A poem #100 – Moon makers (reprise)

Our voices are low in the gas fire light
the orange glow from the three bars
mumbles soft, somber, and slow tonight
The shadows, still, in the corners fall
where flames in passions past
danced high up the walls
We sold our desires by an inch of a candle
and now we are paying over the odds
I wish we had shared all of our truths
while our voices could still speak of god
Now the white maiden dress
browned in the dirt of experience
and washed with the milk of Moon tea
No song no more from that old piano
where the ash from the coal fire
settled on the keys
And on this the passing of the last day of Winter
the birds in her heart will take their final flight
There will be no words to the ear, no note on the night stand
only half a bed and half a man of untold scars
at the break of this last spring’s light
A toast, then, to the good times
and to the hearts that ran so free
we’ll dance to the jaunt of our old bones now
and the bleak and fading mind
that’s welcomed-in the grey of the sea
And when the bed is cold and the gas fire waned
I will look up through the night to see
amongst all the million suns up there
the moon is where you’ll be.

JP Collins

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A poem #99 – Moon makers

Both of us talk low in the gaslight
our nerves tremble against the air
digging up ghosts from where we know they are lying
in the absolute darkness and the space between tears.

Embraced with each other we sway in the jaunt of the piano
where Hope rolls over the hill
we are two lamps in the small hours clinging to the half light
and the embers from the coal fire that settle on the sill.

You say “it looks a little more like love
now we’ve cleared the air”
all the hurts laid out before us:
too many for us to count or about which to care.

Even still, we hide from each other our deepest scars
as if a child can somehow learn the world from the womb
and so the time it has come and down on one knee I ask you:
with all the billions of suns up there, what make you of the moon?

JP Collins

A Poem #81 – Films about those lovers

She’s making films about those lovers
that she’s lost along the way,
and somewhere in the scenes of fiction
she longs to add my name.
It’s clear when we’re down at the sea
I want to be on the ground –
she, sailing to another island,
where new love can be found.
When she writes those letters
her words seem to burn,
leaving no room here for me
to love or to learn.
My toes now in the water,
I feel her slipping from my hand,
standing on the shoreline,
as she swims away from the land.
Theres nothing more now
but a bobbing head in the swell,
and I return to the land that has trapped me
to die alone on the hill.

JP Collins

A poem #57 – Ours is a love made for darkness

Ours is a love made for darkness,
to shield our eyes from the things that we do.
Hiding within our very own shadows,
dreaming of a world of red and blue.

Ours is a love that is frail by light,
so tragic and naked and brittle and thin.
We shrink into the gaps between the floorboards,
endlessly tearing at each other’s skin.

JP Collins

A poem #9 – For you, my darling wife

This day today marks one year away,
from a time that I dearly miss.
One year away from our parting words,
from a day that we sealed with a kiss.

This day today marks one year away,
from a time for oft that I wish.
Before the anguish, our beating hearts,
duped by a lovers’ twist.

This day today marks one year on,
from the last time I held you close.
From the stillness of your breath and bones,
naught but memories and ghosts.

This day today marks one year on,
a celebration of your life.
A song in my heart to spread joy in the world,
for you, my darling wife.

JP Collins