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.

I’d Forgotten It’s Because It’s What I’m Supposed To Do: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

It’s been so long
since I’ve done
what I should do,
daily,
that I’ve almost forgotten
how;
I’ve almost forgotten
why;
I’ve almost forgotten
who I am.

Because I became
because I did
what I was asked.
Because I struggled
even when the words
weren’t flowing.

Because often
the mere fact of
doing the thing
that you’ve been told to do
is what you need
to discover
and maintain
who you are.

So once again I launch
back into my Obama-era goal:
Write
and blog
a poem
or prose piece
each day.

The words may not be
insightful
or deep
or moving.
Or they might be.

Most importantly,
they will be
and are
who I am
and who I will be,
so as long as I write
and post
and am,
I exist
much more deeply
than I ever did before.

Maybe that’s why I feel
as though I’ve gone
into hiding.

Look out!

SHHHH! Speaking Truth Quietly: Revolutionary Blogging Haiku

There are truths which need/
to be said, for your sake, but/
kept private for hers.

Thawing Sunrise: Revolutionary Blogging Haiku

Not all amazing/
sunrises have to be red./
Thawing mists bring hope.

Pixels Of Light, Words On A Page: Romantic Blogging Iambic Poetic Lament

I stand
as a man,
and expose
my soul
and my head
with dread,
and my heart.
Women want to see other parts:

The plump
gut or rump,
the face wrinkles,
the sprinkles
of grey
I won’t wash away.
For until we’ve met in person,
I’m a pixels of light version.
I could be real,
like what I feel,
or just a joke
made with mirrors and smoke.

I write words
some deep, some absurd
that say who I am,
and she’ll listen
and, if in tune,
she might swoon
and think me great,
and can not wait.
To greet me.
She feels romantically
inclined;
thinks I might be divine,
and just right.
But it requires sight.
We can’t be complete
until we at last meet.

I’m just paint on her palette;
a sculptor’s chisel and mallet
laying still and unused.
And she’s just my dreamed Muse.

I park
my car,
stand up, and from afar,
She sees no spark.
She feels no fun.
We’re done.
Over. Finito. Finished.
Visions once so delish
are now just pixels of light
that failed to ignite.

Words on a page
which once engaged
her mind, heart and soul,
no longer glow,
but now vanish,
and the mist
of possibility
ceases to be.

(Except, guess what?
It could be “Or Not!”)

Dear Cupid: Romantic Blogging Iambic Poem

Dear Cupid:
This Valentine’s (Single Awareness) Day,/
Don’t let me be stupid.

Hold my fingers and tongue
so I won’t write or say
something dumb.

Oh. Wait.
Too late.
I already did.

Hey Cupid!
If you care,
do some repair.

Creating Found Object Art: A Draped-Wall Recipe — Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

Blank Canvas

Location:
A grafittied and windowed
cement, brick and adobe ruined wall
in a ghost town
in Central Utah.

Ingredients:
A several foot long
orange and black
polyester rope.
Two 5-inch pieces
of bailing wire.
Several pieces of old blue tarp,
starting to dissolve,
twisted, torn
and actively ripping.
A used square red 4-holed brick.
A used broken yellow clay brick.
Two pieces,
one yellow,
one orange,
of baling twine
pulled off rotted hay bales.

Installation

Throw the rope through
the Eastern-most,
partially bricked-up
window,
Cask of Amontillado-like,
toward the snow-covered,
sunset pink mountain peaks
in the distance.

The black-orange coral-snake
now hangs over
the graffitied north wall
of the adobe and cement house ruins.
Take one end of
the largest piece
of blue tarp
and twist-tie it to the rope.

Unravel the frayed blue plastic
until you find the strongest
and longest
terminus
opposite the rope end.

Tie the open end
to another end of frayed blue tarp.
Repeat the process,
laying the tarp lengthwise
along the base of the cement/adobe wall,
until it reaches the far western wall.

Twist-tie two pieces of bailing twine
to the end of the frayed blue tarp piece.
Take the other end of twine
and run it
through a center hole of the red brick.
Tie them together.

Raise the red brick to sit on the edge
of the far West window.
The frayed blue tarp will rise.
Unfurl and untwist
pieces of blue tarp
so they are extended
as far as possible.

Final Adjustments
In the center,
raise a triangled piece
of frayed blue tarp
to the sill of the third window.
Place the yellow brick on the tarp,
holding it in place.

The blue tarp will now be draped
over the wall.
Push the red brick
through the western window,
so the tarp raises higher
and is taut.

In the center,
find a grommet
in the blue tarp.
Take a piece of baling wire
and twist it through the grommet,
leaving the wire’s end
extended.

Raise the blue tarp and grommet
as high as possible.
Insert the bailing wire
deep into a crack between the bricks
in the middle bricked-up window,
insuring it is tight.

Go to the other side
of the Eastern,
partially-bricked window,
and pull the rope
until the tarp
is completely raised
and taut.

Finished.

Is It Art? What Is?

Christo trucked in
fabric sheets
and ran a fence,
draping miles
of Nature’s perfect
California coastal
mountainside scenery.

They raised The Gates,
which stood
in Central Park,
stopping folks
wanting to bike
and play
on the lawn.

In 14 days,
the mono-colored
Tibetan Prayer-Flag-like
piece
won’t be taken down.

The fabric
and the ropes
and the walls
and the creators
won’t have grant money
given,
or books written about,
or Life Magazine photo essays
shot
extolling.

Yet who is to say that
groupings of found objects,
similarly hung
by unknown creatives
on the side of
a mud-slide destroyed
ruin
in a Utah railroad ghost town
once known as Thistle,
isn’t also art?

Two Words: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

From YOUth,
my head-mind
ego-fed,
unkind,
spoke words
of doubt,
“you’re absurd”,
fear,
“you’re not dear”.

