“The Church Asks So Much!” Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

Church can ask a lot/
of me, but The Savior can/
never ask too much.

Breaking Blonde Stereotypes: Romantic ConTEXTing Haiku

She, blonde, well-read in/
red, stunned him with her thinking,/
grace, wit and laughter.

My Own Offering: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

When I give my own/
off’ring, I can just do the/
best I can, in faith.

Becoming Worthy Of Him: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

The act of wanting/
to be worthy is what makes/
us worthy of Grace.

Don’t Put Our Pains On The Shelf: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

It’s not enough to/
put our pains on the shelf. We/
must give them to Him.

Cleaning Up: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

Will anyone who’s/
pure, lovely, and virtuous/
want me, who’s been soiled?

We’re Not Perfect, But: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

A friend said she was concerned that, although she wanted to do good, she was not, and would never be, “good enough”. (See the previous poem: “Making up the Difference”.) I responded that none of us are “good enough”, but …

With Jesus’s help,/
we can all be good enough/
and rise to glory.
Or
… rise to greatness.

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Making Up The Difference: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

Nobody is good/
enough. We all fall short. That’s/
what Jesus is for.

Who Gets His Gift? Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

Forgiveness is His
Miracle available
to all. Even me.

It Hurts: Romantic IMprov Prose

How does being creative about you feel?

It hurts.
I write, in my mind, about your hurts.
I write, in my mind, about dancing with you,
hugging you,
caressing you.
I write, in my mind, about sharing your pain.
I write, in my mind, to remove the pain caused by past lovers, men who were not worthy of your spark, grace, fire, but who were content to be gathered around the warmth of your energetic flames.
I write, in my mind, about how I know how to start a fire with just one match, or one spark, or one hopeful, glowing ember.
I write, in my mind, how I have always tended fires and kept them alive and radiant, even when others could or would not.
I write, in my mind, about how I wish I had one-tenth the chance those men had to do things you are passionate about, about how they failed you so miserably, about how they nearly doused your flames, about how I wouldn’t, but would instead ignite and restore and fan the flames.
I write, in my mind, about how you inspire me.
About how I enjoy being with you.
About how you move me unexpectedly, like a warm evening breeze on a previously still and silent lake suddenly moves a small, becalmed sailboat.
And, knowing you are not here, writing about you, sometimes, hurts.