Tag Archives: Emotional poetry

My Memory, No Video, Remembers: Revolutionary IMprov Free Verse Poetry

He saw

a desert picture,

Mojave,

her costume,

her children,

the stage,

and remembered.
Somewhere,

in Ecotopia?

there is video

proof:

A costume’d man,

Teenage
Mutant
Ninja Turtle
(popular the first time around)

standing on a balcony

stage,

as soft light

through the patio window

breaks.

He’s surrounded by

young ballerinas,

Merry Misses,

missing the raindrops

and the mist,
laughing,

skipping,

she directing.

Were there tissues

and cloth

and streamers?

Moving,

Swirling,

Dancing

around him,
(old yet young,
giggling)

chanting:
“excellent.
Excellent!
EXCELLENT!”

It was her first
video choreograph.
It was finished,
parked,
and lost.

He never saw it,
that videoed memory,

most excellent,
but in his mind,
he can recall
those better,
more pure
days,
and dances.

Even without

the video,

taped,

and the paper mache’

green and purple,

long since crushed

and lost

turtle head.

Seeing hats of green,

he remembers.

She

has not strayed.
Her art

reminds him

to be

mutant

excellent.

 

 

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.

An Open Email To The Insecure: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Poem

I’ve been there.
I know,
not exactly,
but partially,
how it feels
to doubt.

I get
that you don’t get
how fabulous you are,
how positive we are.

The dreams we hold
dear,
as children,
as princesses and princes,
or as knights
or court jesters,
get beaten.
We lose.

Instead of dreams,
nightmares.
Or worse.
Because in nightmares
we fight.
We rage,
rage,
against the onslaught,
against the lava
that covers us,
against our pants
falling down,
preventing us from running
until we awaken,
wrapped
and trapped
in the sheets
designed to hold us
and keep us
safe
and warm.

No nightmares
take us to death’s door,
stop our dreaming.
It is the belief
that we can’t.
We fear to close
our eyes,
not because we’ll dream
nightmares,
but because we fear
dreaming
nothing.

That fear
follows us
into life.
We believe
the doubts.
We believe
the nothing.
We see
nichts.

But we are always
wrong.
Even when we are
nothing,
we are something.
The likelihood
of being great
is just as great
as the lie
we believe
of nothing.

You tell me
“I think I am
nothing.”
I tell you
“I think you are
something.”

Which is right?
Even in a straight-up
gamble,
there is fifty percent
likelihood
you are
something.

This is no gamble.
It is real.
You exist.
And because you exist,
you are
something.

How great
your something
is
can be discovered.
If not,
it still exists.
It is there
because
you are here.

You just
have to accept
the fact
that,
no matter how you see
yourself,
(or don’t),
other people are going to see
you.
Most will see you well.
And they
(at this point in your life)
are more likely to be closer
to the truth
than you,
sadly,
are.

Some day you will get back
to seeing yourself
as the awesome
and creative
and talented
and intelligent
and shining
person
you really are.

Right now,
you just
have to take
my word
for it.

Word.
Truth.

Sharing Fish Stories: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Sonnet

Unknowingly she, poet, captured
a moment I remembered,
of walking with salmon,
of connecting with eternal.

Feet icicle freezing,
yet warmed and massaged
by those same opal fins
she described.

My daughter and I,
captivated by glinting rainbows
beneath the river’s rivulets,
had cautiously waded in.

In firebrands’ shadows,
autumn leaves
dying orange and red,
we’d joined death and creation.

If I respond with my own fish story,
do I diffuse or enlarge her spawned memory?