She would have been my/
Garden angel, but I had/
to face pain alone.
Tag Archives: working through issues
Do I Dare Expose Moi? Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem
Do I dare expose me?
Do I dare
open up the soft,
white,
flabby,
pocked underbelly
of my past
to those I’m trying
to get to know?
To those who want to believe
the best about me?
To those who don’t know
this part,
Jean Valjean-ish,
24601,
about me?
Will they turn
and reject me,
my stupidity,
the pain I caused?
Do I hide?
Or do I enter the courthouse
and scream out
who I am
and what I did
and what I’m trying to
repent of,
throwing myself
on the mercy
of the court,
the jury of
Facebook peers?
Do I dare?
Opening Up Her Box Of Pain: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse
Today
I found her box
of pain.
Not knowing
it even existed,
I opened it,
read her words,
and drifted back
10 years.
Even before she knew,
or I knew,
or we knew
the end
was near,
there was sorrow,
hurt,
pain.
Only this time,
it wasn’t mine.
It was hers.
Words screaming
on the screen,
loudly,
yet in her soft,
patient,
“I can take it all”
voice.
There was passion
and problems
and pain
and fear
and hurt
and anger
and loneliness
I never knew
she carried.
Reading
opened up
all the things
I didn’t know,
or hadn’t cared
to see.
Her vision:
She saw me
clutching the side
of our bed,
lonely,
back to her,
but I never saw
her fear,
her wondering,
her begging,
her confused yearning
what to do
so I wouldn’t yell,
or be angry,
or threaten to leave,
or emotionally
hurt
her
who I should have
been protecting
and loving.
Like a drug
of pain
I couldn’t stop
feeling,
I kept reading,
and reading,
and piling on
the “whys”
and
the “why nots”
and
the cruelty
I never knew
was me.
She piled it on,
words on
words,
more
and more,
but it wasn’t
about hurting me.
It was about
how
to protect
herself.
How
to keep herself
from fading away.
From dying.
From loneliness.
From nothingness.
In her words
were reflected
and broken mirrored
so many
similar stories
I’ve heard
for years,
from others,
about the pain
women felt
from abusive men,
from cheaters,
from liars,
from narcissistic
self-righteous
SOBs
they’d escaped from.
Hearing the pained stories,
these pig-men were creatures
who have disgusted me,
who have enraged me,
who have made me sick.
Selfish men who hurt women
they’d vowed to protect,
left them cold
and vulnerable
and unsafe
and desolate
and alone
and scared
and lonely.
Are they blind?
How could someone
do such things
and call himself
a man?
How could someone
be such a thing
and call himself
a human?
Much less
a Christian?
Much less a righteous
Priesthood holder?
WWJD?
Not that!
Disgusting!
File > Open.
Now I stand,
looking in her box
of pain,
words black
on pale blue,
reading what she’s gone through,
probing her thoughts,
sneaking into her mind,
knowing what she’s going through.
My stomach churns
more than it ever has
for anyone else’s story.
More than it ever did
as I’ve held others
and comforted them
and said
“That’s in the past”
and
“That’s disgusting.
I’m sorry that happened
to you.
It shouldn’t have,”
and asked
“I don’t know
how someone could do that.”
But it did happen.
And someone could do that.
Only this time,
I’m not hearing about it.
I’m reading about it
in an old family folder
dot doc
from an old
blue light
hard drive I’d rescued
for the photos
and the good memories
I thought I’d find.
Not knowing
I’d find this
memory,
words lining
her box of pain.
Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?
Am I still?
I’m sick
and sickened
as I read about
the man
she knew.
The pig-thing
clutching to his side
of the bed,
clutching to
his side
of the story,
clutching blindly,
blind to the hurt
he dished out.
He makes me sick.
Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?
Am I still?
I’m ready to puke
on my shoes,
and take my son’s nine iron
to my knee caps
and punch
myself out.
Ambivalence Versus Fear: Romantic ImproVerse Haiku
What if she is not/
ambivalent? What if she/
is just scared? Like me?
To The Poet Who Keeps Writing About A Woman He’s Not Marrying: Romantic IMprov Limerick
While I keep reading such words,/
I still find them slightly absurd:/
You’ve not taken her away!/
Shouldn’t emotions expressed this way/
be acted upon, and not just heard?
Plus this couplet:
(I’m not meaning to be critical. /
It just seems to be such a riddle.)
I Am Charlie: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Poem
Whether for cartoonists,
or cops,
or comics
or commentators,
or dancers,
or artists,
or poets,
or actors,
or journalists,
or designers,
or satirists,
or writers,
we stand,
free,
and dance,
free,
and paint,
free,
and create,
free,
and write,
free,
and speak,
freely,
free.
Can you hear
the people sing,
and speak,
and draw,
and write,
and dance,
and act,
and be?
Je suis
Charlie.
Utah Radio Gong Show: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Poetry Lament
Will someone,
PLEASE!
beg Utah radio DJs
to STOP!
their silly prattling
over the final
epic
“GONG!”
at the end of
Queen’s
“Bohemian Rhapsody“?
Let the gong
song
FINISH!
Because
it does
really
matter
to me.
(Any way the wind blows).
My Memory, No Video, Remembers: Revolutionary IMprov Free Verse Poetry
He saw
a desert picture,
Mojave,
her costume,
her children,
the stage,
and remembered.
Somewhere,
in Ecotopia?
there is video
proof:
A costume’d man,
Teenage
Mutant
Ninja Turtle
(popular the first time around)
standing on a balcony
stage,
as soft light
through the patio window
breaks.
He’s surrounded by
young ballerinas,
Merry Misses,
missing the raindrops
and the mist,
laughing,
skipping,
she directing.
Were there tissues
and cloth
and streamers?
Moving,
Swirling,
Dancing
around him,
(old yet young,
giggling)
chanting:
“excellent.
Excellent!
EXCELLENT!”
It was her first
video choreograph.
It was finished,
parked,
and lost.
He never saw it,
that videoed memory,
most excellent,
but in his mind,
he can recall
those better,
more pure
days,
and dances.
Even without
the video,
taped,
and the paper mache’
green and purple,
long since crushed
and lost
turtle head.
Seeing hats of green,
he remembers.
She
has not strayed.
Her art
reminds him
to be
mutant
excellent.