Crying As An Art Form.
Mother made act of crying
An art form; she knew
Sense of tears on cheek
And leak from blue of eyes.
Father would have his way
Of bringing on the tears in
Her, making the blue eyes
Red, bruising the cheek of
Bone and flesh, making an
Art of bringing black and
Blue in such human skin.
You recall once the time
He slapped her cheek with
A back of hand for making
Remark in jest: you look like
A Yank with that camera held
So. You never could divine how
Love could have altered form
And made a mockery of care
And concern and deepest sense
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poem by Terry Collett
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Let Go
Let go said Bettina
I don’t want to live
any longer but he
wouldn’t let go of
her hand and she
hung over the side
of the roof of the high
building looking up
at him and then looking
down at the street a
long way below let go
she bellowed I don’t
want this world any
more I have had enough
but still he held on trying
to ring for help on his
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poem by Terry Collett
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Like Alice Does.
Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,
her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed
watching, studying her
hand and brush going
downward and out and
downward and out, and
as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother
doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe
of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through
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poem by Terry Collett
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Almost Made Out
You almost made out
that day
but her parents
came home early
and you had to sit
all boiled up
while they came in
and greeted you
with their middleclass kindness
not knowing
you had almost
made out
with their daughter
who sat next to you
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poem by Terry Collett
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That Much
That summer that field
and she saying to you
how much do you love me?
And you sensing her eyes
on you and the warm sun
and the birds in the sky
and you opening your hands
like the one that got away
say this much and she pokes
your arm and says be serious
how much? and you widen
your hands and smile at her
and say this wide or maybe
the size of a horse and she
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poem by Terry Collett
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Bride
The nun leaves
the warm parlour
off the cloister
and feels the cloisters' cold
and biting frost of early dawn.
Each bite and nip
of toes and fingertips
a minor crucifixion.
My self my enemy
you shall not win.
The cross signifies
the crossing out of I,
the I's greed and wants
and selfish such.
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poem by Terry Collett
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Dark Skies
Never trust dark skies,
Mother says, sitting next
To you in her wheelchair
Aged and infirm, her mind
Shot through with senility;
And you remember her telling
You, that as a young girl, she
Would walk with her mother
And younger siblings, to take
Her father’s Sunday roast dinner,
Hidden in the compartment of
The pram beneath her two baby
Sisters, to the work place where
He waited, and her mother saying,
Make sure the others do not make
Off Etty, and your mother as she
Was then, with her big blue eyes
And long curly hair, having that look
About her, as if she could see her
Father’s death in 1936, and him no
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poem by Terry Collett
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Sight Seeing.
Walking around the Arc de Triomphe
Looking up at the names carved in the
Walls wondering if you’d see any names
Of distant relatives carved up there
Amongst the brave and fallen knowing
The coach would be waiting soon and
Wanting to see more and take in the
Atmosphere of the place trying to avoid
The other foreigners with their cameras
And tourist garb and glasses wishing to
Capture with your eyes images for your
Minds to feed on and remember when
You lie in bed and talk with the lights
Out and seeing now the coach driver and
Guide waving their arms you know it’s
Time for you and your lady to go back to
The coach and sit and wait for the next
City sight and the coming of a Paris night.
poem by Terry Collett
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An American
An American,
she thought he was,
the hair cut
and the style of clothes
gave her a clue,
at least that
and the drawn out
drawl like he was drawing
the words
from a deep well.
Her father called him a Yank,
didn’t take to him at all,
wouldn’t even speak
when he said, Hello Sir,
all kind of polite,
thoughtful and well bred,
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poem by Terry Collett
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Meering Their Fate
Uncle said you can fed
the chickens and then
later you can choose
which one we have for
dinner tomorrow and he
went off to work someplace
leaving you to feed and fret
over which of the noisy hens
would meet their end by
Uncle’s hand and end up
as the Sunday roast sitting
among potatoes and parsnips
as each of the family widened
their eyes and licked their lips.
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poem by Terry Collett
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