Sunflowers After Sex.
After the sex she stood
In front of the Van Gogh
Painting and gazed. Never
Saw that last night, she said.
It was dark, Max replied.
She touched the painting
With her fingers. Why have
A painting of flowers when
You can go out and buy some?
She asked. They last longer this
Way, he replied. So did you
Paint this? She asked in a state
Of semi undress, her eyes sleepy,
Her hair in a mess. No, Van Gogh
Did, he replied. Is he a friend of
Yours? She asked rubbing her breasts.
He sighed and shook his head. No,
Van Gogh painted that many years
Ago, now he’s dead. It’s a bit yellow,
She said, looking at the painting
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poem by Terry Collett
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Girl in the Green Raincoat
Each evening she got
off the bus and crossed
the forecourt of the gas
station where you worked
wearing her knee length
raincoat and made her way
into the small shop inside
and you stood there open
mouthed gazing at her hot
beauty at her black hair and
dark eyes and she said I want
20 of those cigarettes and
she pointed with her thin
finger and red nail to cigarettes
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poem by Terry Collett
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Her Mother's Dark Moments
In one of her mother’s
dark moments
of opening up
Clara’s mother had said
of the baby
which died
after a few days
that she threw it
in the trash
before anyone
could find out
about the darn thing
and you could
back then girl
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poem by Terry Collett
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Like Horny Men
Don’t let the chickens out
Uncle said
close the gate
we don’t want
the foxes getting in
and tearing them
to pieces
because they will you know
they’ll go in for the kill
but maybe only go off
with one
and you stared
at the chickens
running around
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poem by Terry Collett
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Country Scrumping
Your country cousin took you
Across a field to a vast orchard
Where low hung branches
Made the green apples within
Reach of your young boy’s hands.
Don’t eat too many of them
Or you’ll get gut ache, she said.
Your eyes had never seen so
Many apples, row after row
In long lines down the field and
Fields beyond. You picked an apple
And bit into it. They make cider
From these, she said, picking off
An apple too and biting with relish.
Your younger sister looked nervously
On wondering if she too should pick.
Go on, your cousin said, pick and eat.
Your sister reached up and pulled
And a few apples fell to the ground
With soft sounds of thump on the
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poem by Terry Collett
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Shared Cigarette
O’Brien held the cigarette tight
Between forefinger and thumb
He placed it between lips and
Inhaled. Danny Davis wanted
A drag too and Eddie Sutcliffe
Stood like a young pup waiting
For his chew on the bone. They
Watched the end of the cigarette
Flare up in the early winter cold
Eddie rubbed his hands together
In anticipation. You kept an eye
Out for school prefects or any
Odd teacher who might happen
To venture forth into the school
Playground. I liberated this from
My dad’s packet, O’Brien said
Taking the cigarette from his lips
And passing it over to Davis who
Took a quick drag then gave it to
Sutcliffe who held it like a girl
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We'll Meet Again
We’ll meet again she said
but you never did
at least not
as she had meant
as once before
but through a window
of a florist shop
where you were buying flowers
for some other woman
whom you thought
you loved
with passions hot
and thoughts crazed
and there she stood
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Not Forever
Not forever, Amelia said,
Just as long as I can find a way
Through this circus of life.
She knew her husband wasn’t listening,
He never did, he just sat in front
Of the TV sipping his beer
And smoking his cigar, laughing
Now and then at some joke
On the programme, and she’d repeat,
I won’t be here forever, you know,
Just so long as I think it’s worth
The ride through this two-bit existence.
You see that, her husband said,
You see the way that guy did that trick?
Huh? He sipped more beer. Amelia stood
Over him as he sat and she watched
The TV screen, tried to fathom what
Made him laugh so, what it was that
Made him laugh so loudly. Hey, look
At that guy’s face, Honey, look at that
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Different Sunset.
Kempton was one of your
Best friends at school he
Was a year older than you
And having had polio it left
Him with a limp and when
He ran it seemed as if he was
Riding an imaginary horse
And to keep up with him
You had to ride one too.
Your horse was brown
And ordinary but his was
White like the one the Lone
Ranger rode and when you
Both came out of the movies
You rode off into the sunset
Together you trying to keep
Up with him as he rode ahead.
You envied his small collection
Of knives. His father brought
Them back from the WW2 taken
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Love Doesn't End With Death
Love doesn’t end with death, Mother
Said. A few days had gone since Father’s
Demise and you stood in their room
While she sat on her bed and did her hair.
She stopped in mid brush and cried.
I wish it was me, you said, at least then
You’d still have him to love. She looked
Round at you and said, then I’d be grieving
For you. It’s still grief no matter who
Goes or stays, she said. She wiped her
Eyes and brushed her hair once more
Looking at herself in the mirror. We never
Appreciate the time we have with people
Until they’ve gone, she muttered, half to
Herself and half to you. Ordinary days are
Best because they’re more plentiful,
She continued, looking at you through
The mirror’s view. You noticed the first grey
Hairs appearing where she’d brushed last,
Sitting there amongst hairs brunette.
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poem by Terry Collett
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