Mermaids Collective

07/31/2026

The Gypsy Lady

Dance little darlings to delightful tunes,
Your lonely momma loves you 'til the full June moon,
And on the edge of nightingale wings,
The gypsy lady whirls and sings:

"Freedom, freedom,"
"freedom to be", she sings.
"Yet I need 'em, need 'em"
"I need what their love brings."

Sleep handsome stranger, dream your golden dreams,
Your lost lover wants you 'til you wake with schemes,
And on the count of the hundredth sheep,
The gypsy lady weeps, then sleeps.

"Freedom, freedom"
"Freedom to be", she aches.
"But I need him, need him"
"I need what his love makes."

Roll on winding river through the countryside,
Your task master drives you 'til you you're sand and tide,
And on your banks sitting calm with strife,
The gypsy lady longs for life.

"Freedom, freedom"
"Freedom to be," she cries.
"Leave 'em?, Can't leave 'em".
She watches the gypsy lady die.

P.S. Colley
April 1989

07/31/2026

Laundry on the line

Laundry on the line freshly flapping
away the day of another mundane adventure,
pinned hastily with four inch split wood pins,
wrinkle knuckle scrubbed across
a well worn and wisdom weathered washboard,
hung habitually by time twisted hands
to breeze blow into the gentleness of sunnier days.
Laundry on the line faithfully flapping
away the drowsy days of sweet morning dew rains
where a dozen born babes woke crying on
into dark, haunting nights that duty beckoned
eager sons, too soon men grown to war,
never to return to romp rowdy again amongst the sheets of
Laundry on the line forever flapping
away the suds of baptism, wrung redeemed
from stubborn soot, that silently clung to cobwebs
over the mounting pile of ashes that stalked the corner woodstove,
warmly welcomed by her loom-braided carpet of stains
where tired old hound laid to howl his bloody-pawed pain
of a fleeting dusk, chasing hares into
the midst of a ripe boysenberry thicket.
Laundry on the line fatefully flapping
away the day where everyone's mother,
sweat-drenched alone and dry mouth haggard
from a fever's fury, drew her last breath whisper
to no one, upon a sunken mattress filled with
gathered softest downy goose feathers,
now soaked with years of a thousand dried tears.
Laundry on the line forsaken and flapping
away the day when the black collar clad pastor
rushed to read an Ephesian epitaph
across a grave singing of an old rugged cross
marked by a handful of a grandchild's wildflowers.
Buried there she sleeps deep alongside a withered old man
she barely knew, but loved her lifetime.
~P.S. Colley~
Songs of Appalachia

07/31/2026

A great time for Mermaids.

Solitude Poetry returns in April 2027 @ Virginia Tech with music by Soupbone & Spectral Arts & poetry TBA @ https://sites.google.com/view/spectral-arts/solitude-poetry

07/13/2026

07/08/2026

07/05/2026

Maybe being a Mermaid is being yourself.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

06/10/2026

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

06/09/2026

Sorrow's Prayer

Two strangers within
stalk and vie, once again,
For another chance to boldly dance
across my mind.
They hear no music,
they laugh no laughter.
They have forgotten,
promises begotten hereafter.
They have played away
a play of days
that ticked away the clock
of a more precious time.

One whispers hurt,
"Please hear my unspoken silence."
One screams proud,
aloud from a cold unheard.
One pleads for mercy from
betrayal's cruel unkindness.
One cries, eyes blinded
by each piercing, heartless word.

One cannot deny the frozen stare of either.
One cannot reply, "I dare chose not to be the fighter."
One who fights, fights as captive of a dream,
Dreamt by another, to smother what goes unseen.

Gone, all hope of some sane and peaceful solution.
Gone, all hope of any amicable resolution.
Gone, all hope of soul's united, raging empty into night.
Gone, all hope of one within them.......two loves simply die.

For neither extends the hand of joyful adoration,
For both have hung bleeding upon a sacrificial cross.
For what? That love can find its humblest station
Forever on lips, mumbling rumors of love that's lost?

Find me now, my sweet and perfect healing Savior.
Find me somewhere where there is no mortal pain.
Find me where two within live as eternal friends,
Find repentance and embrace forgiveness, once again.

~P.S. Colley~
c, 2025