Self Affirmation Who I Am: Revolutionary IMprov Poem

I am
not trying to be
who I am
not.

And I do
not regret that
I am
not
who
I am
not.

In
stead,
I revel
in the I
that
I am,

And look
to see,
revealed,
who
I am.

Roadtrip Moonset: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

Thumbnail moon hung on/
black silk over grand canyons/
makes me remember.

(OR)
makes me think of you.

Wooing a Woman With Wine Not Wit: Romantic ConTEXTing Haiku

Wooing a woman/
with wine, not wit, is woef’lly/
unsatisfying
OR
Warning! Wooing a/
woman with wine, not wit, is/
woefully wanting.

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.

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Continental Trolley? Really?: Revolutionary Blogging Prose

A gentle summer breeze flows like gentle, lapping waves over me, ebbing, flowing, and cooling the bright sun streaming through thick-leaved trees from a cloudless azure sky.

Tanned, chemisette-wearing women float by like the undulating colors of a rainbow after a sudden August downburst at sunset. Their long, limber arms and legs, their dancers’ hips, rhythmically sway to the gentle salsa, samba and jazz beats that flow over the orange stucco portico where I observe, write, and inwardly dance.

Across the median’d, deeply-shaded street, a European trolley clangs its familiar bell as it, too, sways past ornate, wrought-ironed passenger stations and street lamps. I smile at the statuesque blonde eating her passion fruit next to me. A lone, glistening, drop of juice glides unnoticed (by her) down her bronzed decoutage’ as a foreign, yet familiar, song from long ago tells of similar beauties on a Brazilian beach. A dozen foreign tongues from low-slung chairs seem to harmonize as the gentle saxophone tones make love in low moan.

It seems so … cosmopolitan.
So … continental.
So …
Salt Lake City?
Really?

Coy Questions About Desire and Poetry: A Romantic ConTEXTing Poem

Is it fun/
2 get thus turned on?/
Is it me/
who’s sexy?/
Or poetry/
that sets thee/
on fire/
with desire?/
(He asks coy questions with a smirk/
as she heads off 2 work.)

Silence After Sleeping: A Romantic IMprov Poem

Are you

not going to

talk to me

any more, 

now that we

slept, and you’ve discovered

I snore?

From a Parked-Car Question Late At Night: Self Discovery Inspired ConTEXTing Poetry: What Cyrano/Dave Wants

Twice 2nite/
the message came./
Sleeping and waking,/
the answer’s the same:/
Some1 with whom 2b/
enthusiastically/
passionate/
who can give it back!

Why the Desire for Sparks from a Fire? A Romantic Poem

As I stoked a dying fire,
A warmth set to soon expire,
I added more fuel: dried wood.
Gave coals space to breathe, good.

And as I watched pine
Smoldering there,
Wood slowly warming,
Yearning for air,

It gave me pause;
Made me wonder why
Women look for passions’ cause
And ask for “sparks to fly”.

Sparks flying mean only
The flame’s been disturbed, goaded,
Kicked, poked, prodded, turned,
Or that super-heated sap exploded.

Instead shouldn’t they look for
The smoky, slowly-warming feat
That finally gasps air, and with a roar
Throws off constant, strong, radiant heat?

No sparks there
Kicked, thrust, thrown at random
Into the night air
With sudden, reckless abandon!

But rather glowing, red,
Steady, comforting heat.
Passions’ flame which, carefully fed,
Gives warmth that will repeat.

Analysis of a Kiss Bliss: A Romantic IMprov Poem

When you understand
that a woman
is, by design,
tender and refined,

you don’t feel the need
to rush in with speed;
to plunge headlong
with drooling, forceful tongue.

Instead, you rely
on the touch of a butterfly
landing lightly on a new flower:
Then she’s in your power.

When you can feel her breath
almost begging you: “Next!”
and can taste of her sweetness
as you hold her face in caress,

then
is when

you can feel, and give her,
anticipated bliss:
That gentle, tender,
yet passionate, kiss.