In olden times, if a woman said “make love to me”, it meant the gentleman was free to woo her with words. In that context, I created this poem:

——————-
After writing on-line
for several weeks,
we met…
parked…
where it was dark.

She led me into the back
of her French fry and crack
er-filled mini van;
Kid residue: an unused
Huggy; a shoe!

As she reclined, I proceeded to…
touch her
caress her
BUT just her face
and neck…
and I whispered words
soft
and low
as the moon shone
through the window.

And I breathed and drank deep
the scent of her skin
and felt her warmth
both from without, and within.

And I whispered her praises
brushed her hair back from her ear;
sweet, gentle, tender phrases
that only she would hear.
And she sighed
and a smile took the place
of the melancholy tear
that started to etch her face.

A tear of remorse;
of deepest regret.
Knowing, from him she loved most,
such sweetness she’d never get.
And she revealed to me feelings
and longings within;
and told me she was revealing
herself to me, not to him.
And then she stopped
sighed,
and in a voice soft and low,
she cried
and said
“You make love more like a woman
Than any man I’ll ever know!”
“And though it breaks my heart,
you must go
home, and I must depart.”
So I smiled, nodded
and gently cupped her face.
We stood outside her mini van
and tenderly embraced.
And she went to her warm bed
and I, chilled,
to mine;
and she thrilled
at what I’d said.
And I, though of warmth bereft,
still received from her
the greater gift!
For what man has ever had a woman tell:
“You make love cleverly; you make love well!”
“You make love much more so
like a woman, than any man I’ll ever know!”

And later, she made love
to her husband more incredibly than ever.
She thought: had it been like that, no, never!
… and when he asked why, or how; was it preset?
She said:
“I thought about the guy I met,
and the words he said
… and they kept rolling around in my head
as you
and I
rolled around in our bed!”

A friend and I were discussing (In Instant Messaging) the topic of suffering and how certain some people suffer all the time. I opined:
All forms
of suffering
are mere norms
for buffering.

We can twist
and we can bend;
or we can list
or send
them fleeing
away,
like sheep bleating
for fear at end of day.

It is always ours to choose:
Do we win? Or do we lose?