Fading Dreams: Romantic IMprov Haiku

My dreams are fading,/
melting like the blizzard’s snow/
‘neath Spring’s warm sunshine.

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Venturing Out To See: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

It wasn’t ’til he/
ventured out that he saw things/
he’d n’er seen before.

A New Drink: Romantic Blogging Free Verse Poetry

Out in the scrub land,
surrounded by sage,
dry dust,
and a jackrabbit or two,
runs an old sulfur spring.

The water that oozes
from the alkaline soil
is slightly warm,
thick,
somewhat bitter tasting.

It’s not what a traveler
would normally choose,
but given the choice
between that and death,
in a pinch,
it will do.

She knows the path
to the sulfur spring well.
She’s trodden it many times.
It’s not hard to get to.
It’s well worn.
She can see the trail
in her sleep.
There’s not
a lot
else to view.

She knows the spring’s taste is
slightly off,
but she’s so familiar
with that path,
so smooth and easy,
and with the warm,
bitter water,
she finds it hard
to change.

“I’ve been here so often,”
she explains.
“And the taste isn’t
THAT bad.”
“You get used to it.”
“And it doesn’t take
much
effort.”

High on a mountain top
runs a cool mountain spring.
Fed by glacier melt
and late-developing snow storms,
its droplets struggle
through layers of limestone
which trap and remove
impurities.

The water which rises
and touches thirsty travelers
is breath-taking in its freshness
and purity
and crisp coolness.

Breath-taking
like the view
travelers get
from hiking there.
So much to see.
So much to appreciate.
“That drink,
and that view” people say
“makes it worth the effort.”

He offers
to take her
to that spring.
“Leave your well-worn path!”
he says.
“Struggle with me,
and try something new.”

She thinks about it,
for a moment.
But she’s so used
to the path!
So comfortable there!

He watches her go,
little dust devils
nipping at her heels
as she walks,
and walks,
and walks.

Pioneer
afraid to leave
comfortable trails.

He turns,
heart glad
from the vistas
before him,
yet sad.

He misses
that she is missing
what she is missing:
The sunset here.
The gold-painted peaks.
The crisp pine scent.
The cool, pure
naturally-filtered water.

He kneels
again
by the mountain spring,
and fills his canteen.
Then he fills
one for her,
for when she changes
her mind.

My Car’s Faster Than Yours: Revolutionary IMprov Sonnet

Speed is a function
of an open road.
You’re crawling at the junction
of I’s 5 and 90: Overload!

Your powerful Maserati
is stuck in traffic jams.
His cool Ferrari
moves like overcooked Spam.

While my rag-topped Sebring,
tunes up, top down,
heralds the sunshine of Spring
at 80 mph through town.

And fellow freeway observers cheer at my hands:
dancin’ up in the air, like American Band Stand!

The Constancy Of Wild Geese: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Poetry

My family always
calls each other,
twice a year:
“The wild geese are flying!”

“I’ll be right there!”
We grab cups of coffee,
throw on layers,
and brisk walk to the lake.

Ice, black and mottled,
or silver and new,
covers the bays
and inlets,
but, somewhere,
waves are breaking through.
There is open water.

From far away,
carried on cold breezes
which sting our ears
and tear our eyes,
we hear the familiar call.

“HuhUUuh. HuhUUuh.”
We peer out over the lake,
up,
until we see them,
the familiar V
cutting through the wind.

And we laugh,
and jump up and down,
and wave,
and cry.

I’ve wondered why
it stirs us;
why we always
run to see them,
as certainly as they
always
fly.

Do they look for us,
standing on the shore,
waving,
watching,
calling,
crying?

Does the dip of their wings
as they land,
one after the other,
say to us
“Hello, old friends,
ground-bound.
Good to see you.
Thanks for the welcome.
Your clothes never match,
but they make us laugh!
HuuuUHH. HuuuUHH!”

Probably not.

But we can pretend.

Maybe we run
and listen
and search
and watch
because they remind us
of our place.

We join with them
in the great globe,
spinning,
circling,
returning again
and again
and again.

They take away
our winter fears.
Steel us against the
incoming!
cold,
or soar
our spirits
with promise
and hope
and upcoming
warmth.

As long as they fly,
life goes on
as it has,
as it will,
as it should.

We can
and will
continue
to spread our wings,
to fly,
to run,
to call,
to wave,
to cry,
to laugh,
to believe,
to know our place
in things,
as long as there is
the constancy
of wild geese.

On The Eve Of Solstice In My Brown Garden: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Poetry

A friend and I
walked through the stillness
of a late autumn
early winter.

