When folks get drenched to/
their cores, their souls more eas’ly /
find paths to connect.
Tag Archives: www.cyranowriter.com
Garden In The Bathtub Legacy: Revolutionary Family History Prose
There is an old family history story that my Grandma Bertha Geerdts Kuhns used to tell me about her father’s mother, a little old immigrant German lady who lived in Sheboygan Wisconsin at the turn of the century. My Grandma Bertha said that this woman (Maria Vogt or Weidt Geerdts) had chicken coops, a garden, but what Grandma Bertha most remembered about Maria Geerdts’ house in Sheboygan is that her large clawfoot bathtub was never used for bathing.
Instead, it was always full of garden plants.
Sometimes I wonder if my great-great Granny Geerdts is looking down on my giant jetted bathtub …
and smiling.
Fantasy Limits: Romantic Haiku
When I’m insecure,/
she says not to fantasize/
’bout a crock of s***.
To Touch Much: Rhyming Romantic Haiku
Does it matter much/
How I touch, as long as I/
touch much more often?
Or
touch more than before?
Gospel Music In Deep Woods Georgia — Haiku
It’s a good Sabbath
when you come home from church, weep/
to “God is Awesome”.
He Thinks My Southern’s Sexy — Country Music Cover
(Sung to the tune of “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”, but from a woman’s point-of-view)
He thinks my Southern’s sexy!
It really turns him on.
He’s always drooling at me
when I’m weed whacking the lawn.
He really kind of likes my Southern music drawl.
An’ he gets all excited when I say hey all y’all!
You best be knowin how he digs my squash pies from cushaws.
Yeah he really gets me!
He thinks my Southern’s sexy!
Why Label Ourselves? Revolutionary Haiku
Folks want to label/
themselves as some small group but
what if we’re just folks?
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.
My Poetic Dream Exists In Georgia: Romantic Napkin Poem
I left for Georgia./
I took my writing with me./
She really exists!
She Blows Away My Angst: Romantic Napkin Haiku
Even when love blooms/
me, poet, still carries Angst./
She blows it away.