Uncoiffed Thoughts — What’s Up In My Head At 4 A.M.: Revolutionary ImproVerse Rhyming Poem

Uncoiffed Thoughts -- flash of brilliance at 4 a.m.What’s up with my head
as I stumble out of bed
and try to remove the poem
I dictated earlier into my phone?

It never should’ve been sent;
and no attack was meant.
‘Twas a statement from my brain
of my heart’s Deep Pain.

It was not to be perceived as an attack.
I should gladly arise to take it back.
But I’m just too damn tired.
My waking hours have expired.

So, when my hair is coiffed and cuter,
I’ll gladly go to my computer
and erase the message I dictated;
That, clearly, should’ve simply waited.

I’ll repeat, simply, that I’m so sorry.
That’s my early-morning story.

Dear Cupid: Romantic Blogging Iambic Poem

Dear Cupid:
This Valentine’s (Single Awareness) Day,/
Don’t let me be stupid.

Hold my fingers and tongue
so I won’t write or say
something dumb.

Oh. Wait.
Too late.
I already did.

Hey Cupid!
If you care,
do some repair.

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 willdid return it
with honor,
and will hopefully
not slip again.
Returning Red Sandstone - Thistle Ghost Town