Archive for the ‘Revolution email Poetry’ Category

When The Art Museum Is Empty, It’s Enough: Revolutionary Email Sonnet

November 30, 2016

When the art museum is empty,
and its gifts are mine to own,
I wander through halls of beauty
and ponder being alone.

Surrounded by creativity
and others’ visionary views,
I think in artistic silence
and dance solo with the Muse.

My heart is never heavy
as I view creation’s light,
where each unique gallery
helps set my world aright.

Would it be better to have someone else near?
Perhaps. But tonight, it’s just me who’s here.

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When Is A Selfie Not: Revolutionary Email Haiku

June 4, 2016

If you take photos/
with someone else in the pics,/
are they true selfies?

A Sonnet To White House Burgers: Revolutionary Email Sonnet

June 1, 2016

Some thought them lowly burgers,/
but the company they kept/
elevated these patties much higher/
than any cow had ever lept.

Over the moon they flew,/
then back upon dinner plates./
Cheeses! Cheddar, Swiss or bleu!/
Seasoned to the taste.

The decor is historic/
in this intimate dining pub./
Yet at this lake aire White House/
the food is never called “grub”.

Whether in garden room, bar, or dining nook/
this cuisine gives a break you’ll be glad you took.*
OR
*this cuisine deserves a closer look.

Optimism Personified: Revolutionary Email Haiku

May 31, 2016

The glass is half full./
The sun is always either/
rising or setting.
OR

The sun is always/
either rising or setting./
My glass is half full.

Making Creative Choices: Revolutionary Email Rhyming Haiku

May 14, 2016

He had the chance to/
meet and woo, but instead chose/
to create more verse.

I Believe You Will Succeed: Revolutionary Email Haiku

April 27, 2016

I believe in you/
because I know you DO try.
I know you’ll succeed!

OR
Because I believe/
in you, because I know you/
try, you will succeed!

They Always Return To A Clean Home: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Poem

April 3, 2016

putting up a martin house in Lake Winneconne, April 2016I listened to a Prophet’s voice
on the Sabbath,
then stood on a ladder/
in a frigid Wisconsin lake
to put up a clean bird house,
as directed by my father.

For us both,
holy, cleansing events
have happened
in that same water,
and purple martins
fly in
from Brazil
on the south wind.

Purple martin house at sunset, Lake Winneconne, WisconsinAddendum: Just In Time — April 4, 19:23 p.m.
My dad gave me a/
joyful high-five today:The/
martins’ scout found home.

Ask How To Change The World: Revolutionary Email Haiku

March 15, 2016

Her mail signature /
told me to ask how to change/
the world. I learned, did.

Thank Heaven For (Grandma’s) Little Neighbor Girls: Revolutionary Email Free Verse

February 26, 2016

Grandma
lived alone,
central Wisconsin cottage
built with her husband’s hands
before he died,
too early,
there.

She was not
cottage-bound.
She could go anywhere.
But there,
she chose to stay
there
in her cottage home
and grow old.

Little neighbor girls
brought her wild flowers,
and colored leaves,
and crayon’d pictures
they’d drawn.

Eager and happy
they would show her,
and she,
with her
“Oh, how beautiful!”
exclamations,
would put the flowers
in a Blatz beer glass
on the bar,
or would tape
the colorful drawings
onto her old, white fridge,
and would chatter
excitedly
to the little neighbor girls
and learn of their day
and teach them cards
and flowers
and wild birds
and mysteries of
the lake
and the woods
and the pond
and hot chocolate.

When I,
first-born grandson,
would visit
from college,
or from traveling,
or to come home,
she would show me
the drawings,
and tell me
excitedly,
about the little neighbor girls,
M and S H’s kids,
and how wonderful they were,
and how they always
came to visit,
and how she loved
talking to them
and sharing with them.

I met them
a coupla two-tree times,
that Wisconsin way,
as they brought
wildflowers
and drawings
and love.

“Oh, how beautiful.”

Time passed.
I was there,
she and I,
alone,
when she did, too.
That sacred experience
etched deep in my mind.
A great soul
flying home.

Sometimes the little girls
would still come by
the cottage,
but it was never
the same.
Her great heart
which had filled
us all
had stilled,
and all we had
were memories
and love.

Many years later
I met
one of the little neighbor girls
unknowingly.

We were both
grown now,
a woman,
no longer little.
She needed
someone tall,
(which I am not).
And I,
aged,
didn’t know I’d seen her
and her wildflowers
and her crayon’d drawings
in Grandma’s kitchen.

We smiled
as we recalled
Grandma’s love
and warmth
and excitement.

Then,
tears welled up
as I thought of
Grandma,
alone,
in that cottage.

Most widows
whither
and dry,
and die.

But she,
surrounded by beauty,
and love,
flourished for decades.
Looking forward
to walks in the woods
and geese flying
and cardinals, finches and chickadees
feeding by the window
and crocuses and daffodils and tulips
and wildflowers
blooming
and ice out
and first frost,
and bright red/orange leaves.

And,
amidst it all,
little girls
who visited
daily,
when I could not,
who loved her
and let her love them
for years.
Extending her life
and her love
for decades.

Sobbing now,
I realize
the great gift
they gave
my Grandmother
and my family.

I don’t know
how to thank them.
I don’t know
if they can understand.
I don’t even know
their names.

I can only say:
“Thank Heaven
for my Grandma’s
little neighbor girls.”
Grandma Bertha Kuhns, Lake Winneconne sunset just before ice out