Won't you come here love?
I want your lips pressed against mine;
I want you to be the
first sweet thing I taste.
The dose of caffeine
I desperately need upon the rising sun,
the jolt to get me through my day.
The one thing that proves to me;
I don't really need coffee.
-JRM

Sometimes
I sit on the floor
and wonder why
I am not
6 feet under.

I want to softly whisper
incomplete poems
on your collar bones
that don't rhyme with anything
but your heavy breathing.

I want to bury my face
in the curves of your neck
because you smell like the winter clouds
and I've been gazing at the sky
since you left.

******* dysfunction and ingest my rage
Feel my mind's mosh pit as I dive off the stage
Smell the lingering presence of my pasts rage
See the remnants of what use to be
Hear what I almost said that it was you that I L O V E'd

I think back to days gone by
And the things that made me,  me
riding bikes down red dirt roads
And the magic witches tree

Out on a back country road
About five miles outside of town
Was a house that no one went to
It should have been torn down

The window shutters all hung loose
And out front there was a tree
That only bloomed in winter time
It was something that made me

Images of long ago
Are stuck inside my mind
Spinning out in order
Some confusing, intertwined
Memories that may have been
And others added to
Their part of what made me, me
Mixed in a mental stew

I remember going out to see
The house with the strange name
The sign out front said "Passing Time"
But, that's not it's claim to fame

Out in front a big, black tree
Stood guarding all around
It bloomed like mad in winter
but in summer, no leaves were found

It bore no fruit, had shiny bark
And this tree called to me
It said come on in, and climb on up
This tree helped make me, me

I had few friends to follow
I was the smallest of the group
I was always being bullied
I wasn't quite part of the loop

One day we went to "Passing Time"
And the tree just called to me
I figured, it was time to start
not being them, but, being me

I challenged them to climb on it
They said that I was mad
It called me and I went to it
The tree seemed rather sad

I climbed the branches to the sky
I was helped up by the tree
It was them I knew that I was now
Not them, but I was me

After climbing down the tree
I knew that I'd be back again
The boys treated me differently
Because of courage I showed then

The magic witches tree still stands
My grandkids and their friends still climb
For, I bought the house long years ago
And now I own "Passing Time"

I do not want to marry a poet
I do not want sonnets written about the way
I take my hair down-
I do not want endless verses about depths within my eyes
I do not want descriptions of my lips
and metaphors about my pulse
for one who is too focused on the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss me
and no woman worth my life would ever
spend time alone, writing about me
rather than spend time with me,
making rhymes with our lips and
meter with our feet as we dance together,
alliteration in the way our hands entwine
and assonance in our limbs colliding-
letting our soft animal bodies love what they love,
because the only metaphor I will ever need is not a metaphor:
you are really here, we are really alive
and all before you has been a dream.