A poem #105 – Salt of her sea

It is always so lovely
when we speak
but she prefers salty
to sweet
she said I don’t know now
I am struggling to see
how to let this sweet taste be
said walk a mile
be with me
suffer my storms
drown in the salt of my sea
gladly would I go with you
so gladly

What a feeling to be
what you want to be
she called this feeling “freedom”
but what I had wanted to be
changed in a moment
in a week
as do the tides and the seas
in the Moon’s wax and wane
I am Autumn mourning for Summer
and Summer longing for rain
gladly would I come for you
and gladly would I change

When she left me
she was exactly as when she came
but it was I
who had been affected
it was I
who had changed
so as the moon it pulls on the ocean’s quilt
she continues to pull on me
and here I am
wanting to spill myself from the mouth of the river
into the salt of her sea
gladly would I go to you
swimming happily
but it cannot be
for I have made my home in sorrow
it cannot be
it cannot be.

JP Collins

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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