Not Missing The Wolf Super Moon Lunar Eclipse: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

January 20, 2019

How do you wake up/
your wife to view the Wolf Moon/
eclipse? Howl loudly.

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To My Darling, Dearest One, Post Movie: Romantic Free Verse Lament

January 16, 2019

My Darling:
My fingers fly across space and keys, anxiously tapping and pounding words which have swollen my heart this evening for far too long.
Why is the connection so slow? Why do I have to wait longingly for some electronic synapse, when the waves in my brain and my heart are racing full speed, threatening to rip the arteries between those two organs asunder.
My Dearest: Tonight we watched a movie of London and research and libraries and University and the Yorkshire coast and countryside. It was of two Literati, one hidden poet and one descendant of two artists long passed and largely forgotten. A romance. A genealogical detective story. A movie full of poetry, love requeited and not, of honesty and deception. It was a film full of scenery and sadness, of whisper and wanting, of two – facedness twice.
Loved one: It was a cinemascope full of everything you, as a romance writer, love. It was and is a tale I should and would, as a romantic poet, gladly embrace with you, fully, completely, deeply.
Except for that one moment, that once scene in that one arbor-windowed room overlooking the ocean, as the waves heaved and foamed and surged and rolled in and out, in and out. It is that moment that, for all its beauty and tenderness, will always break my heart, and will always turn me inside out, and give me pain.
Even now, my beloved, I hear the music, I feel the muse (he called her his Muse, or was it her that called him her Muse?), and instead of rejoicing, my heart is heavy with memory and regret.
Fortunately, that forbidden moment was long ago. Just as she let him drop her hair down, at last, maybe some day I can accept that love, believe that goodness can happen in those moments.

For did not Solomon come of David and Bathsheba?

Perhaps, Love, someday
my pain will away,
and with it will fade regret.
But not yet.
Alas, Loves, not yet.

Weird Pre-Christmas Night But It’s Okay! Revolutionary Blogging Haiku

December 17, 2018

Pre-made cookie dough,/
a drying Tannenbaum, she/
plays Yule songs. All’s right.

Holiday Gift Giving Fails: 3 Revolutionary Blogging Haiku Laments

December 3, 2018

It might be time I/
stop guessing what gifts I should/
give. I’m not that good.
OR:
It might be time to/
stop guessing what gifts to give./
Seems I’m not that good.
=============================
When you’ve blown someone/
away with a gift, it’s hard/
to ever repeat.
==========================
Folks should know: When they’re/
not enthused getting gifts, the /
source dries up quickly.

Rain On My Parade? So What? Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

November 30, 2018

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

November 25, 2018

Maria Vogt or Weidt GEERDTS, early 1900s, by her chicken coop in Sheboygan, WisconsinThere 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.
Plants in jetted bathtub, Nov 2018
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

November 25, 2018

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

November 2, 2018

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

November 2, 2018

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

November 2, 2018

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.