Avoiding Desperation Frustration: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

Good luck to us in/
avoiding the frustration/
of desperation.

Affectation Effect: Revolutionary IMprov Limerick

Her affectation/
of pronounciation/
effected me/
negatively./
It’s linguistic frustration.

It Frustrates Me I Don’t Know How: Revolutionary Improv Blogging Free Verse

I confess.
I don’t know how.

I know how to take troubled youths
and mold them into a fun-loving, happy,
“Did you have fun?” “YEAH!” team.

I know how to take eager young minds
and show them things in nature
their parents and teachers can’t see.
To teach them the balance between all things.
To help them help the world heal.

I know how to take young men and young women
into the wilderness,
how to prepare their wood so well
that it only takes one match
to keep them warm
and cook their food.

I know how to take illiterate folk
who for decades have claimed they
can’t write,
and have them create verse and prose
so moving
they can’t believe
the words fall from their fingertips.

I know how to take senior citizens
who feel they have no value
and bring out their stories
and find their worth
and make them smile
again.

I know how to make people
laugh,
rejoice,
size the day,
observe,
be happy.

I know how to make senior citizens
and babies smile and laugh,
how to make dogs
wag their tails.

I know how to take
suburban landscapes,
dead, barren lawns,
and change them into
multi-hued gardens
of scented delight
and nourishment
and beauty.

I know how to find
ancestors long gone,
how to help others
find their roots,
how to work through
the mists and dust of centuries passed
to find themselves.

I know how to take
a stranger by the hand,
look him in the eye,
connect,
smile,
and give him hope.

I know how to observe
people,
nature,
situations,
the world
and write verse
and prose
that move people
to joy
and contemplation
and action.

I know how to stand
in front of congregations
and make them weep
with joy
because I know.

But my daughter
is dying,
because I don’t know
how to navigate
a system that does not
value any of the things
I know how to do.
A system that requires
so much paperwork
that she will be
dead
before I know
what I don’t know.

And I don’t know how
to do what I must now
do.

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The Further Mis-Adventures Of Carpe Diem Man: Revolutionary ConTEXTing IMprov Rhyming Haiku Lament

I’m Carpe Diem/
Man, dammit! So why can’t I/
just go and grab it?

It Doesn’t Matter Much: Romantic ConTEXTing Sonnet Lament

I suppose it doesn’t matter much
That you said you missed me,
That you ached for my touch,
That you couldn’t resist me.

It doesn’t matter that I turned away,
That ending it was my call,
That you, then, had naught to say
It doesn’t matter much at all.

For here we are with expectations
As we were before,
And those, unmet, lead to frustration
And we, again, seem like a chore.

For sweet desires, memories and yearning
Are not all we bring back upon our returning.

I Can’t Read Your Mind: Romantic Email Sonnet Lament

You had dreams,
hopes, and plans,
and schemes,
for the weekend.

Communication?
All I saw was a schedule
that read of frustration.
Your time table was full.

So I made another arrangement,
knowing your first priority.
It wasn’t my first bent,
but it matched with yours, evidently.

And now you’re rejecting me. It’s unkind
to toss me aside when I can’t read your mind.

Passion Inspiration Frustration: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Poetry

Poems of passion.
Passion of inspiration.
Retention of tension.
Release of frustration.

Inspired by passion,
she thrust past her frustration,
exploded her tension,
and gasped.

Bull Rant About Not Being Into You: Revolutionary Slamming Poem

Attending my first Seattle Poetry Slam, I came home realizing the sonnets and haiku I composed didn’t work for the slam. It had to be one poem, 3 minutes long, angry, edgy, about a topic I was passionate about.
This has been a discussion between my male friends and I for awhile, so I thought it was time to write about it!
—–
They say I’m “just not that into you.”
I say bull, bull, a thousand times bull!
That statement is so void and null,
You want to know why? I’ll tell you, true.

You wouldn’t know if I was into you
If you were hit by a freight train on the tracks.
If you were thrown off a bridge in a gunny sack.
If I held you underwater ‘til your face turned blue.

