Tag Archives: hurting

I Miss You Hollow: Romantic IMprov Blogging Lament

After he sends
sunrise reflections,
and plans,
and dreams,
and musings;

After asking her questions,
then calling,
and scheduling
and hoping to talk
and waiting …
and waiting,
… and waiting …

her short,
late text
recounting a busy day,
(too busy to contact him?),
and a recharging phone
(no other phones work?),
and a late-night visit
to parents,
(so no talking is possible,)
then a terse “Good night!”
is the response received.

Knowing how
the romantic
l o n g s
for contact,
for words spoken
and written;

knowing how
the last few days
had transformed hope
into dreams;
wishes
into action;

in that context
of longing
and waiting,
and pained anguish
and suspense,

“I want you”
and
“I miss you”
ring
hollow
on his
heart.

So Much Creativity: Romantic Blogging IMprov Sonnet

It will be strange to see,
at day’s end,
rhymes and lines of so much creativity
honestly emoting again.

To know of the fantasies
that were, throughout the day,
laid down in visions and dreams
because a romantic had something to say.

To read of the beliefs
he allowed himself to feel,
but at the end see the griefs
he could no longer conceal.

And then to learn, as day faded to night,
it was mused deception. Out goes his light.

Examining The Dark Corners: Revolutionary IMprov Poetry

We shine.
Our bright lights
pierce darkened,
shadowed corners
where scary pests
and sickening pasts
scurry from the light.

Sometimes we see
what others won’t show us.
They are shy.
They are embarrassed.
They are hurt.
They are ashamed.

They try to shut off the light,
try to redirect the beam
to the center,
where everything is already
exposed,
illuminated,
orderly,
neat,
as it should be,
as the world would want it.

We have been there already.
It is comfortable.
With them,
in that space,
we can chat,
cook,
munch,
dine,
dance,
relax,
rejoice,
rest.

We know our way around,
and it is good to
feel warmth
and happiness.

But when we feel
the dark,
the terror,
the fear,
the loneliness;
when we see
the concern,
the worry,
the pain;
it is then we turn away
from the comfort
of the center,
from the warmth
of the fireplace,
from the light
and fresh breeze
coming through the window.

It is then we take our light
and shine it
into the musty corners,
the terrored,
dank,
fetid,
hidden places,
the places of shame,
the hidden recesses
and cavities
where our friends
scream
in pain
and embarrassment
and fear,
and where they beg us
not to go.

Although we honor
and respect them
still, we shine
our lights there,
and expose
that which they plead with us
not to examine.

We pick it up,
and we turn it this way
and that,
looking at every piece,
exposing every seedy underbelly.

And when we see
what they have been hiding,
we learn about them,
and we understand them better.

And they learn
and see
that we are not repulsed,
nor ashamed,
nor sickened.

We have looked at that piece
of whateveritis,
and carefully,
thoughtfully
considered it.

Perhaps we will put it back.
Perhaps we will give it
to our friend to throw away,
or burn,
or discuss,
or hurl,
or crush.

But not to ignore.
Not to pretend it does
not exist.

It is, after all,
there.
And it is still theirs.
They must do with it
what they need to,
even if they can
do nothing
right now.

Still, they know
that we have seen it.
We have felt it.
We have considered it.
We have examined it.
We have exposed it
to our light.

In giving it back to them,
we allow them
to move forward,
with us by their side,
to support,
guide,
help,
or comfort
as they need us to.

And they know,
as they see that our light
does not fade,
nor dim,
nor flicker out,
that we love them.