Category Archives: Revolutionary Blogging Poetry

Washing Hands Lament

There once was a man
who didn’t wash his hands
then touched everything in the kitchen.

When I remind him again
after he’d touched his glands,
I always felt I was bitchin’.

(That is to say,
not in a good way,
I’d rather eat rotten chicken.)

What should I do?
What should I say?
I continually remind him
day after day.

He just shrugs and stares.
He clearly doesn’t care.
Maybe not caring’s the trick
(At least ’til I get sick.)

You’d think what we’d seen
during Covid-19
would change his hand washing
without all my bossing.

What should I do?
I haven’t a clue.
And now I’ll go puke
’cause I’ve got the flu.

Ill I’ll Sit, Doing Nothing: Free Verse Lament

Ill I’ll sit,
doing nothing.

A beautiful sunny,
mid-winter’s day
beckons,
but I,
sinuses backed up,
mouth agape,
feel no urge
to venture out.

Snot pushing up
into my brain
seems to plug
every
and any
thoughts I might have.

Hazy-headed,
I attempt to breathe,
but instead
mearly gasp.

There should be more
to write about,
to think about,
to do,
but this giant screen
covers and prevents
any outlet
of creativity.

My coughing
hurts my back,
makes me want to crawl
back into bed,
snuggle under
warm covers,
where I can’t breate,
and will only think
of how I should be doing something,
anything.
But what?

Individual Responsibility Environmentalism: Free Verse

I’m called tree hugger,
greener,
environmentalist,
eco-warrior.

I call myself
those names, too.
But when I see
red-faced screamers
demanding that
governments and nations
make accords,
do something,
force compliance,
I back away.

Giving government
more power
is not where I’ll waste
my waste-fighting
eco-warrior
energies.

Haven’t we learned
from Muir,
Thoreau,
Leopold,
and others?

They DID,
and they wrote
about what they DID.
Movements started
with the power of
DOING,
with the power
of words.

They introduced others
to the beauty
and wonder
and peace,
and joy
found in God’s Creations,
in Mother Nature.

They partnered
with God,
with Nature,
to help folks,
the common man and woman,
feel love for
and wonder at
all God’s creations.

Because how will I
partner with,
love,
and protect
a creation
I’ve never experienced?

This was prompted by an essay on individual responsibility in environmentalism.

What Am I Doing And Why?

The rain has come
and gone.
Torrents falling
and felling
wildflowers
and trees
and hopes
of what I was going to do
today.

Doctor Seuss
and the Cat
and the siblings
knew what that felt like:
Stuck inside,
plans dashed.

My wife and I
though,
(Thing 1 and Thing 2)
were able to clean
and sort
and organize,
even as the rain fell.

Something
from nothing.

But now
I’ve cleaned up,
changed,
showered,
dressed,
much too early
to leave as I planned.
And I can’t go back out
and work
in the dirt
the way I want to.

My hands will be muddy,
my knees will be soiled,
my hair will be full
of garbage
and dirt,
and I will not be ready to go
anywhere.

What should I do instead?

I’ll put my fingers
on the black keyboard,
stare at a blank screen
of white,
and wait to see
what comes out,
what happens next,
where the day
will take me,
and why.

Yearning For A Downtown Small Cafe

I hear.
I feel.
I see.
I’ve gone quiet.

Ah, Marianne!
Ah, Trish!
Muses of the bench!
What moments I had
with you
(and Paul, and all)
in that small cafe.

Not for the discounted
pastries (past 9 p.m.)
came I,
but for the fuel
that filled me
from words tumbling
and singing
and screaming
from hearts
and souls
and minds.

How many
napkins
ripped I apart,
furiously scratching
short verse
that vented my brain.

Now?
Now,
so far from that place
I can’t even remember
its name;
So removed
from the Enliten’d
creative muse
that once
lit my flame;
I struggle
to have a voice,
to say what I must,
what I should.

My woods,
rocks,
rills,
temple’d hills
sing loud
and sweetly to me,
as wrens call
each morning
and wind and owls and coyotes and I
howl
each evening.
And I can capture that all,
that peace.
There is no torment,
no pain,
as there was so often
there.

Yet, here,
there is something still
missing,
a driving force
that came from knowing
each week,
on one night,
I needed to stand up
on wood-plank’d floors,
to raise my voice
toward a black and silver orb,
to lift my hands,
to clear my mind,
to speak for myself.