The Emergence Of The Grown, Cocooned Youth: Revolutionary IMprov Poem

The young,
optimistic s/he,
running,
happy,
care free,
observing,
enjoying,
creative,

Withdrew.

From fear,
through a desire
for self-preservation,
and wrapped itself
deep within
the shell
that grew
and matured
and thrived

and took the blows
and the arrows
and the doubts
and the pain.

But one day
the cocooned,
energized,
insightful,
observant,
joyful
protected being,
who had grown
and been nurtured
and cherished,
realized it was time.

Time to emerge.
Time to reveal.
Time to risk.
Time to take
its rightful place
as owner
and operator
and thinker
of its soul
and mind
and destiny.

It was scary,
at first,
to show itself.
To say “Here I am,
again,
for the first time.”

But it felt the warmth of the sun
on its face.
The cool breeze blowing through its hair.
The moist mist of early morning
fog lifting.
The passion
and compassion
of love.

And it knew,
having been sheltered
and protected
and nurtured
and walled
for so long,

that free,
and fearless
and embracing
and empowered
and enjoying
and joyful
was where it belonged.

Here.
Now.
Being.

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.

I’m Sorry, I Can’t: Romantic Blogging Poetic Lament

I wasn’t going to publish this one because it’s too painful … but a friend said I should.

I ask if we can talk.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.
I’m sorry, I’m busy.
Not tonight, I’m tired. I’m sorry.
Not tonight, I’m thinking. I’m sorry.
Not now, maybe later. I’m sorry.
I’m at my folks. I’m sorry.
I can’t tonight. I’m sorry.
I don’t feel like talking. I’m sorry.
I’m caving. I’m sorry.
Now is not a good time. I’m sorry.
I’m busy. I’m sorry.
I’m doing something else. I’m sorry.
I’m tired. I’m sorry.
I’m sore. I’m sorry.
I’m sleepy. I’m sorry.
I’m busy or I would. I’m sorry.
I’m not feeling up to it.
I’m not in the mood.”

What everyone tells me she’s saying is:
“Thanks, but no thanks … sorry!” Or
“I’m not that into you.”

I just wanted to talk. I’m sorry.

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.

Expanding Horizons: Romantic Blogging Poetic Lament

“I should expand my horizons,”
she says.
“It will be good for me
to experience
what I never have before,
to have the freedom
to discover.”

So,
I let her go,
so she can see
what’s out there.
Who cares.
Who shares.
Who dares.

A few weeks later
her world expands.

She has reached out
to embrace
all the myriad
and endless
possibilities
and potentials
she never had,
she never saw before,
she never experienced.

Her arms open
wide,
and then close,
wrapped tightly
around another.

That was quick.

Loving The Revolution: Revolutionary Romantic IMprov Blogging Poetry

Fulfilling a promise I made on President Obama’s Inauguration Day, to write a poem or prose a daily, I’ve now more than doubled my self-imposed quota. Thanks to the muses — known and unknown — who have inspired me, and to my friends who expressed their belief in me. Inspired by Facebook’s “The Reflective Writer”, here is my 2000th poem, combining the two main themes of this blog: Romance and Revolution.

I love
my Revolution.
I embrace
change.
I woo
adapting.
I desire
adjustment.

It’s romantic,
isn’t it?
This self-propelled
repair;
this analysis
and violent rebirth;
this surgery
that let’s me
see
and be
who I am,
revolutionary.

Accepting change
means changing
the way we view
everything.

The revolution
heads down
from our brain,
up from our heart
and soul,
and out
our mouths
and fingertips.

But first,
we must love us
and the world.
We must romance
ourselves,
believing the world
needs love,
sweet love;
love is all you need.

And when we love ourselves,
and love the world,
we take that vow
of love.
We disavow
that fear
which holds us back
from revolutionary
acts.

We change
who we are,
Because we love;
Because we romanticize
life;
Because we embrace
joy;
Because a little revolution,
now and then,
is good for the soul.

And when we create revolution
in ourselves,
we extend how much
we can love.

Years ago,
revolutionaries spoke
from Capitol steps.
It was in this hope
and audacity,
that I vowed,
hopefully,
audaciously,
to start my own
revolution,
because I loved myself,
and wanted to romance
the world.

The revolution
called for one
a day.
One statement.
One thought.
One outpouring.
One lament.
One laugh.
One cry.
One moan.
One change.
One.

2,000 posts later,
this vowed daily one
has become
my expression
of romance,
love,
and revolution.

And I’m not done.
Join me.