Between Drags
Between drags
on the cigarette
she muses on
the Rothko print
on Scalpon’s wall.
It took her by surprise
hanging there
beside the front door
almost from ceiling to floor.
The smoke touches her throat
fills her lungs.
Satisfaction sits
on her tongue
like Scalpon easing himself
between her thighs.
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poem by Terry Collett
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Morning Sky
The morning sky
was one of those
cold January mornings
with redness
up there
amongst
the off white clouds
and she said
I dreamt of you last night
And you came into my room
and into my warm bed
and even my sister
didn't know
you were there
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poem by Terry Collett
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Sitting With Gran.
Gran half blind stares at the sky.
Her snow-white hair bushes out
In an explosion of curls. I used
To sit here with you on my lap,
She says, and rocked you to sleep
While your mother went to the shops
Or off to work. You sit beside her
In your brand new suit and short cut hair,
Listening to her words as they hang in the air.
Your father was never much good at work
Or things that mattered, she says, knowing
He’d let her down, despite her brand of love
And concern. Don’t be like him, lad, be one
To be counted on, to be aware of others
Than yourself, don’t be blinded by self-love
Or what counts for you or your own
Small world. She looks at you with her blue
White eyes wherein a long ago world slowly dies.
poem by Terry Collett
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Good Trip
It was a good trip or maybe
It was a dream she couldn’t
Quite tell it seemed all sensibility
Was pretty much muddled and
Her last realistic memory was
Hodgson giving her a drink and
Then things just seemed to dissolve
Into a swirl of images and sounds
And feelings of falling and being
Lifted up and put down and some
Clown trying to do things to her
Which her mother had said was
Not the thing that good girls did or
Let be done to them and a thought
Pushed itself through her mind
And poked at her and she saw her
Brother drowned in the bath with
His thin wrists slit and his few paintings
Left behind hung on the wall of his
Room and inside her as she lay someplace
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poem by Terry Collett
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When Not To Gaze.
Have you read any Kierkegaard?
She asked her blues eyes searching
Yours almost reaching right in and
Making a grab for your soul. No
You replied wondering how many
Guys had spied her breasts tucked
Up neat and tight like some birthday
Gift and not been tempted to reach
And touch. Well you should she said
Better than that Nietzsche or Sartre
And she sat down in the chair by the
Window waving a hand for the waiter
And crossing one leg over the other.
No lady crosses her legs and sits like
That said Mother in your head some
Memory stirred. She ordered for you
Both in her best French and studied
You with silent stare and you trying
Hard not to gaze at her unclothed thighs
Breathed out deep and closed your eyes.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Smile
A smile
and that was it
she had you captured
and that was
the first time
you saw her
as you climbed aboard
the school bus
that November
and as you took
your seat toward
the back
you carried her smile
with you
and it seeped into
and seemed to enter
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poem by Terry Collett
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Miss Pinkie in for the Kill
Miss Pinkie
had him spread out
upon her bed
an object
to seduce
and adore
his clothes folded
neatly on a chair
hers cast here
and there
upon the floor
there's an art
to seduction
she said
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poem by Terry Collett
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Love Her Still
You never expected
your mother to die
although the hospital
hinted at such
all lost
in their
language trap
all in all
it was a double blow
as dementia took her
piece by piece
years ago
then the final punch
the knock out blow
remembering
someone saying
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poem by Terry Collett
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Already Dies.
After the service
at the church
on Sunday morning
in 1962
she and you
leaving the choir
and she taking your hand
in hers and staying behind
until the others had gone
she kisses your lips
and the echo
of the organ’s drone
silent and the smell
of her mother’s
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poem by Terry Collett
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Henry And That Kind Of Kissing
Women kissing each other
on cheeks the friends
meeting for coffee kind
not the passionate
let's get to bed
and kiss
and indulge kind
but Henry wishes
the women at the coffee bar
were of that kind
just to break the boringness
of the day
just so he can get through
the hour without
the boring chitchat
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poem by Terry Collett
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