Work
Work never killed anyone,
Smithers said, a fair day’s
work for a fair day’s pay.
You continued to paint
the wall, your hand rising
and falling with the brush.
Tell that to those who died
in Auschwitz and other camps
or the archipelago of gulags
in Russia, you moodily replied.
Those were foreigners in
different times and different
places, he said, your average
person never died from the
labours of over work.
The paint was an awful green,
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poem by Terry Collett
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Left In The Dark
Your father took you
to see a Jeff Chandler movie
and you sat there
in the dark
eating popcorn
sharing some with him
and taking in
the cowboys
and guns
and imaging you
were up there
riding your imaginary horse
shooting your gun
along side the others
when your father got up
and went off
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poem by Terry Collett
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Glimpse Of Lover
You saw Christina
and a few
of her giggling
school friends
in one
of the school corridors
in between
maths and biology
she
looked at you
her eyes shy
and yet searching
and her friends
unnoticing
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poem by Terry Collett
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Miss Arkle's Wart
Miss Arkle had a wart on
The back of her neck.
Miss Arkle taught maths
And smelt of lemons.
You wiped the blackboard
As she had instructed
Wiping away her handwritten
Workouts which made no
Sense to your tired brain.
The wart on her neck like
A dried brown prune caught
Your eyes. It sat above her
Pink scarf. It kind of spoilt
Her beauty like a bruised apple.
You wanted to slice it off
And flick it away. Having wiped
The blackboard clear you
Returned to your seat.
You carried the image in
Your mind like a damaged fruit.
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poem by Terry Collett
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Her Prayerful Breath
She sat on the grass
beneath the summer sun
looking at you
as if for the first time
and as she looked at you
you looked beyond her
at the distant sky
and how the clouds
resembled a woman’s bust
and how humorous it was
when an airplane
went right through
on its way to some far off land
and as she took your hand
she said things about love
and how she felt
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poem by Terry Collett
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While Posing.
Mr Clementon says to sit
and wait and pose and you
sit as told and watch as he
prepares the easel and sorts
his brushes and paints and
all the while he sings in a soft
humming undertone his focus
on his task and not at all on you
and you watch and see how slim
his fingers are and not at all like
most men’s fingers are and his
hands are white and his face now
turned to you is shaved clean and
unblemished like a baby’s skin
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poem by Terry Collett
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Max Is Fixed.
I don’t know what that son
of a bitch said but it’s all lies
said Max I never touched his
lady I wouldn’t have touched
her with a proverbial barge pole
but he’s always had it in for me
that schmuck he thinks just because
he’s got himself a good job and
lives in a big house and drives a
posh car that I’m just slum waste
but I showed him when I knocked
on his door when he was at work
and his lady let me in to fix the
waste pipe and once I got it fixed
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Dark Eyed Doyle
Dark eyed Doyle they called him,
And he was dark eyed too. His eyes
Like black olives in white snow, his
Mother said. Had a way with girls,
An electrifying smile, an engaging
Manner. Not a bit like his father,
Grumpy, self righteous and always
Quoting the Bible, thumping the
Black cover. Danny Doyle could
Charm birds from trees, make his
Girlfriend’s mother giggle like she’d
Been tickled, make her father fume
Behind his newspaper with thinking
He knew what that Doyle was up to.
Doyle was a closed book; many read
His cover and liked what they saw,
Others didn’t and didn’t venture any
Further or deeper than the skin on
His nose. Ah, said Doyle, God alone
Knows me inside out and He alone is
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poem by Terry Collett
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Altercation
He altercated
with Mrs Orbeck
on the stairs.
Something to do
with him
sneaking women
into his room at night.
None of your business
if I do, he’d said.
But it was of course,
written into the tenant’s
agreement he’d signed
the year before
when he’d been desperate
and she seemed nice.
I will not have
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Watching
You sat intrigued
by the way
the old woman
spooned her soup
sitting in the cafe
all by herself.
She had a bread roll
broken up
on a side plate
and fingered it
into her mouth
in between
mouthfuls of soup.
You watched
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poem by Terry Collett
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