She doesn’t write me/
or call at all. She’s ToY-ing/
with someone else new.

Why do women think/
waiting hurts less? It doesn’t!/
Rip off the bandage!

How can I miss you/
so, when we hardly know us?/
Maybe it’s the snow.

You have honored me
with your poetry
Island Girl.

Though I have never been,
I long, now, to return again
with you.

The islands of my soul
Are in the land of midnight Sol,
like yours, “sen”.

Dansk, or Norsk,
or tropical, we were forced
back to the desert.

So when the waves lap on distant shores,
and you hear my voice in it, and I yours,
maybe we can go, together,

And discover the islands
and the true homelands
of our soul and heart.

Just you and me,
Island Girl.

Sometimes guys attempt to get phone numbers from women who seem to want to play hard to get. During one such situation, a woman was told “If you want to maintain contact, the ball is in your court”. When she asked “Why?”, this was the response:

A guy /
can only try/
so hard /
before he gets tired/
and sucumbs/
to being numb/
and moves on /
to more fertile ground/
where growth is found./

Where the seeds he sows/
have a chance to grow./
Where they are received eagerly;/
watered fervently;/
cared for tenderly;/
and can burst through the lonely gloom,/
and bloom.

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?
Stuck
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.

Older men have the ability/
to caress and hold beauty.
to gaze into a face serenely.
to understand her thoughts completely.

To be tender when the moment requires;
to fan the flame of her deepest desires,
and yet,
when she’s vulnerable
to protect her;
to always be able
to not neglect her.

To dance with her in the snow;
to take her there, where she wants to go.
To do a slow waltz in the driving rain
while passersby murmur “That couple’s insane!”
and to hold her close and warm and secure,
and respond: “Not insane. Just in love … and quite sure!”

And then, at the end, to dry off her head,
and not want to hurry off to bed,
but to sit by the fire,
and listen, instead,
to her heart’s desire.

That’s what a kind, brave and true
older prince of a gentleman would do.

Warm thoughts of you means/
I finally microwaved the/
Chinese leftovers.

A poem when you confess!
(At 3 a.m., no less.)
I’m impressed.
What can I do
to get in touch with you?

Garlic and all,
it won’t impact a phone call!

If thou truly would a poetess be,/
then please, I beg thee,/
answer these verses from me./

Tell me deep from within your soul’s heart:/
What kindles your flame? /
What makes your fire start?/

And if you in fact
and truth can tell,/
perhaps I can build the fire/
and fan it well.