Blue Screen Blues: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku Lament

I am drawn deeply and/
completely into the/
techno blue screen blues.

Already I’m So Lonesome, Alone Again, Naturally: Revolutionary Blogging Whining Lament Free Verse Poem

Alone again.
Or is it alone,
still.
I know I should be independent,
and yet
I honestly
don’t want to be
totally.

We all have busy lives,
and we all need to respect
and give space
to others
we care for
and about.

Yes, and,
I guess I need
to learn how
to do that.

The reality is
I haven’t yet.
I expect those
I care about
to care about
the same things
I care about;
to be interested
in the same things
I’m interested in,
even if the timing
is not right.

I suppose
that’s selfish
of me.
I just had
different expectations.

And now I have to learn
to deal
with those dashed dreams
and expectations.

The expectations
that everything we did
or everything that one of us
wanted to do
would be
something that
we both wanted
to do.

But that’s not
the way it is.
The real bet is
that there’s just
not always the interest.

That we don’t
always want to walk
that yellow brick road
dressed like Buddy Holly.
(Oooh, oooh!)

I didn’t have time
before
to turn and
face the strange.
But now,
with these ch ch ch changes
I’m goin’ through,
even though things are
gonna get done,
even though there will always be
someone like her
even though the thrift shop trips
may be more efficient,
I don’t want
blue to be my color.

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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.

Don’t Save Your Breath: Revolutionary IMprov Prose

Through the years, I’ve had many friends, you included, who have told me positive things about me. They said kind, wonderful things, even when I argued with them, even when I didn’t believe them, even when it was obvious that I was exhausting them with my negativity and self-pity. They kept telling me wonderful thoughts:
I was good, I was smart, I was kind, I was important, I was intelligent, I was attractive, I was cute, I was an eccentric genius, someday I’d find my tribe and they’d get me.
and many other positive affirmations.
At the time these things were told me, I didn’t believe them. Sometimes I had to hear them many times, but finally I reached a place in my life where I realized that those things could be, might be, possibly may be, true. I accepted them, held on to them, carried them deep in my heart and my soul. They gave me hope. They prompted me and prodded me to keep trying, keep believing, keep hoping.
When I finally decided to take the leap out of self-pity and self-loathing, realizing that I could be someone worthwhile, the memory of all those positive comments came flooding back to me and substantiated me and reinforced me.

You face people who don’t believe you when you tell them how wonderful they are. It seems that you could repeat yourself until you are blue in the face, and they would never believe you. It seems like a waste of time.
So should you save your breath?
That fabulous, articulate, insightful, intelligent, kind breath?
No. Please no!

Twere It Me: Romantic IMprov Rhyming Haiku

I see her deep pain./
I know how I would have been./
I’ll help grow her heart.

Why Make Me Puke? Romantic Blogging Haiku Lament

When she asks if I’m/
grooming others to replace/
her, it makes me puke.

I’m Really NOT Trying 2B A Player: Revolutionary Romantic Blogging Free Verse Lament

Great.
I try
to be nice
to a woman.
I talk
to her.
I’m interested
in her.
I try
to find common themes
we can connect on.

I probe
not to manipulate,
but because I’m interested
in people,
especially women
would might
be right
for me
eventually.

I’m kind.
I don’t try
to string them
along.
I simply try
hard
and harder
and even more
to see if
there might be
some way
we connect.

When,
at last,
we don’t connect,
not really,
I try to be honest
and direct.

Maybe I’m not direct enough.
Maybe I need to say
“Thanks,
I’ll see you around,
but I won’t be asking you
out any more,
because I just don’t feel
“it”.”

But I don’t,
maybe because
I don’t want to hurt
her.
She is,
after all,
a daughter of Heavenly Father.
He loves her.
I wouldn’t want my daughters
to be hurt,
so I try to protect
all of God’s daughters
from that hurt.

That doesn’t make me
a playah.
I’m not trying to manipulate
or seduce
or lie
or be sneaky.

When she calls me
a player,
especially in my
Church’s culture
and society,
it’s like me
calling her
a slut,
a skank,
or worse,
(which is something
I would never do).

Yet she seems to think
it’s okay to warn others,
to tell them
that a month or two
of long-distance phone calls
(because I was thousands of miles away),
followed by two dates
that didn’t go well,
is somehow misleading,
is somehow wrong,
is somehow stringing her along.
That such actions
somehow make me
a player.

It doesn’t.
Because I can’t help
the way she felt.
I can’t help
what she thought about.
I can’t help
what she dreamed of,
or what she imagined
our future would be
together.
When together
doesn’t happen,
it doesn’t mean
it’s my fault.
It just is.

Now I have
a reputation
I don’t think
I deserve.
I have women
who won’t go out
with me,
because I
inadvertently
hurt a fellow
single woman
by not falling
for her.
All I can do
is write,
complain,
whine,
and ask other women
to come see
for themselves.

Oh, and to all women
who brag about how sisters
protect each other,
it might be wise
to get facts straight.
What you are doing
is gossiping,
and it doesn’t look good
on you.

Father’s Day Silence, 2017: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku Lament

So many people
tell me I’m a great dad. If
only my kids would.

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?”

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.