Tag Archives: Prose Poetry

a final tryst

the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
a dateless bargain to engrossing death

~

A winter midnight and the light was strange.  A glow that cascades, softly falling from darkness, carefully arranging long shadows cast in deep silver blackness.

A castle dark, a fortress strong, and set in the tallest lonely tower a locked room holds and coldly embraces the lovers’ fatal final tryst.

~

jack collier

jackcollier7@talktalk.net

 

we will never be set free from these chains upon our love until we embrace the moonlight

Friends Without Benefits

she spoke to him with words, he looked at her with feelings

~

can you just be friends with me?

was the question she asked him

since I get no choice I guess yes

are you really sure about that?

she asked, very sweetly smiling

twisting the knife a little more

he’s only a second-best friend

it’s a real shame he’s in love

even worse that it had to be her

but love has no common sense

it’s just the road to Hell

~

jack collier

jackcollier7@talktalk.net

love and desire going nowhere

carpe diem

~

This day only is ours,

we are dead to yesterday,

and we are not yet born to the morrow.

But, if we look abroad and bring into one day’s

thoughts the evil of many, certain and uncertain,

what will be and what will never be, our load will be

as intolerable as it is unreasonable.

Jeremy Taylor

theologian, 1613 -1667

~

jack collier

jackcollier7@talktalk.net

self-knowledge

P1040829

~

I owned a book,

and it had never been opened.

So all I knew of books was that there were words on the cover,

and some more words on the spine.

And then, one day,

I opened the book and started to read the words inside.

~

Vincent  ~ Don McLean

Please listen responsibly

We can only go so far in making our life the way we would wish it to be.

~

liebster-12poem and musing by jack collier

jackcollier7@talktalk.net

Bitter Harvest Falls

dark

You like autumn?  Don’t call it fall.  You like fog wet dog boggy footpaths mud?  Fur scarf hat gloves separating love’s touch.  Cider with cinnamon vomit stinks I think warm beer the only fit drink for an English man.  Cinnamon satisfies women but don’t call it fall.  It’s autumn mists mellow fruitfulness hopelessness dreariness missing your touch too much don’t call it fall.  California knows no bitter winter touch what is autumn to you?  Sadness last verbal touch telephone call isn’t much don’t call again.  Beginnings told me of multiple men my long drinking winter began don’t call it fall.

~

P1010479experimental prose poetry

words and pictures by jack collier

jackcollier7@talktalk.net

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