Still Not Strong Enough: Haiku Lament

You appear out of

nowhere, preying on my past.

Fail I? Yes … then NO.

What Have I, Done? Lamenting Haiku

I responded bad,/
before I’d read her, knew her./
I feel ill and guilt.

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

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.

Painful Garage Discoveries: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Lament

They fell out
of an old cardboard box,
in a pile, onto the floor.
It was like that scene
from Garfield’s Christmas.

I, too, found a stack
of old love letters,
written from she who now,
as I move her out of her life,
must be obeyed;
she who I betrayed.

I’d forgotten,
(or maybe I never knew,)
how much she loved
me.

Her words tell me.
Surprise me.

Now,
nearly four decades later,
I can only stand
in the messed up
and cluttered garage
the cold, damp space
that still holds,
for a little while longer,
the life
which we shared.

There,
amid piles
of old,
handwritten papers,
scarcely daring to read
those words she wrote
decades ago,
I weep bitter tears of
sorrow,
guilt,
pain,
and deep remorse.

She’ll never know
how sorry I am.
How could she?
Until this moment,
I didn’t even know.

Stand Up Guilt: Romantic ConTEXTing Haiku

She may need to stand/
me up. So why should I be /
feeling so guilty?

Return(ed) With Honor: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse

The red sandstone lay,
slight dimpled drill hole,
square-cut right-angled block,
beneath an ancient cross-joist
floor timber.

I thought I could take it,
a memory of someone’s old home,
a house I’d often seen
before a geological disaster
mud-slid, then drowned it
and its town,
thistle down,
into near oblivion.

Utah’s Pompeii,
covered with mud
except for a few
cut-stone
structures.

This red sandstone rectangle,
90 degree
right angle cut
not found in nature:
No one would miss it.

The rough red
would create an awesome border
on my garden,
a new use for old stone.

But even as I hoisted it
and walked car-ward,
it seemed to say:
“Stay.”
Heading downhill,
I slipped on rain-soaked mud
and had to throw it as I fell
to avoid having it
crush my pelvis.

Sitting in the back
of my car,
it seems to whisper
“Take me home.”

I almost dropped it off
last night,
right after I nearly hit
a white-tailed deer
on State Route 89,
near where there jersey barrier
separates me
and the block
from the home
it has known
for a hundred years.

Do the stones
have souls?
Do the square-cut corners
and dimpled indentations
still hold memories
and longingly speak?

I do not know.
I do know
that it does not belong
with me,
in my garden.
So I ~~will~~did return it
with honor,
and will hopefully
not slip again.