Winter Musing
And the December weather
was upon you and the winter
evenings were drawing in and
she wanted to hold your hand
as you walked home after getting
off the school bus and the cold
air bit into flesh and you held her
hand and sensed the pulse in her
and the life there and the skin
on skin thing and some kind of
electrical buzz through your veins
and into your heart and head and
the traffic went by fast pushing up
wet from the road and you remember
the black tarmac then and her years
later by cruel cancer dragged dead.
poem by Terry Collett
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Paper
Paper promises, Dunstead said,
paper cups, wallpaper being stuck
up on the wall for the next to last
time, paper tigers, paper to wipe
the ass and best of all paper to
create art, to have it from the heart,
to see it out there, being gazed at,
studied by some bearded guy with
glasses and paper money to buy
the next paper to create and then
if I’m lucky the muse turning up on
time and giving me the big nudge
in the right direction or some paper
picture of some nude dame giving
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poem by Terry Collett
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Less.
Less the money you
owe me for the coffee
I bought Jezebel said
and the man nodded
and began to undress
and she said Wait there’s
the question of the fare
here I think it’s less the
fare too and he nodded
again and removed his
shirt and she raised a
finger saying Hold on a
minute there’s the matter
of the cost of the hotel room
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poem by Terry Collett
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They'll Say That God Had Need Of Her..
They'll say that God had need of her
Before her time,
That angels sought her company
For beauty's sake
In mind or soul,
That stars will shine far brighter
In the night of all their dread
Now that she is dead at six years old,
And they must feel the cold
Of her departure all the more,
Like one whose ship has left the shore
For far off places,
They must have her face in mind
To keep as photograph,
In silver frame,
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poem by Terry Collett
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Makemkov's Muse.
Makemkov had a sudden
Thought while sitting on his bed,
Having a smoke, gazing out
Of the window at the new
Apartments across the way,
Where some young dame was slipping
Into something light and cool,
Unknowing that he gazed like this
On other days, the thought he
Had disturbed the sexy sight,
The image becoming blurred
Into another lustful
Smudge, he was going to be
Dead one day, the thought revealed,
Unclean or not so, he did
Not know, but die he would, he
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poem by Terry Collett
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To Crap
Goldstein’s left footprints
In the snow, they go off
Toward the woods. Birds
Take flight at the sound of
Gunfire, their wings clipping
The branches of tall trees,
Disturbing snow; a fall of
Whiteness settling upon
Crimson stains; Goldstein’s
Dead eyes see nothing of this,
Hear nothing of birds in flight,
The open wound in his head
Seeps blood. Jackboots tread
Where Goldstein trod; the rifle
Silent now, hung over the sturdy
Shoulder, a cold hand gripping
The strap. The killer pauses at the
Edge of the woods, ready to pee
In the snow, time to ease and crap.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Girl with the Croissant.
You watch the way the girl
Pulls apart the croissant with
Her slim fingers and licks each
Finger in turn sucking on each
With the passion of one making
Love and yet as she pulls it apart
There is that slowness oh that
Deliberate tearing open as if she
Were now opening herself for her
Latest lover as her fingers pull and
Her eyes gaze and her tongue licks
The corners of her soft mouth to
Catch escaping crumbs as if they
Were the juices of her lover’s sperm
Then she turns her head and sees
Your stare and you just wishing you
Was the croissant in her fingers there.
poem by Terry Collett
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Before Death
Before death
you wanted to kiss
the girl in the lift
whom you rode with
silently each day,
wanted to read
War and Peace,
wanted to listen
to the whole
of Wagner’s Ring,
wanted to write a poem
in Japanese,
touch the dress
Marilyn Monroe
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poem by Terry Collett
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Old Bob.
Old Bob lived
in a cardboard box
under the stairs.
Don’t feed the mutt,
Granny said.
But you did, often,
with scraps from the table
or broken biscuits
from the battered tin
that Gran kept
on the lower shelf.
Bob was a short haired
fawn dog with eyes
like dark plump plums.
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poem by Terry Collett
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Nothing Left
There is always
the aftermath,
the after kissing
time. Time to sit
and remember
the lips touching.
She recalls that well.
His lips on hers.
Skin on skin. Time
to reflect on actions
made. Things done
and not done. Or
done at the wrong
time for the wrong
reasons. She knows
she will go to him
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poem by Terry Collett
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