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I am addicted to skin,
not a particular woman's skin,
all and every woman's skin

(stop here,

If you are uncomfortable,
with this writ, for me then,
it be a consoling poem,
an adoration of skin,
a comfort food,
that I cannot live without)


see what you cannot see,
inside this one's
brain-eyes-tongue-soul-whatever
whatever you name his five sense-sifting-all combination,
I don't care

I drink skin
all textures
all colors
every woman
every woman ageless  
every woman street passing
touched and taken
no fabric but the
fabric of her skin
tween my thumb and forefinger
on my stippled senses
enlivened

I taste skin,
like a good poem,
the cheek, the shoulder bare,
the in between spaces,
the minty hint of décolleté,
the ankle chain,
turning my breath heated,
tips of red noses,
I take and
I keep
and no,
no refunds, no returns

I see
your skin, as a gift to myself
created, donated, by you,
and by me,
aggregated

tho you think I am selfish
I thank you always

I hear
you cells splitting,
rejuvenating,
you nourish,
I flourish

I smell your
skin-scented au naturel aroma,
and inward smile,
a parfume
named after me,
who knew?

you knew

stop enough!

softly, no, softly never enough...

every wrinkle, every blemish
every tablecloth of skin so
lovely set, so smooth glowing,
I weep,
I seep
inside
and
touch me touching you
and
for every cell of mine dying,
two of you,
two for you,
so you may live longer,
one of mine,
lingers
within you
evermore

you nourish,
I flourish
Sunday afternoon
March 23rd, 2014
 Mar 2014 Mike T Minehan
Mikaila
I will sing with all the tenderness I have in my heart
And it will reach the ocean like rain
And make waves
That crash at your feet on the other side of the world.
And even if you never think of me again
You will feel me loving you,
The sheer might of it.
I promise you that.
(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him
Yes, I have a love poem called Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet, of which, this is an excerpt, and is the After Dinner Desert Conversation conclusion.
My heart is beating fast
To the beat of a thousand drums
My mind is speeding past
To the sound of a thousand songs

A thousand voices combined in harmony
Rise higher, brighter, stronger
Lifting my soul till my spirit sings

A timpani triumphs over the trumpet's cries
While the trills of the golden strings
Ascend like angels beginning to fly

A crescendo vibrates with breathtaking power
My heart nearly bursts with joy
No moment passes when my eyes do not smile

Every fear was the last I held
Every sense is alive with love
Every light is bright and gold
Every breath is a new life begun
Written after singing with the symphony <3
Allow me to run my hands
over your muscles again
trace the outline of
the beautiful landscape.
Travel them with ****** eyes
like the first night
we held each other close
on my mothers cream couch.
I want you the same way.
Even though times are changing
and I am confident
that I am strong solo.
I am whole
when I'm with you.
 Feb 2014 Mike T Minehan
Sjr1000
Like falling in love
for the first time
all over again.

My heart awakens
with our morning
kiss
My heart opens
with the meeting
of our eyes.

When wrapped
up in your arms
finally home again
and deep inside
an all encompassing sigh.

Our love returns
strong
with the freight train winds
blowing through the pines
ageless as the redwoods
across the expanse
of time
with the intensity
of
the ocean waves
we hear crashing from our bed.

Our love ongoing
our love renewed
our love
my life's blessing
through and through.

Our love a force of nature
a cycle of
sun and moon.
An opening flower
on a spring noon
night blooming Jasmine too.

Each time
we touch
tip to tip
it's like falling in love
for the first time
all over again.
 Feb 2014 Mike T Minehan
Sjr1000
Breaking out
in
Bojangle
dances
in
the most inappropriate
places.
She hides her Bible underneath the ****** box
because he doesn't want to have kids,
but she still prays
for his keep
every night
after he pulls long wings
from her back to her ribs—
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with his nails as she whispers fake, unholy phrases.

She tripped into his superstition
watching him fashion his weapon—
a rosary noose
to choke blessings and psalms
out of her throat.
He rarely remembers to say goodnight,
but she traces his eyelids once he's asleep

like crop circles
making a thin bridge over his nose
connecting pinpoint constellations.
She kisses his neck and chest
over and over again,
secretly hoping
he wakes up and puts his arm around her.

She paints in the basement
with an old light bulb
listening to the hum of the space heater,
gagging on the acrylic fumes,
because he thinks all art
is useless
and all power is manmade confidence,
and the stars are just coincidence,
and he only married her
so they could ****,
finally.
Sometimes he doesn't come home,

but she makes the bacon the way he likes it,
and she presses all of his shirts twice.
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