Going To The Land Of Ice And Snow, Home: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

If he returned in/
summer, not winter, would it/
be less cold up Nord?
OR
would their/
Nordfold be less grey?

#JaShureImNorsk
#GrandfatherBirthplace
#NorwegianTourism

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Children’s Beach Laughter: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

Kids playing on a/
winter beach doesn’t sound much/
diff’rent than summer.
OR

Kids playing on a/
winter beach sounds no diff’rent/
than in the summer.

January Wisconsin Stubble: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

News Report: Temperatures in Northeast Wisconsin were expected to only reach -6 degrees, with wind chills of -25 degrees or less.
To some, it’s just a /
scruffy beard. Cheeseheads know: It’s/
frostbite protection.

Apollo Through Frosted Window Panes: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

At the last sunrise,/
I find I have no words to/
express window frost.
OR
At the last sunrise,/
words can’t express Apollo’s/
window frost beauty.

Winter Bird Feeding: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku and Free Verse

I keep birds alive./
They make me happy as they/
gather at feeders.
AND

It’s easy to forget
the simple pleasure
of watching birds
at the winter windows,
hopping,
chirping,
feeding,
as we keep them alive.

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.

Unexpected Winneconne Bohemian Rhapsody: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

Standing on frozen/
shores, arms outstretched, “Any way /
the wind blows.” I’m there.

Tennis Shoes Ice Skating: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

Cracks in the ice don’t/
scare you if you know what you’re/
doing in winter.

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.

Raindrops On Plum Blossoms: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

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