Posts Tagged ‘breeze’

Shower Exit: Romantic ImproVerse Haiku

May 30, 2014

Like a cool sea breeze,/
her wet hair draped over my/
early-morning face.

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Where I Want To Live: Romantic ImproVerse Rhyming Haiku

October 27, 2013

The silence. The stars. /
The breeze through the trees. No cars./
I wish she was here.

You Were In The Breeze And Sun: Romantic IMprov Haiku

November 21, 2012

The gentle breeze pushed/
me ‘neath the warm sun. With full/
sail, I thought of you.

Windows Left Open: Romantic ConTEXTing Haiku Lament

July 22, 2011

He can’t help hurting./
He’s like windows left open/
to both breeze and storm.

A Man’s Hot Flash: Revolutionary Blogging Poem

April 18, 2011

Late night.
Cool desert breeze
flows
through basement
windows.

Sweat drips
down my face
as I sit
and write,
solo,
into the night.

Thought I’m grateful
for inspiration’s
lightening bolts,
I thought only
menopausal women
got
hot
flashes.

It Hurts: Romantic IMprov Prose

October 13, 2010

How does being creative about you feel?

It hurts.
I write, in my mind, about your hurts.
I write, in my mind, about dancing with you,
hugging you,
caressing you.
I write, in my mind, about sharing your pain.
I write, in my mind, to remove the pain caused by past lovers, men who were not worthy of your spark, grace, fire, but who were content to be gathered around the warmth of your energetic flames.
I write, in my mind, about how I know how to start a fire with just one match, or one spark, or one hopeful, glowing ember.
I write, in my mind, how I have always tended fires and kept them alive and radiant, even when others could or would not.
I write, in my mind, about how I wish I had one-tenth the chance those men had to do things you are passionate about, about how they failed you so miserably, about how they nearly doused your flames, about how I wouldn’t, but would instead ignite and restore and fan the flames.
I write, in my mind, about how you inspire me.
About how I enjoy being with you.
About how you move me unexpectedly, like a warm evening breeze on a previously still and silent lake suddenly moves a small, becalmed sailboat.
And, knowing you are not here, writing about you, sometimes, hurts.