Yuck.
That rhyme sucked.
I think it’s time
To do away with love rhymes.

Because the truth is I think about you.
A lot.
Two words worth.
A lot.

You don’t know
How I mull over
And over and over and over and over
Every word you’ve spoken.
Every text you sent.
Every email that’s made it past my spam filter and into my inbox
I’ve laid waste to,
Just to try to taste
The truth.

Because I CAN handle the truth!
Can you?
Do you know that all my female friends
Keep telling me “Let her wonder.
Let her think you’re busy.”
(and I am).
“That you’ve got other interests “
(because I do).

But the fact of my heart is this:
I want to communicate with you.
I can take the stupid, insignificant two or three minutes
Out of my morning, and another one or two
Out of my afternoon, evening or night,
Just to let you know
I’m thinking about you.

But all my BFFF (best female friends forever)
Tell me to settle.
They say “relax” and
“Let her come to you”.
But you never do.

Why not?
Because you’re busy believing the same
Stupid
Madison Avenue-taught,
Sex In the City-rehearsed
Lies.

“Don’t let him know too soon.”
“Don’t appear too anxious!”
“Hold yourself aloof.”
“Make him guess about you.”

Bull. I say Bull. A thousand times, Bull!
Because do you know what I guess about you?
I guess you’re not that into me.
When you appear not too anxious
I hear: “I don’t wanna raise a fuss”.

When you hold yourself aloof,
I want to try to come to you.
I want to appear too interested…
But then all your BGFFs
And mine
Combine
and say “Ooooh… he’s desperate.”

Hells yeah!
I AM desperate!
Desperate to know if you want to get to
know me better.
Desperate to know if you like me at least a quarter
as much as I like you.

Desperate to understand why,
If I kiss you and you sigh
And later text me in bliss
And say: “Thanks for the long slow, romantic, sensual kiss”,
And tell me I’ve got it going on,
Why three days later I haven’t heard from you
Either from phone
Or email,
Or text message.

Even though I’ve called you once, emailed you once and texted you twice.
You want to know why we’re not going out
Tonight?
Tomorrow?
This weekend?

Because after a long, slow, romantic, sensual kiss
That you enjoyed on Monday,
You still don’t have the cajones`
to return my call,
Text me back,
Or answer my email.

And when I called you Tuesday,
The day after the kiss I thought was so great,
I had so much hope I could schedule a Wednesday,
Or a Thursday,
Or a Friday,
Or a weekend day
Rendezvous
With you
and I;
Where we could pick up
Where we left off,
Where I could show you that
All your complaining about Seattle men,
That there aren’t any
Who match your need
Of being emotional or 80% intellectual
And 20% goofy …
is 100% wrong.

I could show you that at least one
Would love to dance with you again
Or go out under the full moon again
Or take you canoeing like when
You were a river-running kid again.

Or even go to mid-week church with you
And discuss things you’d never talked to about
With any other man
Until we did last week.

I had so much hope you’d
Return my phone call,
If for nothing more than to say
“I’m really busy, but I want to talk to you later.”

But all my friends
And all my experience
With all the other women I’ve scared away
By being too intense
And too eager
And too desperate
Tell me “Don’t call.
Let her come to you.”

But you don’t.
And you won’t.
Because you don’t want to appear
Too intense.
Or too eager.
Or too desperate.

So this week will pass by,
Like this:
Monday: We kissed.
Tuesday: I called you.
Wednesday: Nothing.
Thursday: Even if you did contact me again,
Would you think it rude that I asked you out for today?
Friday: You’re leaving on a camping trip.
I’m picking up my parents.
Saturday and Sunday: You’re still camping,
And I’m still on an Island with my parents.
Or traveling to mourn a lost relative,
Where I’ll be until Monday evening.

Late Monday. I’ll get home
About the time you watch Frasier.

Monday evening.
A week past
When I last
Held you,
Gazed at the full moon,
And in a parking garage
Kissed you, and kissed you well,
Because I know how.

I just don’t know how to wait.
I’m just not that into you?
Bull. Bull.
A thousand times, Bull!