Posts Tagged ‘www.cyranowriter.com’

To My Darling, Dearest One, Post Movie: Romantic Free Verse Lament

January 16, 2019

My Darling:
My fingers fly across space and keys, anxiously tapping and pounding words which have swollen my heart this evening for far too long.
Why is the connection so slow? Why do I have to wait longingly for some electronic synapse, when the waves in my brain and my heart are racing full speed, threatening to rip the arteries between those two organs asunder.
My Dearest: Tonight we watched a movie of London and research and libraries and University and the Yorkshire coast and countryside. It was of two Literati, one hidden poet and one descendant of two artists long passed and largely forgotten. A romance. A genealogical detective story. A movie full of poetry, love requeited and not, of honesty and deception. It was a film full of scenery and sadness, of whisper and wanting, of two – facedness twice.
Loved one: It was a cinemascope full of everything you, as a romance writer, love. It was and is a tale I should and would, as a romantic poet, gladly embrace with you, fully, completely, deeply.
Except for that one moment, that once scene in that one arbor-windowed room overlooking the ocean, as the waves heaved and foamed and surged and rolled in and out, in and out. It is that moment that, for all its beauty and tenderness, will always break my heart, and will always turn me inside out, and give me pain.
Even now, my beloved, I hear the music, I feel the muse (he called her his Muse, or was it her that called him her Muse?), and instead of rejoicing, my heart is heavy with memory and regret.
Fortunately, that forbidden moment was long ago. Just as she let him drop her hair down, at last, maybe some day I can accept that love, believe that goodness can happen in those moments.

For did not Solomon come of David and Bathsheba?

Perhaps, Love, someday
my pain will away,
and with it will fade regret.
But not yet.
Alas, Loves, not yet.

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Weird Pre-Christmas Night But It’s Okay! Revolutionary Blogging Haiku

December 17, 2018

Pre-made cookie dough,/
a drying Tannenbaum, she/
plays Yule songs. All’s right.

Holiday Gift Giving Fails: 3 Revolutionary Blogging Haiku Laments

December 3, 2018

It might be time I/
stop guessing what gifts I should/
give. I’m not that good.
OR:
It might be time to/
stop guessing what gifts to give./
Seems I’m not that good.
=============================
When you’ve blown someone/
away with a gift, it’s hard/
to ever repeat.
==========================
Folks should know: When they’re/
not enthused getting gifts, the /
source dries up quickly.

Rain On My Parade? So What? Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

November 30, 2018

When folks get drenched to/
their cores, their souls more eas’ly /
find paths to connect.

Garden In The Bathtub Legacy: Revolutionary Family History Prose

November 25, 2018

Maria Vogt or Weidt GEERDTS, early 1900s, by her chicken coop in Sheboygan, WisconsinThere is an old family history story that my Grandma Bertha Geerdts Kuhns used to tell me about her father’s mother, a little old immigrant German lady who lived in Sheboygan Wisconsin at the turn of the century. My Grandma Bertha said that this woman (Maria Vogt or Weidt Geerdts) had chicken coops, a garden, but what Grandma Bertha most remembered about Maria Geerdts’ house in Sheboygan is that her large clawfoot bathtub was never used for bathing.

Instead, it was always full of garden plants.
Plants in jetted bathtub, Nov 2018
Sometimes I wonder if my great-great Granny Geerdts is looking down on my giant jetted bathtub …
and smiling.

Upon Thinking On A Deep Funk: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Lament

November 2, 2018

Her creativity,
this evening’s music muse,
wafts like a late autumn breeze
out her door,
down the hallway,
to my ears.
Peace.

My oldest creation,
son,
and his creation,
my granddaughter,
gaze,
smiling,
from my screensaver.
Joy.

Yet I,
creative meistro
sitting on a hickory’d hill,
fall’s colored leaves
glowing in the sunset;
bright moon and stars
gleaming in the dark
rural’d night,
haven’t written
for daze.
Weeks.
Blank.

Work,
government linguistics,
leaky doors,
amityville horror phermone’d bugs,
busted lights,
stalled furnaces,
all beyond the grasp
of my repair.
Guilt.

Gardens unharvested;
tall fall grasses
in the front yard
unburned,
failed wildflower experiments
where there once was so much
promise.
Melancholy.

All around me,
there is paper
and hundreds of shades
of different hues,
muse,
notes,
thousands of words
i could use.
Yet none come.
Funk.

What to do.
What to do?
Do.
Perhaps
creativity
will drop
like dew
when I do.
And I’ll rinse my face
and cleanse my soul
and refresh my heart
and free my mind.

It’s worth a try.

My Poetic Dream Exists In Georgia: Romantic Napkin Poem

July 19, 2018

I left for Georgia./
I took my writing with me./
She really exists!

She Blows Away My Angst: Romantic Napkin Haiku

July 19, 2018

Even when love blooms/
me, poet, still carries Angst./
She blows it away.

No More Whining: Revolutionary Napkin Poetry

July 19, 2018

Remember when I’d/
stand here, weep and moan about/
my dates. I won’t now!

Remember When Napkin Poems? Revolutionary Napkin Haiku

July 19, 2018

Hey! Remember when/
I used to write napkin poems?
They won’t go away!