Pictured As Grounded: Revolutionary Blogging Haiku

The photos always/
show me, though jumping*, grounded./
But I know better.

OR

*dancing,

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When Your Wings Get Clipped: Revolutionary ImproVerse Rhyming Haiku

When your wings get clipped,/
though you don’t know why, you still/
want to try to fly.

On Being “Grounded” In Love: Romantic IMprov Poem

A woman, for whom I’d written the previous poem, read it to her daughter over the phone, almost as it was created. Her daughter laughed. The woman said: “She keeps me grounded”. This was my IMprov response:

She keeps you grounded?
Stuck
in what?
The muck
and the mire?
The dirt that’s the death
of romance’s fire?

The young think they know
what it means to feel passion’s glow.
But they don’t.
It’s only youthful lust.
As age comes, so arrives patience
and trust.

And the romance that fuels
our aged desire
is the very thing which pulls
us out of the mire
and sends our passionate flames
soaring ever higher.

So when we fall, exhausted,
in each other’s arms again,
we’ll arise, phoenix-like,
from where youth has never been.

The Other Day From A Thousand Miles Away: Romantic Email Poetry

The other day
I drove by your street.
Not your old one
where I scared you
and intruded,
but the one named for you
in the desert,
where I’d stopped late at night,
thinking of you,
and took a photo
so long ago.

It made my heart ache
a little
to remember how much
you were in my life, then.
How much I cared.
How I was, for the first time,
trying so hard to learn just “to be”.
Or not.

How much I wanted to be your friend.
How much I loved hearing you say
“Dave Kuhns”.

I’ve read your text messages to me
several times.
They remind me
not to be
prickly.

Sometimes I read the poem
“You won’t like me when … ”
just to remember what it felt like
to be totally smitten
by a Wonder Woman.

I’ve long since stopped watching
for your texts,
your emails.
Stopped watching
your Facebook,
your life.

I’ve long since erased
texts from and to you,
so I won’t miss you, and
so I won’t upset you
any more.

A few weeks ago I was cleaning off
my desk
and found your photo CD.
“OH NO!” escaped from my lips
almost involuntarily,
as my heart recognized
and remembered
what my brain had hoped it
had forgotten.

At a Halloween dance last Friday
they played
“I just haven’t met you yet”.
I almost ran,
but instead, I danced with a blonde
named Sylvia
in a Marie Antoinette costume and wig.
Let them eat cake.
That song will always
be in my head,
reminding me of you.

The other night
I was telling someone,
for the first time,
a bedtime story.
It wasn’t about a woman
standing on the beach,
wrapped in cotton gauze,
feet grounded in the sand.

It was her story,
and she laughed
and thought I was funny,
and amazing,
how I could invent a deep,
rich,
poignant
prose poem
about a boat
in the desert.

But even as I told her tale,
I thought of that first bedtime story,
of your story,
of that night,
of the flowing, warm magic
you created
in my mind,
even as you were sleeping,
when the words poured from my lips
like thick, humid, warm tropical air;
When I felt the foam waves lapping on my feet;
heard the gentle pebbles rolling in the surf;
felt the warm sea breeze as it lifted the soft cotton
that surrounded you like a comforting quilt.

I’ve wished, sometimes,
that the story of you
grounding yourself
on the beach
could have been captured.
It was an amazing experience
at least for me.
Knowing you
was an amazing experience,
at least for me.

And for some reason,
tonight,
I wondered how you were doing;
how your new place was,
how your new life was.

So I looked up your Facebook and
behold and lo,
there you are.
Beautiful as ever.
Universe as ever.
Wonder Woman as ever.

Your melancholy eyes still
pierce my soul
from beneath that noble brow
and those wing-like eyebrows.
Your ruby red lips still tempt me,
closed.
And the sadness of your face
still calls to my hand,
reminding it
of one gentle, sweet, tender caress.

And once again,
tonight,
you and your family
will be in my prayers.

I’m a thousand miles away,
and I’m not invited,
nor even wanted,
and I honor that request.

But, once again,
I can’t help but be there,
at least in prayer.

Trusting Me In Story: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Poem

I told her about U,/
of the 1st story we shared,/
back when U/
asked 2b grounded,/
and I surrounded/
U with a warm sea breeze./
U fell asleep./
“She trusted U.”