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.
we will never be set free from these chains upon our love until we embrace the moonlight
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
love and desire going nowhere
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.
theologian, 1613 -1667
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.
poem and musing by jack collier
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.
words and pictures by jack collier