Devaluing Voice Mail: Romantic Improv Blogging Lament

She wooed me last week./
I just heard an old message./
How unfortunate.

Solo Kayak Trip: Revolutionary Improv Blogging Poem

She left after my invitational request.
I, not knowing she would go
alone,
showered,
watched TV,
drank orange juice
fixed a dock,
pinched my finger,
repaired a computer.

She had
the better sunset.

Maybe the planets will
align for us
tomorrow morning.

A Man’s Hot Flash: Revolutionary Blogging Poem

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.

Get Used To It: Romantic Blogging Poetry

It’s been a long time
since
you winced
but said yes
to going out.

I doubt
you’re used to
being picked up,
being asked what you thought,
being walked home when the evening’s through.

It might seem like forever since
you were asked to dance;
were romanced;
felt the bliss
of a first kiss;
just took a walk
to find time to talk;
had someone say
“You look pretty today.”

You’re not used to
being cooked for;
thinking “Bitte, more”;
having your door opened for you;
having your heart opened for you.

If you understood
how incredibly good
it is, I’ll bet
you could
get used to it.
You should.

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To a Friend Closet Cleaning, Springing, Soaring: Revolutionary Blogging Improv Poem

The closets we hold/
closed/
with our memories/
and regrets/
and pain/
and anger/
and ‘what if’s’/
and “I should have’s”/

choke us,/
like an albatross/
around our neck,/
like a millstone tied,/
weighing us down,/
like a bad meal/
returning again/
and again/
and again;/
sour burning/
into our throat./

And when we dare/
swallow deeply,/
gulp,/
and open/
the closet,/
face our fears,/
disgard the distrust,/
harness our hurts,/
tame our trash,/
and purge our past,/
it’s not just spring/
cleaning./
It’s our spring/
board./
We jump./
We leap./
We soar.

A Poem Found From An Old Love: Romantic Blogging Poem

Shit.
I only had to read
one stanza,
one question,
one observation
from her
runningthroughtheparkwonderingwhenherlegsgotsolong
writing
to know
she was barefoot,
and I missed her.