feline.
Greet your pet with courtesy every time you meet…
in case she forgets you live there too. Memories are fleet
as cat feet. Pusses exist in the moment, which is why
they regard you so raptly, wondering who you are.
We must continuously remind or acquaint them anew,
else be locked out by a cool catty flip of the tail; forced
to knock, jiggle the knob, call the Fire Department!

That first time will seem accidental…
practically innocent and unrehearsed.

Yet I must confess, in a whispered hasty exhortation,
to entertaining a rapid pulse and maybe a minute or so
of panic upon glimpsing out a window an arcane meeting
of cats: wearing sinister expressions, slinking, blinking,
perhaps winking to telegraph their secret plans…
rather than a hiss and arch of the spine. These moods
and broods glimpsed that we are ever so heedless,
oblivious, obtuse, disbelieving, and can only imagine
about…even worse than the terrible doubt as your
kitty looks you in the eye and you have no idea what
she might be thinking, except to suspect a furr-tive
coup—a creepuscular Domination Plot in the depths
of cat’s-eye moons; those intensely sarcastic orbs.

Make no mistake, when she looks away
and you feel ignored, the disdain is real.