Cloud Formations and Jane..

I like cloud formations
Jane said
laying on her back

in the small church yard
looking up at the sky
above her head

it's like a form of art
you said
grey and white

against a canvas of blue
that looks like a man's head
Jane said

the way it forms
and unforms
you followed

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poem by Terry Collett
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Granddad's Candy

Granddad offered candy
from a white paper bag
and you slowly took one

and put in your mouth
and the strong peppermint flavour
exploded on your tongue

as Granddad closed his eyes
and sank back
into his chair by the fire

and he said
if you go outside
to the john

be careful of the mutt
who sleeps there
and the spiders

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poem by Terry Collett
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Seaside Visitation

Your grandchildren
play in the sea,
splashing and screaming
as the water chills.

You watch as you sit
on the stone wall,
your feet on the sand.

Anny stands staring out
at the broad horizon,
her ghostly hand
above her brow
to keep out
the sun’s bright glare,
her small phantom feet
touching the beach,
far from the water’s reach.

She hears the playful screams,

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poem by Terry Collett
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Cedric's Sister

My sister likes you
Cedric said
and as he said it
he blushed

and well Christina
wasn’t a bad looker
from what you saw of her
in the recreation grounds

at school
and once

you’d gone up to her
when she was sitting
with her school friends
in the summer

on the playing fields
and you saw

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poem by Terry Collett
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On Tuesdays

On Tuesdays Max visited
A dame a few blocks
Away with the mutt that
Seemed to bark all day.
He went because he liked
The way she made coffee
And always offered him
Toast or cake and because
She was blind and had the
Most useless mutt for the
Blind in the whole world.

On Tuesdays she opened
Her door to him; let him
In to her world and made
Him coffee and offered him
Toast or cake and listened as
He spoke and told her jokes
And related the latest gossip.

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poem by Terry Collett
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Her Name.

Her name's Jane I think
said Jupp

standing beside you
in the school hall

as the girl on the school bus
went by with a slow walk

carrying a bag
over her shoulder

and her dark hair
flowing down her back

anyway he added
how are you getting on

with that maths work
chisel face gave us?

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poem by Terry Collett
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Dotty and Willy.

Dotty screws the pen lid,
puts the pen down, folds
her hands in her lap. Willy
has finished his poem, he

is now silent, his muse has
gone. She watches as her
brother sits back in his chair,
pushes his fingers through his

dark hair and sighs. That makes
her almost cry, that poet muse
going like that, him sitting there,
face empty, sighs leaving him

instead of words. Tonight she
will enter it all in her journal,
after cocoa and a biscuit and
Willy's kiss and him gone off

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poem by Terry Collett
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Mona's Monday Morning.

Mona stands outside
the back door of the
cottage and stares up
at the morning sky.

Monday, school soon.
It seems a lifetime ago
since Friday. She and Lisa
had, the previous day,

burned into each other
a different relationship.
She can still sense each
touch, each hold and kiss.

The rainfall had soaked
them like a holy baptism,
a fresh start, a new beginning.
She breathes in the morning air.

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poem by Terry Collett
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Not Wanting To Forget

The Modigliani print was on the wall
By the front door. Who’s she? Bridshaw’s
Dame asked, pointing at the print.
It’s a painting by Modigliani, Bridshaw said.
Is he a friend of yours? The dame asked.
Bridshaw pulled a face and said, No, he’s
Dead now. Shame, she replied, stroking
The print, her finger tracing the woman’s
Outline, her tongue hanging out of the side
Of her mouth in concentration. She’s a bit
On the thin side, the dame said, and I don’t
Like the black coat she’s wearing, like some
Darn widow. Bridshaw wanted to get the dame
In bed for sex; the Modigliani print was no
Big deal, he’d bought it in some art shop on
The high street from the guy with the Boston
Tones. Shame he’s dead, the dame said, he
Could have painted me; I would have made
A good model, more meat on me than that
Woman in black, thin as a pole. Bridshaw

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poem by Terry Collett
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Hornbridge and Girls.

Hornbridge likes to see girls undress.
But slowly. Their thin fingers and thumbs
Holding the cloth and taking off. Especially
The black negligee held just so. He fully
Dressed waits until the final article of
Clothing is removed and she stands gazing
At him with her bright expectant eyes.
He likes to have music in the background
Playing. Jazz or classic. Gerry Mulligan for
Some types or Mozart for others depending
On their breeding or class. Occasionally a Rock
Chick makes it through his defences and he
Puts on the Stones or something of their ilk.
He likes it when the girls place their hands on
Their hips as they wait for him to undress.
Yet there is always some disappointment.
Some flaw in either breasts or waist or legs
Or ass. Gloria spoilt him. Hard act to follow.
Those eyes. How he could swim there in that
Blue liquid of the two eyes. Those breasts.

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poem by Terry Collett
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