Randshaw Muses
Randshaw stands in a shop
Behind a young woman.
He studies her figure.
Nice legs. Bit thin maybe.
Not as thin as Minnie’s.
Matchsticks. He moves closer.
She is next in line to be served.
Nice bottom; firm, but not big,
Not floppy; not like Bet’s. Hips good.
Childbearing Mother would say.
The young woman moves forward
To be served. The waist goes in nicely.
Put arms about easy. Squeeze.
Would do if she were mine.
She moves nearer. Perfume,
Not cheap. Powerful, but not
Overwhelming. He wants to
Feel her hair, but holds his hands
By his sides. He sniffs the air
Around her. He cannot decide
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poem by Terry Collett
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In Your Sleep
In your sleep
Brando was alive again
playing an old wild one
with leather jacket
and slippers,
riding a three wheeled scooter,
and Marilyn Monroe
promised to kiss you
if you could recite
a Dylan Thomas poem
in French or Latin,
and your father came
in the dark robes of death
carrying the grey ashes
of your first burnt poem,
and Ezra Pound made a visit
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poem by Terry Collett
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Hers Was
Hers was a life of compliance.
Fulfilment of another's wishes,
observance of another's needs,
conformity to the rules set down
in stone. She was the rubber of
beads through fingers, touched
by thumbs; the beads of the rosary
would be sealed by prayers.
She was the self denier, who put
herself last, one who sacrificed
pleasures for a promised salvation,
whose menstruations were reminders
of babies that would never be,
children which would never be hers,
dugs that would never be sucked.
She carried the cross through cloisters,
sandaled feet trod the paved paths,
heard birdsong, saw butterflies in flight,
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poem by Terry Collett
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Don't Know When
Don’t know when
she said
but as she spoke
her breath rose
like cigarette smoke
in the morning air
and it fascinated you
more than the words
like when your father
blew smoke rings for you
as some kind
of cheap entertainment
but
she said
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poem by Terry Collett
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The Gun.
The gun was tucked
into the belt
of your jeans
the hat (your father's
borrowed trilby)
pushed to the back
of your head
you had recently shot
the boss-eyed sheriff
behind the grocer's store
and rode with Jessie James
across the open plains
of the local park
and pumped Pete Badham
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poem by Terry Collett
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Before You
Supposing Death
to be a woman
what then?
She asked
would you embrace it
as willingly as you do me?
The afternoon sun
seemed to hang
in the sky
like a child's balloon
as you lay that day
in the tall grass
maybe
you said
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poem by Terry Collett
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His letter.
The letter has come at last.
You have been waiting for days.
You open the envelope with
Both excitement and anxiety
Gripping you tight. His script
Is as per norm: clear, well written
With that slanting at the end of words.
He hasn’t signed with love or left
Those flying bird kisses. You see
Meaning between words, not those
He’s written, but what it was he
Meant to say, but hasn’t. You skip
Words on matters trite. You read
Deeply on the words that mention
You or how he feels. You hold his
Letter tightly between fingers of
Both hands. The page shakes.
He doesn’t say he loves you or
Speak of that night of sexual passion.
You fold the letter carefully; place
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poem by Terry Collett
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Under a Blue Sky
Look at that blue sky
she said
as you lay beside her
in the field
behind her house
and she pointed upward
and you followed her finger
as it indicated
the expanse of blue
and white clouds
and a few birds in flight
That cloud formation
seems like angels with harps
and that
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poem by Terry Collett
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Let It Be.
She always had that, Let It Be, album
On the turntable, with him, the latest uncle,
Sitting beside her on the couch or in her bed,
Smoking, making out, and you were told to go
Outside and play and leave her be, and so
You’d go out and play or find some mischief
To do with Hawksmith, who always seemed
To know how you felt, what made you tick,
And he’d say, let’s go up to Grundle’s barn,
Let’s go make out in the hay, and he’d laugh,
And so you’d go to the barn or down by Mullen’s
Pond and watch him fish. She always played
That darn Let It Be album when she was high,
Had it up loud, the music blaring out over
The yard, and she and him, laughing and cursing,
And when you used to creep back to the house
Late at night the lights were on and you’d hear
The Beatles’ album going round and round on
The turntable without reason or any sound.
poem by Terry Collett
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In Dark Shadows.
the pepper pot
towards the nun
on her right.
The salt follows
once more given
a gentle shove.
To understand
another’s need
without them asking,
an elderly nun
had said.
A nun is reading
from a high desk
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poem by Terry Collett
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