Posts Tagged ‘romantic IMprov poem’

When Women Murmur Prose: Romantic IMprov Poem

December 13, 2010

I love when a woman/
can express herself./
She takes her thoughts/
down off of her shelf,/
And by the tone/
and the low moan/
from deep in her heart,/
you feel, and know,/
she is a part/
of you and your soul.

On Being “Grounded” In Love: Romantic IMprov Poem

November 23, 2010

A woman, for whom I’d written the previous poem, read it to her daughter over the phone, almost as it was created. Her daughter laughed. The woman said: “She keeps me grounded”. This was my IMprov response:

She keeps you grounded?
in what?
The muck
and the mire?
The dirt that’s the death
of romance’s fire?

The young think they know
what it means to feel passion’s glow.
But they don’t.
It’s only youthful lust.
As age comes, so arrives patience
and trust.

And the romance that fuels
our aged desire
is the very thing which pulls
us out of the mire
and sends our passionate flames
soaring ever higher.

So when we fall, exhausted,
in each other’s arms again,
we’ll arise, phoenix-like,
from where youth has never been.


Hesitant Poet Taking a Leap: Romantic IMprov Poem

November 4, 2010

He stood, /
hesitant, /
and wondered, would/
she be redecent, /
like others before/
to the beauty/
and mystery/
of his poetry?/
He wasn’t sure./

But because/
he, as a poet, never was/
sure of anything/
except hearing his heart sing,/
and writing it /
and verbalizing/
and not being ashamed of it,/
he let fly/
with words/
she’d often heard,/
but never in that sequence,/
nor had they ever made sense/
as they did that day/
when she heard him say:/
“It both frightens me/
and delightens me/
to create these words for you.”/

And he smiled,/
because he knew/
she was not beguiled,/
but was fully there, too.

Romance is not about Buying Things: A Romantic IMprov Poem

March 24, 2010

Romance is not about buying things.
Instead, it’s more of doing,
And the emotion two can bring
With just Being.
It’s a gentle caress;
A compliment in earnest.
A held hand’s power.
A plucked wildflower.
An opened door.
Sticky note poems on a mirror.
A breath on her back
Under the shining full moon,
To softly stir her, but not awake,
From her deep slumber too soon.
Just enough
To let her feel loved,
And safe, and so the protected her,
Sleeps on, knowing she is two, together.
How does it come to this?
Such tenderness and romantic bliss?
Decades of desire
fuel the fire
long smothered
but at last uncovered
and, given fresh breath,
roars to life, from near death.
And to her invited
to fan the flame,
poetic romance, now requited,
will never be the same.