My Gardened, Watered: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Poem

Decades after I turned
my first garden dirt
with a shovel,
clearing away sterile lawn
for food and scent and joy,
I didn’t know my last time,
the time at the helm
of a rototiller,
would be so emotional.

Someone else,
hopefully another family,
will now grow and prosper
in this garden,
in my once yard,
in this house,
where Smashing Pumpkins
and volunteer tomatoes
and lemon balm
and popcorn popping apricot trees
and temple roses
and forget-me-nots
and kornblumen
and black walnuts
and the Kirkland rhubarb hat fan club
once grew
and flourished
and prospered,
but where there are now
only rotted logs
and cut stumps
and smooth dirt
and the old mossed rock,
and memories.

And I will water my garden,
one last time,
with my tears.

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A Fair Rhubarb Warning: Revolutionary IMprov Rhyming Haiku

Stalk red rhubarb’s stalk/
if you dare, but eat not her/
poison’d green leaves fair.

He Sought Her Then: Romantic IMprov Haiku

He had, years before,/
jumped up and down, hands waving./
Now he sought rhubarb.

Memories Of (Their) Childhood: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

It’s the simple things/
in life which bring joy, like the/
rhubarb hat fan club.

Unexpected Fall Rhubarb Harvest: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

I like the surprise /
and joy of unexpected/
late rhubarb harvests.

Rhubarb-Cherry For The First Time: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

After decades, the/
crisp’s ingredients change, but/
the result’s the same.

Forgotten Surprises: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

The joy of spring time:/
Find gardens where you forgot/
you planted rhubarb.

Or
Joys of Spring: Finding/
gardens where you forgot that/
you planted rhubarb.

Rhubarb Strawberries Vanilla Ice Cream: Revolutionary Blogging Rhyming Haiku

Rhubarb. Strawberries./
Pinch of sugar. Small pot. Heat./
Summer’s ending treat.

OR
After I flipped the spoon out of the pot onto my hand…
Summer’s final burn.

Building A Family, Filling A Pantry: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

Twenty-two year old/
strawberry-rhubarb jam still/
tastes great! We done good.

Keeping My Goal: Revolutionary Blogging Poem

Hands chilled,
I wait for the sun
to drift past
boats,
ducks,
docks,
riprap rocks,
to warm my keyboard.

As dawn comes
to a near-silent lake
(the 6:01 a.m. to Dallas flys overhead
and the first waterskiers jet out
to meet the waking,
wakeless lake),
I look at site stats.

No one viewed me today.
(She had a busy night.)
I catch up
on poetry written
but not blogged.
Yesterday’s busy sunshine
grew weeds,
lawn,
strawberry plants,
tomatoes to plant,
roses to water,
rhubarb to harvest,
and one,
lone
poem,
published a minute before
midnight.

My one-a-day
goal
remains intact,
not on purpose,
but just
in fact.

My hands remain numb
as I wait for the sun
to come.