Reading Bukowski's Poem.
You ran your finger
along the spine
of books on your bookshelf
and took down
Betting on the Muse
by Charles Bukowski
and opened it
at random
reading the stories
and poem after poem
then having
nothing better to do
you got to page 292
and a poem titled
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poem by Terry Collett
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Sex In The End.
It all boiled down to sex in the end,
She thought, after the gifts and flowers
And the cards sent and the romantic words,
And the showing of affection, and the quick
Introduction to the parents, and the talk
Of marriage and kids and the nice home,
With the right sort of neighbours, and his
Job secure and the money in the bank;
Yet, late at night, when the moon pushed
Itself through the window, showing his eyes
Closed, and his love machine thrusting in
And out of her, she realized then, counting
The stars on the ceiling, it was about sex
Not about love, concern, giving, or feeling.
poem by Terry Collett
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Sit And Wait
Just sit there and wait,
the nurse said, Jinjang
sat and waited. The room
smelt of cheap disinfect
and sick body’s odour.
She looked around;
took in the yellow curtains,
light blue walls, plain carpet.
The doctor’s name was
unfamiliar and the plump
young receptionist had
been rude and gruff.
The pain in the breast
was still there as she sat
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poem by Terry Collett
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Before
Before she went off
having told you
she was seeing
someone else
you wanted to gather
her words in your hands
and jumble them up
to make a different
form of words
and a different message
and as you watched her
go back toward her home
you thought of the first kiss
she gave you
and that bright gaze
in her blue eyes
when she saw you
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poem by Terry Collett
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Just Us.
As she got off
the school bus
she’d look back
to see if you
were following
her large blue eyes
searching each
aspect of you
having the wisdom
to take every moment
like some precious gem
and not let go of them
and as you descended
from the steps
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poem by Terry Collett
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Sun Block
The plump lady
who occupied
with her behind
the front two seats
of the green bus
has passed away
and no one went
to her lonely
sad funeral
except a priest
and the lady
from the sweet shop
who sold Sally
the plump lady
dark chocolate
bars each morning
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poem by Terry Collett
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Uncleaned Sink
She loved Bach and listened
To him whenever she had the
Chance and while sitting listening
She gazed at her Picasso prints
And sipped the cola she mixed
With vodka and remembered
Ricans trying to make it with her
But she not interested in that
Side of being with him not wanting
To see the all too human side not
Wishing to see that aspect which
Made him all so much like everybody
Else just wanted that part of him
Which sat and listened to Bach and
Gazed at the Picasso prints sipping
Vodka and cola which she hoped made
Him think of higher things than sex
Drugs or the uncleaned bathroom sink.
poem by Terry Collett
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Auntie's Mutt
Auntie’d cut off
the bacon rind
and throw it
for the dog
and you’d grab it
and run down
the stairs with it
and the dog’d
run down after you
and the bacon rind
yapping at your heels
and you’d hold
the bacon rind up
and the mutt’d jump up
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poem by Terry Collett
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Talks With The Dead
He converses too often
with the dead. The talks
Remembered, taken in
Deep the words said.
He sorts through afterwards
The conversations, what
Was said by who to whom,
And how was said. And as
He spoke took in the eyes
Of those speaking, the open
Happiness there, the lack
Of worries, absence of fear
Of their mortality, being there
In that other place, just a finger
Tip, a cool breath’s feel away.
He sees them, they pass by,
Time of no concern, no pressures
For them anymore, just the talking,
Soft conversations with those
Who have moved on, those who
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poem by Terry Collett
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These Things.
These things are sent to try us,
Gran said, her thumb
Moving itself over
The well-worn beads
Of her dark wood rosary;
Her eyes taking in the crucifix
On the wall above her bed.
You sat watching her thumb
Moving its way back and forth
Over the round black beads,
Her arthritic fingers clutching
Blue blankets and white sheet.
Never tries us beyond our strength,
She added, the strained features
Mingling with the yellow taint
Of wrinkled skin. You wondered
Who sent the things to try her,
Whose bounty of gifts left
Small tears wedged in the corners
Of her eyes, pushed out words
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poem by Terry Collett
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