This is my twelfth and final poetry column.  I shall miss these monthly maunderings.  But will my voice be missed?  It seems I have developed such a small and furtive following in one year that if I spun about suddenly, I might think I was alone.  It's very sad.  Tragic, nearly . . .  Fooled ya!  This is not the last Poetic Reflections, no matter how unread I may be.  (What a relief!  I'm glad to hear it.  I almost tricked myself.)

Be prepared.  I am not in a humorous mood.  I'm angry, in fact, feeling abused by a system that is supposed to inform as well as entertain.  Hence the title.

Do not mistake my meaning.  I'm not referring to boredom or an insult to intelligence.  My premise that entertainment could abuse is based, rather, on content and example.  It has nothing to do with quality.

JANUARY 13, 2006.  In an ideal world, hunger would signify a mild craving between meals.  War, a card game played with two or more full decks.  Terror would be the desired result of your favorite horror story.  Child abuse, the blatant mistreatment of teddy bears.  Cancer no more threatening than a zodiac sign.  Only the bad would die young in a perfect world.  And, on the aforementioned date, I would receive a letter from a publisher requesting the manuscript for Tome One of my Trilogy Of Trilogies, commenced ne

Volume One:  Herstory (Free Sample Chapter)