A gentle dust of frost
and a wisp of snow
bathed dead twigs
and leaves
and grasses,
browned,
wilted,
frost-bitten.

“Look how ugly
those rose bushes are!
Remember their summer
beauty? It’s Hard to believe
they are brown and black
and wilted!”

“And the maple tree!
Once gloriously green,
then shimmering scarlet!
Now bunches of dead,
grey twigs and branches,
a few black and brown leaves
desperately hanging on,
as if to recall former colored beauty,
as if to say “You once gazed,
amazed,
at me,
in my glory.

And the grasses!
Glowing light and dark
greens
and silver hues,
now fallen over
blades
of rotten decay
and death.”

I paused
on our walk.
My breath
formed silver clouds
suspended before my face.
In that suspenseful,
suspended
moment,
it seemed I could see
through the cloud, clearly,
what had been,
and what would yet be,
and what was:
Beauty.

My voice hushed,
almost to a whisper,
as though I feared
to disturb
their slumber.

“When you awake,
first,
in the morning,
and gaze at your lover,
as the early beams
turn her hair shimmering,
her skin glowing,
you stop
and admire her,
gently,
silently, softly.

You look
not just from memory
of past beauty
and delight,
of moments shared.

Do you wish she looked
as she did
in her shimmering black dress?
Her swimsuit at the beach?
Her well-maintained work ensemble?
Her cook’s outfit?
Her yoga suit?
or that get-up-and-go
only you see
(and only for a moment!)?

Is that what you wish for
and think of
as you see her,
dreaming,
slumbering?

No.
You stop
and gaze,
and appreciate
in THAT moment,
and enjoy THAT view.

You don’t criticize
hair tossed and tangled.
You don’t call revolting
a face that is devoid
of all enhancing make up,
that still glows
with faint warmth.

You don’t withdraw
from her scent
made stronger from
her time and energy
spent providing you joy.

When you look upon her,
you don’t see
ugly.
You see beauty
in so many forms,
you hold your breath
for fear that the very air
you exhale
might disturb her,
might stir her
from her deep slumber,
and that moment
of soft,
gentle,
pure
beauty
will be lost.

“Just a moment more,”
you think,
“to admire in rapt
appreciation,
her peaceful,
tranquil,
sleeping
soul.”

So it is
when I gaze
on my
wilted rose garden,
my bare tree branches,
my brown and blackened grasses.

I do not see death,
ugly,
with its black,
brown,
and wilted rot.

Instead,
I see a sleeping
beauty,
sweet repose
in that wilted rose.

I see the twigs
and tufts of grass
slumbering,
gathering strength.
I admire the look,
gaze
at the phase
they are in,
sleeping,
resting,
renewing.

That renewal
not only
has its own beauty,
but it reminds me
of what is yet to come:
Tight buds pushing
out of twigs
and branches;
bright green blades
bursting forth
past old ancestors
that provided protection
and nourishment;
bright scented petals
bending seemingly dead
sprigs,
exploding the garden
with early spring color.

Gazing, I see
not just that promise,
but the soft, gentle,
subtle breathing,
the ebb and flow,
the yin and yang
of sleeping,
resting,
reviving
beauty.”

My words
and breath
hung,
crystal in the air,
then slowly fell,
shimmering,
and surrounded
that sleep
with morning rainbows
and promises.

Alpine Lake List: Solitude Isn’t So Solitary — Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse

I took a flat,
0.8 mile
saunter,
a not bored walk
on a boardwalk
around Silver Lake.

By the time I’d finished
I’d seen:
A moose cow and her calf;
Two squirrels;
New pussy willows;
One fish carcass;
Haze from a green wood campfire;
Two doe mule deer;
A reflecting lake;
A distant bridal photo shoot;
A towhee;
Two killdeer in flight;
Two beaver (one slap happy);
Three mallards in flight;
An aspen freshly felled by the beavers;
One hen mallard on her nest;
Three ducklings under her wing;
A patch of yellow columbines;
Sunset on mountain peaks;
Glowing new green on an aspen grove;
A rushing, raging, roaring mountain stream;
A new place to enjoy.

I failed to thank my tour guide,
a Dad who taught me to look,
and God.

Picturing Reality: Revolutionary Email Meme Haiku

Reality is/
glorious, but improves with/
a cheap camera phone.

Raindrops On Plum Blossoms: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

Like pink crystals the/
drops hang: Mem’ries of Winter,/
harbingers of Spring.

Centering Tree: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

It’s the same tree, the /
same place I heard spring come. Now/
fall’s here. I weep joy.