Rose Garden Tasks: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku

It’s time to throw off/
sleep’s cold, shed leafy blankets,/
and reach for Spring’s growth.
OR
It’s time to throw off/
winter’s cold, shed leaf blankets,/
and wait for Spring’s hope.
OR
and hope for Spring’s blooms.

Irony At A Frozen Yogurt Shop: Revolutionary Chalkboard Haiku

Frozen sweetness in/
winter’s coldest, darkest hour/
is good irony.

OR

Frozen sweetness in/
winter’s coldest, darkest hour:/
Tasty irony.

Remembering A New Year’s Resolution: Revolutionary Blogging Poetry

It was cold
last New Year’s Day.
Someone was sick.
I thought maybe
she was dying.

It was not my place
to worry.
I had no familial ties,
no vested interest,
but I did.
And I do.

So I called, then,
that frigid January day,
caring,
a caregiver
relative,
who I cared for.

No answer.
Cold she was,
thinking I was prying.
She didn’t understand
that people can care;
that people call;
reach out;
try to find out
what is happening.

My roots,
Midwest deep,
tell me to probe.
To ask.
To be concerned,
as I want people
who should care
to care
about me.

But it’s not her
culture.
It’s not her
way.
And on that bitter
New Year’s Day
I learned.
She gave me
harsh
reality check
insight
into the way things are.
I
and my caring,
is lost on her.
I am not welcome,
and I lost her.

But out of bitter winter,
thaw comes.
Seasons bring change.

Ice melts,
and water comes
and goes,
and flows
under many
bridges.

She returned.
So you’d think
I’d have learned,
and not burned
bridges again.

Scenarios replay themselves,
so we may learn
from them.

Once again
sickness stalks,
and I, as a friend,
am worried.
I call.
No answer.
I ask again.
No response.

And though Spring
has warmed the sky,
the soil,
and grown seeds
and relationships,
the memory
of that cold
sub-zero
New Year’s Day
sprouts,
blows back into me
and my mind,
and stings
like that bitter wind.

Do I care?
Yes.
But those who don’t care
that I care
may again howl
as uncertainly,
fiercely,
and coldly
as last winter’s blizzard,
and water my eyes,
and burn my cheeks and ears,
and take away my breath.

So I turn my back
on the potential,
threatening,
miserable cold,
the chill memory,
those feelings that could stop
my heart.

Instead,
I lift my head,
face the warmth
of the red-rocked
sunset
and walk out
and on
alone.

Tonight’s moonset,
tomorrow’s sunrise
may bring news.
It may be good.
It may be tragic.

If it comes,
I will hear.
But I will not ask.
Here, in the land of
“This is The Place!”,
asking is not my place.

What I’m Invited For: Revolutionary IMprov Poetry

To take up the slack,
she invited me for dinner
when I get back,
to shoo out Winter.

And to quietly sit
around her fire pit
and gaze at the stars
and find Venus and Mars
as she makes me
a delish
dish
to remind me
of what I missed.

Memory of Town Square Winter’s Night: Romantic ConTEXTing Poem

The trolley starts, clangs, then stops./
Horse hooves clop/
thru the night air./
Town Square/
is dark,/
but I still carry the spark/
from when we were there.

To a Rose At Last Blossoming: Revolutionary Blogging Improv Sonnet

A friend wrote a poem in a new blog, and then wondered about her poetic ability. This sonnet is in response (and is also on the comment page to her poem).

To a Rose At Last Blossoming

Roses don’t blossom
quickly, like the daffodil, tulip,
or dandilion,
only to fade just as quickly away.

Instead, they rise from a bushes,
born years before.
The older the rosebush,
the sweeter and longer lasting the blossom.

People glance at rosebushes in winter,
comment on their plainness;
their brown sticks protruding through dead mulch;
their ugliness, deadness, and thorns.

But when rose blossoms at last spread their color’d fragrance,
Humankind is blessed, touched and inspired by true beauty.

Awakening in Spring: A Romantic ConTEXTing Poem

I, thru the winter wait,/
sleeping hung,/
but now am awake,/
and sprung/
into action/
because of the attraction/
your words create./
I dont want 2 wait/
4 satisfaction.