There Is No Room For Heavenly Peace: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Poetic Lament

Cleaning house
in service
for those who can’t
or won’t,
I play an old tape.

Hell yeah!
It’s Mahalia
Jackson
,
Sleep in Heavenly Peace.

I can’t contain
the torrent of tears
as I clean
even more earnestly
because that’s all I can do now.
Now that I’ve left.
Now that I’ve ripped
lives apart.

This used to be
my city,
my town,
my house,
my family,
my life.

This music brought joy
down the stairs.
I have tapes.
I have videos.

This used to be everything
I lived for.
But now,
I’m cleaning the living room,
and
there is no room.

Helping His Mommy At Christmas Time: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Lament

Somewhere tonight,
a son stayed home,
helping his mommy.

The elderly lady moved
through her house,
finding recycled gifts
which she gleefully packaged
to give to her friends.

Her son followed behind,
lifting boxes of lights
and ornaments
and bows
and presents
to help her.

He had friends
laughing
and singing
and looking at
the bright lights of the city.
His eyes sometimes brimmed
with tears
as he thought
of them
and the fun
he could have had.

They asked him
to go.
They offered him
a ride.
He had, at first,
said yes.
But then,
sadly,
he turned
them
down.

He wanted to go.
He wanted to be
with good folk,
like himself.

He wanted to look at
the nativities
and twinkling trees,
and hear the laughter of children
and adults
and the quiet whisper
of people
reflecting
on the gift of the Savior.

He wanted to get to know
more people,
and feel their friendship
and the joy of the season
and give them friendship
and comfort
and joy,
as he knew
he could.
As he knew
he had.

Instead, he did
what he was asked.
He didn’t ever want
to hurt anybody.
He didn’t want anyone
to feel rejected.

He wept
at the thought
that he bruised tender hearts.

Still,
he knew
and knows
he followed his heart.
Still,
given the choice,
this boy
will
always
try to help
his mommy.

Especially
at Christmas.

Vulnerable Open: Romantic ImproVerse Free Verse Poem

She stood,
arms outstretched,
lungs deep breathing,
gasping for air,
to pull back into her
the truths revealed,
that he’d somehow
yanked from her,
opening her up
and examining every
hidden
part,
without her tacit permission. /

And yet she welcomed it,
yearned for the understanding that/
incredible insight gave,
begged to know/
even as she was known,
and understood,
and covered,
and buttoned up,
like a trenchcoat
she’d once wore,
and only she knew
what was underneath,
or wasn’t.

And she wondered/
who/
and how/
and if/
she’d ever let/
someone /
again/
unbutton it/
and her.

And she knew/
that some day,/
some time,/
the London Fog/
would lift, /
and sun /
would shine/
again,
back-back-back-back,
deep in
the center field/
of her heart,
and she’d again/
get to run home.

Words Hurt, Time Heals: Romantic IMprov Iambic Poem

She had been crushed/

by words dropped on her
with power,

by one who used/

and abused/

them well.

I could tell/

her that my verbs/

and nouns/

and words/

were tender/

and soft /

like butterfly kisses,/

but only time/

could heal her/

and make her well/

once more flow.