City of Death
The city reminded her
Of a room full of dark flies;
The constant sound of buzzing;
The frightening hitting of
Bodies against the sides; but
Something more disturbing was
Brought to mind: the memory
Of Mr Danzinki who
Died in a room up on Eastside,
And no one found him for months
On end, and the flies got in
And laid their seeds, and they came
To fruition and buzzed in
Turn, and when his rescuers
Opened the door of the room,
There was that awful smell of
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poem by Terry Collett
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Has His Measure
Sister Cecilia fingers the beads.
The wood hard between finger
And thumb. The Christ has been
Rubbed smooth by years of prayer.
Shines like a new coin. Her feet ache
With cold. The fingers work their magic.
Her lips move to the rhythm of words
Carried on breath. She carries her
Christ in her breast close to her heart
His picture in the black and red book
In a pocket of her habit of black cloth.
She knows He follows her and listens
To her words and thoughts and watches
Her deeds done in darkness and light
In coldness and heat in cloister and chapel.
For weeks on end she feels His absence
Like a lover gone from sight on some
Distant voyage over rough sea or far off
Lands in search of some other treasure.
But she loves Him still her constant lover
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poem by Terry Collett
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Just Beyond
And Auntie saying Don’t
Go too far so I can’t see you
And off you’d go off down
The iron stairs with the dog
In pursuit and the wind in the
Sails of your coat and the sky
Beckoning above and Auntie’s
Voice trailing away on the wind’s
Wings and you happy as the sun
In the morning sky making your
Feet rush across grass and the dog
Overtaking looking back tongue
Out of the side of its mouth and
You saying Go on you mutt run
Run and your young legs taking
You far from Auntie’s sight and
Yet looking back you know she’ll
Be there hands in the clothes
Wash scrubbing away her elbows
Wet from the plunge and you
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poem by Terry Collett
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On The Day Mrs Modfig's Husband Died
On the day
Mrs Modfig's husband died
she was being rogered
by a Spaniard
she'd met
in Santa Fe
staring at
the off white ceiling
with a
I'm being
well taken care of
feeling
and didn't give
her husband
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poem by Terry Collett
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Henri Comes Late.
Henri comes late.
You sit and wait.
The day unfolds
like an unknown map.
The ghosts of Paris
parade the streets,
but no sign of Henri
or sound of his key
in the lock. You hope
he will bring his camera
to capture you as he said.
The morning chills
your naked flesh
bringing goose bumps
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poem by Terry Collett
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He Never Did
Danny Cogan said
he was going to smash
your face in
after school,
but he never did,
it was just one
of his frequent threats
he dished out
to kids smaller
than himself;
You guessed
he didn’t have
the patience to wait
or maybe
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poem by Terry Collett
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Anny In The Mall.
Anny follows just behind.
The mall is crowded but
None see her in her 1940s
Clothes. You see her and
She knows. She gazes deep
In windows of shops and
Stores takes in the bright
Lights and treasures her
Blue eyes childlike see.
But she keeps an eye on
You as often she has before
Moving eyes from you to
Shop and store. Her blue
Ghostly eyes scan the views
Of things on show in big wide
Store windows she passes by.
Her blonde hair catches the
Bright lights above her head.
She follows closer. Her hand
Almost touches yours. That
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poem by Terry Collett
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Suggestion Box
It was there on the wall,
a suggestion box,
painted white
as if to symbolize
purity or honesty.
He watched others
write on slips of paper
their suggestions
and then push them through
the thin slit at the top.
It gave some
a sense of satisfaction,
a small smile appeared,
a feeling of awkwardness in some,
maybe they thought
the suggestion dumb
or maybe they’d put in
a series of four letter words
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poem by Terry Collett
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Stolen Kisses Never Taken
After choir practice
you came out of the church
and she stopped
and said
I read someplace
that Pascal feared
the wide expanse
of the night sky
and you looked up
at the dark sky
and saw the moon
and scattered stars
and sensed her nearness
beside you
and smelt in the night air
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poem by Terry Collett
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Just One Drink.
He knew that if he had
just the one drink
that he'd be back
on the wagon again
back to the shut up room
and dead head
and stinking bed
and the woman off again
and the door slamming
and her voice echoing
up the from the hall
as her footsteps faded
come on
the guys said
just the one shot
but no he had to stay strong
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poem by Terry Collett
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