Old Mrs Truber
Always be yourself, Mrs Truber said,
Don’t be what you’re not. You sat
And studied her as she sat opposite
Stirring her cup of tea, took in her
Greying hair, her lined features, the
Way her bony fingers held the spoon
That stirred. People try to be like others
And find themselves out of their depth
And drown in the waters of lies and deceit,
She added, bringing her light blue eyes
On you. You began to speak, but the words
Were stuck in your throat. She smiled and
Tapped your hand. We are what we are,
She said, but often we are tempted to become
Actors wearing a different mask, trying to
Be a different person. You nodded slowly
And thought how beautiful she must have
Been once. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke,
And as she brushed her hand through her grey
Hair, you thought you caught a glimpse of her
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poem by Terry Collett
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Emptied Woman
And she had that feeling
of the new day
being no better
and he was always the same
with the constant
moans and the groans
and that way he had
of coming home
and giving her the eye
and the heavy silence
and she knew
what was coming next
and as he put on the TV
he lit up a cigarette
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poem by Terry Collett
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Delia and The Arts Tutor
Delia who had bedded her
French nanny at fourteen
and had hot sex with the head
girl at boarding school, now
lies beside the arts tutor named
Ms Shopton in college. She has
explored the woman's body from
top to toe. Invaded each orifice
and landed her ninety ninth
plus umpteenth kiss. Sunlight
pours through the high window,
the woman's scent and body
odour invades the bed. She has
kissed most parts that can be kissed,
scanned the woman's skin, taking
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poem by Terry Collett
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Church Sitting
You sat with Jane
in her father's church
the bright morning sun
piercing high windows
pushing colours on flagstone floors
the silence caressed you
her nearness warmed
her ankle socks and sandals
had an innocence of strawberries
her flowered summer dress
rode up to her thighs as she sat
her hands resting on her knees
can you feel that breeze?
she said
cooling isn't it
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poem by Terry Collett
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Uncle Fred and The Sand Dance
Your Uncle Fred
on Christmas Eve
at Gran's house
when you were a kid
did the sand dance
wearing an old fashion
man's striped nightgown
and a red fez
(he got that in Egypt
during WW2
Gran said)
and brown
open toed sandals
and Uncle Ed
turned the handle
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poem by Terry Collett
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Janette and You and the Slapped Face.
Janette Richie
didn't like you much
as was shown
that time
in Mr Finn's class
when she slapped
your face
for something you'd said
leaving you
with a spinning head
and a red cheek
but that aside
and her rather
plump frame
and maybe spectacles
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poem by Terry Collett
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Life and Sand.
Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local slut, she doesn't know.
She's been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist's tools and useful stuff.
She has modelled for others and
They've always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, sex, and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.
Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.
She recalls the artist's antics the night
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poem by Terry Collett
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There She Posed
And there was Mame
posed between two Arabs
leaning against a camel
on a Moroccan beach
winding up her watch
clothed in a red and white
swim suit
and Johnny had said
You could've had her mate
the other night
she was yours
for the taking
(sex you thought he meant)
others have said
they've had her
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poem by Terry Collett
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Saturday Morning 1961
Jane climbed off
the Saturday bus to town
her black hair ruffled
by the wind
her eyes
looking over at you
her mother close by
you standing by the wall
having climbed from the bus
a few moments before
your mother stood
and spoke to others
you watched as Jane buttoned up
her coat against the winter cold
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poem by Terry Collett
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What is Sometimes Hidden.
Just as Minnie gets in the mood
to play the Debussy Violin
Sonata her mother says the
photographer is waiting and
so she has to go along to the
lounge and pose and have her
picture taken and as she stands
there with her violin dressed
to the nines the photographer
says no do not smile it cheapens
the effect and so she stiffens
her lips and stares at the young
photographer's moustache and
her mother says do has the man
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poem by Terry Collett
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