P.S. I Love You Poems of P.S. Colley

      Cave Graffiti Cave man didn't know what he was doing as his hand sculpted frantic on wet wall, stopped, stepped back to view his stone-crafted vision, then proceeded through some shallow shadowed hall. How ironic that a dark dank ancient museum should impart art that in earnest is least. How ironic that the boorish, unknown artist should be man with hand and mind of brutish beast. Cave man didn't know what he was doing as he labored to a dazzling drafty flame, then darted to display for a few friendly others to preview, then proclaim by clan acclaim. How ironic that a dark dank ancient museum should be understood by mere meager men as these. How ironic to learn literacy's first lost artist Should be man that can neither write nor read. And what future race may find Picasso dangling, suspended on some dreary dying wall, only to study for years yet never quite reveal the intended significance of it all? ~ P.S. Colley c. Fall 1974     

                                                     My dearest empathic soul, May you be an    invisible intruder   intended for the    impossibilities of an imperfect world. May you sing stealthily through all wrong  with a healthy, truthful spirit song.  May you reach beyond your night filled dreams, and stretch beyond each frightful scheme with a wishful, radiating resilience,  blissfully creating a brilliance  that breaks the defeated night with a new dawn's freshest,  most precious, light.  Unlike others that waste a day  to wearily waste away, engrossed in the dross throng of each lost day now long gone, may you remain unseen  by prideful kings and foolish queens, proud rulers of betrayed beggars, ...

    Blank page sits silently screaming,        staring at me like a frail, famished child hungering for some mere morsel of kindness. Please, my greedy feeder, toss me one stale and crusty crumb that I might crave the delight of another..... that will never come until poet pen satisfies my cruelest hunger with its cleverest conclusion. Barren bed weeps wishfully whispering, beckoning to me like a sweet song siren bawling alone atop crags of an angry sea. Please, my selfish lover, touch me with your painful tenderness that I might revel in delight of another... that will never come until midnight lusts fulfill my cruelest yearning with comfort's imperfect illusion. Darkest hour stalks savagely looming, frightening me like a reaper's cold stare searing my mind with its unknown cavern void. Please, my tragic tormentor, take me to your merciless darkness that I might forget the delight of another... that will never come until swe...

Those twisting, turning, tossing currents keep rolling, rocking, towards the sea to dash on stones, a bashing, crashing, pounding, hounding me. Rush in, rush out, tides in, tides out,  a whirling, swirling angry sea, licking shorelines, ebb and flow, tossing, bossing me. Throbbing, bobbing, up and down, I'm kicking, flailing, fighting sea for feet on sand that melts to panic, Someone, rescue me! Fearful, tearful, bleary, weary, float and drift, last struggle ceased, floating frothy foam,  finally, a beach to comb. My Lord delivered me.                                                                                               ~P. S. Colley~                ...

  To trust one must through life's deceit, Be just robust, despite defeat, Overlook those strangers' tender glances And luck's prearranged, pretend romances. Learn to accept it all despite the doubt. Laugh, don't bawl. Smile, don't pout. For truth rears its ugly green-eyed head When lovers' fears begrudge their bed. And after all tales are spun and told The trusting rails to shun the cold Reality.  Love can never last forever. Fate is too cruel, too fast, too clever. -P.S. Colley c. 1987 Spring 1989

                    They burst clean through the atmosphere    so they could collect fresh life forms here. Their first sample came from NY City,                                but it proved too deep distaste               So they abandoned it in Chicago,                           as they reviewed huge heaps of waste. Then they turned to try one in D.C.                            but their leader choked on it                          So they spurned it in the Mississippi,                          ...

                           Great Poets know it.                               Their poetry shows it.                                            Laconic poetry,                                                              short and sweet                                                            metric ally flows a simpler beat. With minimal words            ...

