Such A Loss: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku Lament

Her hands made art, wrote/
words. Now they’ve taken who she/
*was, not all she’ll be.

OR
*was and all she’d be.

Dancing With Myself Dislike: Romantic Blogging Haiku Lament

Going to concerts/
solo reminds me how much/
I hate loneliness.

Her Love’s Still On Facebook: Romantic Blogging Haiku

He smiles at me from/
her embrace on Facebook. I/
think: “She’s not ready.”

Barefoot Desert Dancing Beach Boy: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

My feet are cracked. Pain./
It’s what you get from dancing/
Barefoot in deserts.

Childless Father’s Day Redux: Revolutionary ImproVerse Rhyming Poetic Lament

Mere minutes away,
but they’ve got no money.
Don’t our children know
that their dads would mow
their lawn, take out the garbage,
or clean their garage,
to be with their children on Father’s Day?

Anything beats sitting at home
all alone,
staring at the phone,
waiting for their call.
Trying not to bawl
or feel dumb
When the message doesn’t come.
Feeling sad,
I wonder: “How bad
was I as a dad?”

What Tears Are These, Shed? Romantic ConTEXTing Haiku Lament

He was not surprised /
that she made him cry, but these /
were not tears of joy.

Hurting Inside: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku Lament

There’s no rip in the/
outside fabric, but the cut/
underneath still hurts.
OR
still bleeds.

Waiting For Support: Romantic ImproVerse Haiku

She knew it would be/
a tough evening. She lent him/
no support. Bye bye.

Common Pain? Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku Lament

Does this happen to/
everyone? Cleaning out old/
wreckage, you break down.

Painful Garage Discoveries: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Lament

They fell out
of an old cardboard box,
in a pile, onto the floor.
It was like that scene
from Garfield’s Christmas.

I, too, found a stack
of old love letters,
written from she who now,
as I move her out of her life,
must be obeyed;
she who I betrayed.

I’d forgotten,
(or maybe I never knew,)
how much she loved
me.

Her words tell me.
Surprise me.

Now,
nearly four decades later,
I can only stand
in the messed up
and cluttered garage
the cold, damp space
that still holds,
for a little while longer,
the life
which we shared.

There,
amid piles
of old,
handwritten papers,
scarcely daring to read
those words she wrote
decades ago,
I weep bitter tears of
sorrow,
guilt,
pain,
and deep remorse.

She’ll never know
how sorry I am.
How could she?
Until this moment,
I didn’t even know.