A poem #96 – Pound of flesh

From within the din of vagueness,
I will give it to you straight.
The change has long been underway
and we have all arrived too late.
The time to double down your chips
has gone,
along with our hope
our sense, our calm.
We did not inherit the earth
but instead shape it only with our pains
to hold it in our hands as clay
and disgrace it
for our gains.
Our cloying platitudes
cover a sea of discontent
drowning the balance of nature
that which Time will long lament.
You may have your pound of flesh
you may have it, blood and bone and all
and in the moonlight naked
all of us: accountable.

JP Collins


A Poem #77 – This thing, Life

What is this this thing, Life?
This synchronous rhythm, existing only in mind?
This skin made of stardust pulled from the voids of space?
This feeling of a moment by which you are defined?
This beat of a muscle whose manner of starting is still unexplained?
The small hours of a morning where Hope welcomes the new day?
That sensation of beauty and warmth as butterflies flutter by?
A thing of woven experiences, dreams and aspirations – the net of stars over the night sky?
Some bad men now with bad bones and bad minds,
go about unquestioning, unconscious, ignorant and wry.
And what of the Angels, who recognise that the upholding of this unreality
mars the pretence of time.
Thus, we question this thing, life,
this feeling, this glint in one’s eye.
Is it a freight train, perhaps, unstably laden, hurtling down the line?
Its final stop a place called Death, which exists only in mind.

JP Collins