Unexpected Wildlife Traces: Revolutionary Rhyming ImproVerse Haiku

I looked for nature./
In an unexpected place,/
I found wildlife’s trace.
OR

What’s tawdry tales and/
talisman’s are left hanging/
on rural fences?

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Jello Mold Fence: Revolutionary Blogging Rhyming Haiku

Somewhere by me there/ .
must be neighborhoods I’ll see/
equally quirky.

Issues With Boundaries: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

When I was young I/
climbed a fence and ripped my crotch./
I’ve bound’ry issues.

Leaning On The Boundary Fence: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

Sometimes leaning on/
the fence is okay. Sometimes,/
stand across the field.

My Hidden Walls: Revolutionary Iambic IMprov Poetry

People with a narrow view
say “There are no walls around you.”
Their vision is ascew,
and simply not true.

My fences
are more subtle defenses.
Insecurity
is what hides me.

My foolish intensity
is what protects me.
The outlandish things I say
push people away.

Since my youth
that’s been my excuse.
When friendships yield treason,
I can say my words are the reason.

Then I never have to say
“They didn’t like ME anyway.”
Rejection’s never a personal afront.
It’s just my words they don’t want.

So I shield and protect myself
as people put my words, not me, on the shelf.
(and that’s an insight into me
that most people rarely see.)

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.