A poem #97 – Unfulfilled dreams

A song about silence
sung from the wings
to mourning pews
piled high with abandoning
The note was struck
the piano rings
footsteps fading
in the cowering din
filled with “I can’t”s
the still air stings
sharp and prickling
against the skin
the prayer book open
the pages singed
by the dying flame
of unfulfilled dreams.

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

A poem #75 – The wayfarers’ plight

Like gnats, buffeted by fickle Wind.
Some god’s whim shaking even the mightiest of kings.
In unworldly metal tubes with wheels and wings,
defiant, to the heavens, go us ground-born things.
In pursuit of Earth’s unimaginable imaginings,
escaping, feverish, from all our happenings.
To be shaken, so violently, by lightest Breeze.
So small, so meaningless against Earth’s skin,
so fragile, so delicate: our woven dreams.

JP Collins

A poem #39 – Do not turn to stone

“Alas!” they say,
“live within your means”,
“Impossible”, I reply,
“for we are driven by our dreams”.
Forget conformity and embrace your freedom,
live life on your own;
for if someone tells you long enough that you are a rock,
you will eventually turn to stone.

JP Collins

A poem #36 – It seems his dreams were true

I seek you out in my dreams each night,
my one true love, my vision, my sight.
Twilight soft against your delicate skin,
though my longing touch, too rough and wandering.

Corridor after corridor, a labyrinth of mind,
following your footsteps, that I might again see your eyes.
Each night I dream, but I am back at the start,
holding your hand, as you are holding my heart.

But when I awake,
it always seems to be,
that you’ve crept out from my dreams,
and into bed beside me.

JP Collins