Rain On My Parade? So What? Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

When folks get drenched to/
their cores, their souls more eas’ly /
find paths to connect.

Garden In The Bathtub Legacy: Revolutionary Family History Prose

There is an old family history story that my Grandma Bertha Geerdts Kuhns used to tell me about her father’s mother, a little old immigrant German lady who lived in Sheboygan Wisconsin at the turn of the century. My Grandma Bertha said that this woman (Maria Vogt or Weidt Geerdts) had chicken coops, a garden, but what Grandma Bertha most remembered about Maria Geerdts’ house in Sheboygan is that her large clawfoot bathtub was never used for bathing.

Instead, it was always full of garden plants.

Sometimes I wonder if my great-great Granny Geerdts is looking down on my giant jetted bathtub …
and smiling.

I’d Forgotten It’s Because It’s What I’m Supposed To Do: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

It’s been so long
since I’ve done
what I should do,
daily,
that I’ve almost forgotten
how;
I’ve almost forgotten
why;
I’ve almost forgotten
who I am.

Because I became
because I did
what I was asked.
Because I struggled
even when the words
weren’t flowing.

Because often
the mere fact of
doing the thing
that you’ve been told to do
is what you need
to discover
and maintain
who you are.

So once again I launch
back into my Obama-era goal:
Write
and blog
a poem
or prose piece
each day.

The words may not be
insightful
or deep
or moving.
Or they might be.

Most importantly,
they will be
and are
who I am
and who I will be,
so as long as I write
and post
and am,
I exist
much more deeply
than I ever did before.

Maybe that’s why I feel
as though I’ve gone
into hiding.

Look out!

How Many? How Much? Then What? Revolutionary Blogging Rhyming Haiku

How many mistakes/
must I make? How much must I/
wait? Or should I go?

Voices Of Whispered Past Redux: Romantic Blogging Free Verse Lament

It was too late
to think,
I think,
nor to read
what I should not.

But I thought,
and I did,
and now I can’t stop
thinking
the thought.

They play
like an ear worm,
the terrible tune
you hate to hear,
but once it blares
you can’t get rid of it.

I’m
not
hot.

Not in that way.
The things I “fix”
don’t stay
repaired.

And there are so many
now, in this new place,
that I can hardly imagine
trying
to catch up.

I don’t even write
or work at what I like
any more.
I’m a bore.

So I sit and binge watch
and pretend
it’s teaching me
about government
and choices
and I’m spending time
with her.

But our gazes
go forward
into a large
rectangular
black hole,
where we watch others
play out on the screen
and even panting
and depanting
and a black bra
only brings groans
of boredom
and remorse.

Then,
when we’ve watched
and thrown away
three hours
(or more),
we kneel
and thank Him
for us,
and ask
what we should do.

I don’t think that’s it.

And although I now feel glad
that I’m writing,
divulging,
creating,
it still feels
like I should go
cover the garden
against tonight’s frost,
fold up the electric cord,
and try to tidy up
the front porch
at least a little,
so maybe,
when tomorrow’s beams shine brightly,
I’ll feel like doing something
that will move the needle
at my house,
my home,
my refuge.

And I’ll remind myself
it’s not a contest
with the past.

If only
I could now,
at last,
believe that.

Upon Thinking On A Deep Funk: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Lament

Her creativity,
this evening’s music muse,
wafts like a late autumn breeze
out her door,
down the hallway,
to my ears.
Peace.

My oldest creation,
son,
and his creation,
my granddaughter,
gaze,
smiling,
from my screensaver.
Joy.

Yet I,
creative meistro
sitting on a hickory’d hill,
fall’s colored leaves
glowing in the sunset;
bright moon and stars
gleaming in the dark
rural’d night,
haven’t written
for daze.
Weeks.
Blank.

Work,
government linguistics,
leaky doors,
amityville horror phermone’d bugs,
busted lights,
stalled furnaces,
all beyond the grasp
of my repair.
Guilt.

Gardens unharvested;
tall fall grasses
in the front yard
unburned,
failed wildflower experiments
where there once was so much
promise.
Melancholy.

All around me,
there is paper
and hundreds of shades
of different hues,
muse,
notes,
thousands of words
i could use.
Yet none come.
Funk.

What to do.
What to do?
Do.
Perhaps
creativity
will drop
like dew
when I do.
And I’ll rinse my face
and cleanse my soul
and refresh my heart
and free my mind.

It’s worth a try.

When You Look Back: Romantic Blogging Free Verse Poem

It’s always dangerous
to look back to the past,
especially when it’s not yours.

No matter how good
your present is,
the chance to find pain
is real.

Don’t gaze too long
into what is not yours.
Don’t think too deeply
about what you don’t understand.
Just keep your own happiness
and your present peace,
and rejoice.

All Creation Is Great: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

She says she wasn’t/
creating anything good,/
but creation’s great.