I’d Forgotten It’s Because It’s What I’m Supposed To Do: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

It’s been so long
since I’ve done
what I should do,
daily,
that I’ve almost forgotten
how;
I’ve almost forgotten
why;
I’ve almost forgotten
who I am.

Because I became
because I did
what I was asked.
Because I struggled
even when the words
weren’t flowing.

Because often
the mere fact of
doing the thing
that you’ve been told to do
is what you need
to discover
and maintain
who you are.

So once again I launch
back into my Obama-era goal:
Write
and blog
a poem
or prose piece
each day.

The words may not be
insightful
or deep
or moving.
Or they might be.

Most importantly,
they will be
and are
who I am
and who I will be,
so as long as I write
and post
and am,
I exist
much more deeply
than I ever did before.

Maybe that’s why I feel
as though I’ve gone
into hiding.

Look out!

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.