Tommy Collins Poetry

They crowd the bar like snouts about a trough And trot around cracked glass in fallen drink, Herded by pulsing flashing lights and noise, Letting the music tell them what to think, To put their hands up in the air and jump, To chant and whistle to the Piper's beat, Amidst a heaving mass of sound and sweat, An infernal reverie of dancing feet.

Lately in my nights I have been Revisiting the scenes Of old nightmares, The blurred and Shadowy places All of cobwebs And confusion And sudden changes, Half-familiar recreations, Mirror images Of comforts And locations, The faces of the Living and the dead Both real and Imagined, All and nothing, Tricks and trap-doors, Shifting ground and Eyes between the floorboards, Ghastly things hiding In nettles and thorns, The buzzing of wasps And echoes of words. Some nights I can fly, Escape, ride the elation, But in spite of all trying I cannot force a scream, Breathing speeds up but Will not give way to crying, Heating under tangled covers, A body in panic Sweating with fear As if some great And terrible secret Seeks and demands confession. But there is none. No meaning emerges. Fear lingers in Half-forgotten images.