  Though ocean waves crash upon me, Though sun's sear bakes skin to brown, Though dark nights laugh cold boldly, Nature will not frighten me down. Though thoughts of love confuse me, Though the clowns make me a clown, Though friends avoid, abuse me, Feelings will not drag me down. Though you and I may never be, Though together may never be found, Though there is no us, just you, just me, Loneliness will not lull me down. Though worlds unnumbered spin aimlessly, Though silence stalks all sound, Though I feel empty an eternity, My mind will not bind me down. ~P.S. Colley~     c. 1984

  Perhaps I could have,   would have,           should have tried              to love you. But I thought it,       fought it       then decided               not to. And maybe some day   some way           somehow run away               to you. Perhaps I will.....            But then again still....               I could be wrong. ~P. S. Colley~ c. July 1988

Born of mankind's melancholy moments a tiny teardrop,  trembling, trails His face to drip and ripple, resounding, reaching others; resides in pools of purest, peaceful place. Captured, caught upon a wild wind,  whistling into a whirling stream of teardrop trickles, trudging onward, forced to flow, to forever flee;  finds freedom a fleeting dream. Waits to watch those dashed upon damp moss stones. Some sadly sit 'til sun shall dry as others flirt too freely with false shorelines,  soon to sand, silently sink in soil,  they fade,  then die. Yet onward, on rushes, unrelenting teardrop, trickling, twisting,  turning towards the massive mainstream sea of mingling, man managing; avoiding shadowed shorelines and  shimmering, sun sparkled  wave caps,  unleashed and free. Until the Master spies the unstirred spring,  stoops and scoops            into His hand.  He holds His heartfelt ...

    Glass Slipper Glass slipper in the mirror reflected worn out shoe, was tossed aside with broken pride, cold and lonely blue. Until a prince enchanting stopped to lift by chance, did see the shine of glass defined, and polished with romance. Glass slipper in the mirror, reflected diamond glow, perfected sweet pleasure, life's truest treasure, once man saw it so. ~P.S. Colley~ c. 2025

        Mystified The magic of the morning mist clings to comfort               these perpetually haunting mountains. Mystifying all she gently touches,          she sprite dances on tip toe through her sleepy valley ballets Where dripping dewdrops sparkle like tinsel         on wanton limbs desperate for a more pristine air. I dare to breathe it in, basking in its lusciousness,            drowning in its freshest petrichor. Massaged mercifully by her dissipating fingers of cleansing calm,         I soak my sorrows head to toe with deliverance           from an evening's shadow that sunk sulking into sun's demise. Tomorrow forever gone, new day of hope dawns. Another chance to be who I long to be. ~P.S. Colley~ c. December 28, 2024 Songs of Appalachia  

 Days of Dread Sad, dreaded days of those unchained,  Locked in systems of agency spent On wish whisperings of material gain, Of wealth and its prideful intent. Days when men no more care for others, Their selfish coins worn thin, now wane. Cries of tear-drowned, grieving mothers, Dry unheard in the wax of war's reign. Tyrant tricksters rear their haughty head hisses, Bellow their vile and naughty claims, While their cruel poison trickles through militant mists, Falls on all, acid rains of pain. Storms form grey clouds, pelt sorrowful gay crowds, Shouting blood curdling pleas to be heard Above thunder rumbling of a proud nation's stumbling, Over minions hiding behind fool's words. They pledge allegiance to the demigods who wake their empty souls And take them bound to glories found where flames burn icy-cold. Deep in depths of depravity, loud men rush to din of war. The ill-begotten are extinguished, to breathe smoky peace no more. Meanwhile, isles destroyed by wild mad thr...

One day all knees will kneel to pray  slow-bowed low at glory's alter. and each beseech a sweet, heavenly mercy, beyond where all men falter through unforgiven days lived sinfully long  within throngs of sad selfish minds,    none find still sleep peace, unafraid, beyond cruel death's unkind. One day when men, are no more kin,  and seek as a united one, that joyous day when all as one  are embraced by the perfect Son, to heal minds worn-torn, beguiled in err,  reborn in compassion's tender repair. Rejoice the day His mortal mission life  gives each this blessed find: one day united, an eternal life shines pure  shines sacred  shines divine.                 ~P.S. Colley~                 c. 2019  

 If you were a tear,  I'd cry you away   then gaily go about my day .  If you were a thorn,   I'd pluck you out,   then wipe blood's drop and sigh aloud.   If you were a tree,   I'd chop you down   then plant a seedling in your ground.    If you were an ache   I'd take a pill,   then feel relief and sleep so still.   If you were a nightmare   I'd wake and peep,  reassure myself, then back to sleep.  If you were a simple thing,   I'd let you go....   forgive, forget, and finally go.   But you are a man   and I am your mate.   One can't walk out   when bound by fate.   ~ P.S. Colley     c.1989