Each time I thought about
doing
saying
writing
joking
dancing
acting
laughing
being
open mic-ing,
improving,
anything-ing,
I’d hear:
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s immature.”
“You’re attention getting.”
“That’s weird.”
“Others will think you’re odd.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“You’re absurd.”
“That’s not spiritual.”
“You’re a bad example.”
“You’re scary.”
“You’re juvenile.”
“What would Jesus do? NOT THAT!”
“You’re not good.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re self-centered.”
“You’re a fool.”

For so long
I believed the voice,
the Angst,
the negative,
the stoppage,
until I was living
a blocked
shut-down,
fearing
life.

Then guides
invited me
to take an 8-inch
trip
down,
from my mind,
fearing,
name-calling,
ego,
to my heart.

I like journeys,
so I accepted
the invitation.
I took my hand
filled with thoughts
from my head,
and placed it
and them
on my heart.
There I felt
the warmth,
tenderness,
and love
growing from deep within.

As I heard-thought
those words
of fear
and rejection
and shame,
from my head,
my loving,
kind,
big,
gentle
heart
listened to them,
those embarrassment / hate words,
then simply,
calmly,
lovingly
but forcefully
whispered:
“Or not.”

What She Sends Me: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

She sends me
Photos
Showing her beauty.
All of it.
I didn’t ask.
I actually never have.
Well, maybe sometimes.
When I was lonely.
Back in the day.
Like yesterday.

But this time,
Really,
I didn’t ask.
They just showed up.
First,
Selfies in a mini-van.
Selfies in the kitchen.
Then,
golden-lighted,
(the way bedroom lights glow)
Copper-tonedskincolors
FromherbedohmyheckthatsAMAZING
Surprise.

But not so much.
Because many do it.
Just as, I’m sure,
Many ask for it.

So it should be no shock
To anyone
That almost everyone
Probably has gotten them
Or has probably sent them
(Except the Supreme Court
Who simply passed on
The envelope
Without even looking.)

Does thinking about it
makes you sick?
Yes.
Just like it
makes me ill.
Punched in the stomach.
Kicked in the heart.

Because I and you like
to think
We are unique
And sacred
And wanted
Only.

And I and you don’t want
to imagine
That we are common
And cheap
And normal
And doing what
Almost
Everyone else does
Or has least thought about.

I feel sadillsickpunchedkicked
Especially when
I look at the pictures
And know they weren’t taken
Today
Or last night,
For just me,
But weeks or months ago
For someone else
And I am just an afterthought,
a “may as well”,
A “I wonder what he’ll think”,
A “this should surprise him.”

Being ordinary
Makes me sadillsickpunchedkicked
And cry
And hide.

In my corner,
cowering,
contemplating,
I wonder
When I get them,
“Why me?”
Do I have
“PERVERT” or “VOYEUR”
Or “TYPICAL GUY”
or “PIGDOGRUNTMEATHEAD”
Stamped across my forehead?
Does my London Fog coat
Look like I could flash it open
At any moment?

Or do I just get those photos
Because I’m a guy
And guys like that type of stuff
And guys like that are pigs
And all guys are pigs
Therefore I should be sent those photos
To prove to her and everyone else
That I’m a pig,
And that I’m not worthy of her time.

She’d never send those photos
To “him”.
He’s too straight-laced
She says,
And would probably faint
And then write her off
And dump her.

Noooo! She,
Wearing lace
collars,
Church-going,
Righteous,
Sunday School
Or women’s auxiliary
Teacher
Or holy music
Leader
On her way to minister
To the sick
And the lonely
And the depressed
And oppressed,
That’s not the her
Who she wants to be
To herself
Or anyone else
Who matters.
Especially not
To him.

She is that good person.
I see her like that.
So does everyone else.
He, especially.

So he gets mini-van selfies
And kitchen selfies
And selfies with both of them
Happy on the trail
Or at dinner
Or at sunset
Or on the beach
Or doing something wonderful.

Sweet, gentle, peaceful selfies,
Graceful,
Censored by life,
Until the time he gets to see
Everything she wants to show him
In person.
Because he is worthy
Of getting nothing now
And everything later.

While I,
Who try so hard
Not to be “that type”,
Not to be known “like THAT,”
Get unsolicited
Golden bedroom light photos
That keep filling up
My texts
And computer-file folders
And mind
With selfie smiles
I can’t forget
But won’t ever get.

What We Talk About: Revolutionary Blogging Poem

When we talk,
what should we talk about?
Flowers.
Weeds.
Flat
tires,
stomachs,
lines.

The gnomes
who roam.
Rome.
Phones.
Work.
Mold.
Getting old.
Being bald.

Family joy.
Family pain.
Music.
Art.
Dancing.

Everything we talk
about
that involves you,
that interests you,
interests me, and
involves me
emotionally.

I thought
what I was,
and what I was
doing,
was interesting.
I tried to involve
you,
because I thought
you, like me,
like me enough
to want to know;
to want to hear;
to want to be involved
in every nuance,
every iota,
every miniscule
minutea.

Why did I want to share “that”,
or anything,
all,
or at all,
with you?
Because I thought I,
and it,
was interesting.

Thank you
for pointing out
some things,
to you,
are not.

Thank you
for asking:
“Why did you feel
you needed
to share
that with me?”

That’s a good question.
I didn’t think
about it.
There was no reason.
I didn’t think
about any reason.
I just wanted
to share
part of my life.
An event that happened.
A quirky experience
I had with a friend,
that I wanted to share
with a friend,
thinking that friend
might be interested.

It’s silly of me
to think everything
in my life
is interesting
to you.

I guess I thought that it was true
because everything that happens to you,
to me,
is.

CyranoWriter

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