Tag Archives: IMprov Poetry

To Speak, To: Romantic IMprov Poem

I hope to speak with you again,
to assuage your worries,
to calm your fears,
to unravel your confusion,
to illuminate your path,
to enfold your shoulder,
to hold your hand.
to provide the goo
so desired by you.

Opening Your Gates: Romantic IMprov Poetry

I’m honored you open your gates to me
occasionally.
And if I fervently ask it,
you lower your heart’s basket
by nightfall
that I may scale your wall
again
and win.

Being On A Roll: Romantic IMprov Sonnet

She said:
“You are on a roll!”
To which I responded
(in a tone rather droll):

“I’d rather be on you.
or you on me.
Like peanut butter with jam.
Like fresh bread and honey.

Like warm milk and white bread
fresh from the oven
having you spread
on me is just good lovin’!”

When I’ve lived so long gluten-free,
being on a roll sounds mighty tasty.

Trying Again To Breach Her Walls: Romantic IMprov Poetry

When I first
nursed
a desire
to stand near
her radiance
and fire,
there was no
fear.

But then
I slammed
again
and again
into force fields;
walls
so tall
I had to yield
or go through.

That’s what I chose
to do,
knowing that the result
would let me exult
and exalt
myself
and her.

At last,
when the probe
burst through,
her radiance showed
back,
blinding my view.
So strong, so overwhelming
I couldn’t see anything
but what was in front of me.

I fear
I feared.

Insecurity
does not endear,
nor gain pity
from the pretty.

She quickly closed up,
repaired the breach.
Shields up!
She withdrew out of reach.

So I was left, again,
with keyboard instead of pen,
to tap, tap, tap away at the wall;
just to gain entry. Not make it fall.

For it’s only when she, herself, will yield
that her wall raising will be healed.

What We Talk About: Revolutionary Blogging Poem

When we talk,
what should we talk about?
Flowers.
Weeds.
Flat
tires,
stomachs,
lines.

The gnomes
who roam.
Rome.
Phones.
Work.
Mold.
Getting old.
Being bald.

Family joy.
Family pain.
Music.
Art.
Dancing.

Everything we talk
about
that involves you,
that interests you,
interests me, and
involves me
emotionally.

I thought
what I was,
and what I was
doing,
was interesting.
I tried to involve
you,
because I thought
you, like me,
like me enough
to want to know;
to want to hear;
to want to be involved
in every nuance,
every iota,
every miniscule
minutea.

Why did I want to share “that”,
or anything,
all,
or at all,
with you?
Because I thought I,
and it,
was interesting.

Thank you
for pointing out
some things,
to you,
are not.

Thank you
for asking:
“Why did you feel
you needed
to share
that with me?”

That’s a good question.
I didn’t think
about it.
There was no reason.
I didn’t think
about any reason.
I just wanted
to share
part of my life.
An event that happened.
A quirky experience
I had with a friend,
that I wanted to share
with a friend,
thinking that friend
might be interested.

It’s silly of me
to think everything
in my life
is interesting
to you.

I guess I thought that it was true
because everything that happens to you,
to me,
is.