A poem #102 – Pleased to see you

It shames me to say
no good thought of you
has passed through my mind
since the first day
when parted ways.
Your long hair flowing
like the mouth of a river, down the bedside
and mine like the red torrent of the sea
where they should have mixed together there was instead
me not knowing, you not loving
anything
more of me.
Tiny fingers outstretched
in search of your skin
to feel the blanket in which we swaddle the world
to take the sting
from the bite of its being
but, instead:
nothing.
You asked if I was pleased
to see you, when we did
long afterwards, meet
but pleased is a happy word
sullied by the whispering slur
and I left my happiness
long ago at your teat
swept with your uncaring hand
to grow amongst
the kerb-line weeds.
So, no, I am not pleased
nor happy or aggrieved
but, the endless growings of
the motherless grey
and the numbness soaking
through the void between.
Standing here now
two adults again greet
I see that you too have taken the bottle
from it still
you drink most deep
always only, just a babe
with ruby-red flushed cheeks.
With old fingers now, shaking, outreached
to two rivers battling at the mouth of the sea
where they should have mixed forever
but still in the chop, bereaved
it is you who requires most the weaning
from the milk of the bottle
much more than me.

JP Collins

A poem #87 – Juniper

I’m not really sure how to feel:
this news, coming so late to my door.
It’s been eight years since they found you,
eight years, and soon to be one more.

We’d take trips to the cinema,
with that bottle you’d treat as a friend.
A cocktail without a dress,
always a means to an end.

Jumping over the wall
to pick flowers from a neighbour’s garden.
Entangled in the juniper bush,
I left you shamelessly, without a pardon.

Looking at your picture now,
it begins to slur and slew.
A single frame turns into a movie of us,
drinking to forget what we knew.

I brushed past the juniper bush
on that road just after the bend,
in a cocktail without a dress
sadly, Juniper’s end.

JP Collins

A poem #66 – Jealousy

Honey, it’s jealousy that’s poisoning the well,
and I’m pouring it in by the pint.
And with every sip I take,
the more prone we are to fight.
But it’s in your bones and in your feet,
when you’re moving all night long.
You always leave me grasping,
at the parts of you that have gone.
You burn all night with the neon lights
you so wholeheartedly adore,
smashing me into pieces,
and scattering them on the floor.

JP Collins