Hey my little sweetheart,
I want you to know
that I’m launching this poem
across space and time.
I’m posting it up in the heavens
to let the universe see
that I love you
utterly and completely
and unconditionally.
Yes, you died in my arms and
flew far away,
but your light never left me, see,
and now I'm sending it to glow
gloriously across the galaxies
over all of time.
Yes, your name is Lorayne
and now you will never be forgotten.
You should reign as long as
love itself is loved
and as long as
love poems light up
the darkness of our lives.

Mike T Minehan

Today, I’m sharpening arrows
to aim them at
politicians with snouts in the trough,
clerics who preach peace for themselves
but hatred about others,
academics who promote freedom of speech
but run a Gulag Archipelago
for those who don’t follow their own ideas
or buy their textbooks,
hypocrites everywhere,
celebrities in general,
people who don’t smile,
people who aren’t nice,
(why are they here?)
fanatics, tyrants and power mongers,
(there are a humungous lot of these)
boring people,
(they wouldn’t be boring
if they could just try to engage a little more)
and those who block supermarket isles
with their trolleys while they stop and gossip.
I’d really like to put a few arrows in their butts
to puncture their pretensions and hear
the subsequent hiss of preciousness
unless they sincerely promise
to be more considerate
and try to love a whole lot more.
Now. I don't insist they have to love prodigiously,
but I reckon they could lighten the **** up
just a little, and try to laugh more frequently.
That's all.

Mike T Minehan

These roaring pains felt in my stomach ******* me to my knees
But I stand up, go back to work, cause I'm the cleaning lady

Drowning tears of failure and never to your needs
To uncles who understand and claim they will make a stand,
"Under your weight a lovely girl lives and I'm going to tell him 'bout it!"
Oh, uncle Bill, can't you see? 
I've learned whiskey words make a fool out of me

I shoot the purple on the green
From racking, not knowing, just focusing 
A phone call to tell me the snow is 3 deep
Spitting curse words around me like the white flakes I see
But you're just furious because I spend my money

Daddy, you don't love me like you do them
Confirmations from strangers and old family friends
Your standards too high, I never stood a chance
*And here comes that pain again

The young maricones and the ***** muchachas,
The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,
The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,
And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,
Like a collar of palpitating ****** oysters
Surround my solitary home,
Enemies of my soul,
Conspirators in pajamas
Who exchange deep kisses for passwords.
Radiant summer brings out the lovers
In melancholy regiments,
Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;
Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,
There is a continual life of pants and *******,
A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,
And women's ******* that glisten like eyes.
The salary man, after a while,
After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,
Has decisively ****** his neighbor,
And now takes her to the miserable movies,
Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,
And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down
With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.
The night of the hunter and the night of the husband
Come together like bed sheets and bury me,
And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are *******,
And the animals mount each other openly,
And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,
And cousins play strange games with cousins,
And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,
And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,
Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,
And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly
On beds big and tall as ships:
So, eternally,
This twisted and breathing forest crushes me
With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth
And black roots like fingernails and shoes.

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
    enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
    enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everyday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

the sadness
hides in corridors
waiting to settle in

sneaking
like a man off to war
returning hopeless

gives no signal
no sign
no beating of the drum

no knock at the door
it creeps in
knowing you can be won

this berryblossom white
and johnny cash
are the only things
helping me see clearly
this foggy morning

for i can see the sun peering through
but i do not feel it (like the mist)
the colors are not the same
anymore
nor do i think
they ever will be

so i sit
with understanding
of why a man in black
must sing
of yellow
instead