In A WiFi’d Lobby, Alone, In A Revolution: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse

I have more
to share than
short poems
can say.

Remember,
eight years ago,
the audacity
of THAT revolution?

It feels like
another one
is happening
with and without me.

My political firestorm mother?
Gone to bed.
My green-voting father?
Likewise asleep (ON! WISCONSIN!)

But I can sit not alone
in a wifi’d lobby,
connected with my kids.
“So Mind Blown” defines the moment.

We watch,
together,
a revolting revolt
against good old boys (and girls).

It’s too early to know,
but it feels good to watch
and know that there is,
at least, possibilities.

Because revolutions
are always fought
not knowing the outcome,
but having hope for change.

As I sit with my children
miles and states away,
I’m glad they reflect me,
and proud they honor them.

I was sad to be alone
during this revolution,
but am honored and happy
to have, again, connected.

Whether it’s hoops,
Packers/Seahawks,
Rock n’ Roll,
or revolutions;

Whether it’s sunrise/sunsets,
music, traveling, museums,
eating, drinking, or holidays:
I’m glad when I’m with my kids.

Kuhns Kids!
YOU RAWK! YEAH!
Now, how about this change?
Turn and face the strange!

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Rock Stacking Cheat: Revolutionary Blogging Haiku

She said: “Stack rocks based/
on how they fit.” Cement blocks/
make it easier.

The Backside And Inside Of My Sorrowing Heart: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Lament

To all the people
(mostly women)
who I’ve hurt
through
my lies,
deception,
falsehood,
selfishness,
ignorance,
stupidity:

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for
the pains
(known and unknown);
I caused you
the anquish,
the distrust,
the confusion,
the worry,
the misdirection,
the doubt,
the self-degredation,
the far-reaching impact,
that my actions
had on your life
and the lives of those
you care about.

I am not sorry
because I got caught,
because I had to change my life,
because saying “I’m sorry” makes me feel better,
because it relieves my guilt,
because I want to stop hurting,
because I have to say it to get forgiveness,
because I want to excuse myself,
or because it’s the right thing
to do.

I am just sorry.
You have opened my eyes
to the pain I’ve caused,
and given me
the sorrow
I deserve.

My heart hurts,
but I’m not saying I’m sorry
to make it stop hurting.

I want it to hurt worse,
if that will help you
feel better.

I want you
all
to rip my heart
apart,
to scream at it,
to spit in it,
to cry salt on it,
if doing that will help
your hearts
live again
and heal the deep wounds
which pierced them.

My heart does not hurt
in its frontal chambers,
with the hope your forgiveness
will make it feel whole.
My heart hurts
all the way
to its back side,
and through its inside,
for no selfish reason,
just for the truth
of knowing that
I hurt you.

If I can take your pain
that I caused,
and jam it
roughly,
in my heart,
and heal yours,
please let me.

Other than that,
I know of nothing more
I can do
except let you look at
the aching backside of my heart,
and beg Him
to heal yours.

I’m sorry.

Alpine Lake List: Solitude Isn’t So Solitary — Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse

I took a flat,
0.8 mile
saunter,
a not bored walk
on a boardwalk
around Silver Lake.

By the time I’d finished
I’d seen:
A moose cow and her calf;
Two squirrels;
New pussy willows;
One fish carcass;
Haze from a green wood campfire;
Two doe mule deer;
A reflecting lake;
A distant bridal photo shoot;
A towhee;
Two killdeer in flight;
Two beaver (one slap happy);
Three mallards in flight;
An aspen freshly felled by the beavers;
One hen mallard on her nest;
Three ducklings under her wing;
A patch of yellow columbines;
Sunset on mountain peaks;
Glowing new green on an aspen grove;
A rushing, raging, roaring mountain stream;
A new place to enjoy.

I failed to thank my tour guide,
a Dad who taught me to look,
and God.

Claiming Honesty Not: Romantic Blogging Haiku

You claim you’re honest,/
but to leave with no reason/
is dishonest plus.

Truth Versus Opinion: Romantic Blogging Haiku

She’ll read my writing/
and think it’s about someone/
else, but it is not.

Ah, But It Is! Romantic Blogging Rhyming Haiku

You’ll read this and think/
it’s not about you. Nothing/
more that I can do.

OR

You’ll read my writings/
and think they’re not about you./
Nothing more to do.

OR

You’ll read this and think/
it’s not about you. There’s/
nichts mehr I can do.

I’m Sorry, I Can’t: Romantic Blogging Poetic Lament

I wasn’t going to publish this one because it’s too painful … but a friend said I should.

I ask if we can talk.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.
I’m sorry, I’m busy.
Not tonight, I’m tired. I’m sorry.
Not tonight, I’m thinking. I’m sorry.
Not now, maybe later. I’m sorry.
I’m at my folks. I’m sorry.
I can’t tonight. I’m sorry.
I don’t feel like talking. I’m sorry.
I’m caving. I’m sorry.
Now is not a good time. I’m sorry.
I’m busy. I’m sorry.
I’m doing something else. I’m sorry.
I’m tired. I’m sorry.
I’m sore. I’m sorry.
I’m sleepy. I’m sorry.
I’m busy or I would. I’m sorry.
I’m not feeling up to it.
I’m not in the mood.”

What everyone tells me she’s saying is:
“Thanks, but no thanks … sorry!” Or
“I’m not that into you.”

I just wanted to talk. I’m sorry.

Muse Tally: Romantic Blogging Poetry

I wonder when
the muse tally
will finally
stop.

When the numbering
of verses
caused by my modern Erato
will cease.

When she will
actually, finally,
disappear
from memory.

When my mind,
heart,
soul,
and fingers

will stop being driven
and inspired
by her visage
in my mind.

When others,
or even just one other,
can count words
inspired by the new her.

It will take
a long time
for anyone else
to match her muse tally.

She has such
a head start
in my head,
and it hasn’t stopped yet.

To a Rose with a new/old profile photo: Improv Blogging Poem

My friend returned from a self-discovery trip to Italy. About a week later, she took down the profile photo of her lounging by the pool, and posted her business photo… so I wrote this.

Is this again
who my friend is?
A trimmed, pruned, perfectly-in-place
Rose, sitting in a manicured garden?

The Rose I know
is a flora bunda,
throwing herself
with passion and gusto
hither and yon,
first straddling,
then climbing over garden walls,
exploring, untrained, places
outside her artificial limits;
destinations where her gardeners,
in their stiff shoes and mucked-up boots,
say she shouldn’t go.

But she escapes her artifical confines anyway,
because she knows that,
by thrusting off those fake constraints,
the freedom causes her to radiate blossoms continually.
It’s as though her growth freeds her roots,
which then let her produce new blooms,
almost so many that you can’t count.
And they are rich and deep:
When people pass by this Rose, the scent
permiates the air
and makes them glad they are present.

No, this visage is not my friend.
The Rose I know is not tidy,
not pruned,
not controlled,
nor kept.
But her wild exuberance
makes her all the more
lovely.