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


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

Quiet musings… day#14 – Lifespans and tastebuds

What the vacuum cleaner does: Blow its fan air high into the corners of the room, thus confusing the tiny house spiders into thinking they have caught a tasty morsel in their shaking webs.

What I ponder about – apropos lifespans: We consider a small being such as a nat to have such a small and insignificant life, but to the nat, its life may seem as long and as full as a human feels his life to be. If this is so, then the interpretation of time must vary considerably between beings. So I ask, what is the true worth of time if it is so brief and yet so vast all at once? How insignificant and small must we seem to the great elm or oak, and how brief Earth must seem as it passes in and out of existence in the blink of the universe’s eye.

What my mum did when she was young: Go to the doctor’s reporting that she had lumps all over her tongue.

What the doctor said they were: Tastebuds.

What I do every time I think about her telling this: Smile. There is nothing more humourous than life itself.

JP Collins

A poem #10 – Where there is only peace

I look up at the night sky,
to Orion’s endless hunt,
I wonder when his kill will come,
if he’ll take it home for lunch.

I wonder how taught his bow,
and how far his arrows reach,
to invisible stars or distant galaxies,
or to another world, where there is only peace.

I think of how the stars shine bright,
burning away at the empty space,
so silent and timeless, so fragile,
adorning the sky with their beauty and grace.

Then I think of all the war and hatred,
to which greed and ignorance has given birth,
and the blindness of the unified mind,
that so oft has marred the earth,

So small do our troubles seem,
and sometimes so trivial our lives,
but good hearts must prevail to boast,
‘gainst the vastness of the skies.

I wonder if there’s something looking back,
down upon both man and beast,
from a distant galaxy, far away,
in another world, where there is only peace.

JP Collins