September Chill.
Uncle brings in the dead chicken by
The neck and begins plucking out the
Feathers with a skill that fascinates
Your 10 year old eyes and as you stand
And watch the chicken gradually becomes
Nude and some how not so grand not so
Chicken-like and then Uncle cuts off the
Head and throws it a side and then guts
It and washes it through with water and
Then puts it down on a large plate where
It lays in a solemn silence without fanfare
Or hymns or prayers just Uncle lighting up
A cigarette and you staring at the chicken
Clean and pure and still and from the open
Window a cool evening late September chill.
poem by Terry Collett
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Once
Once upon a year
Maybe it was around
Christmas tide and
The choir had stopped
Outside some building
In the evening mist and
You were carol singing and
Lovely she moved onto your
Lips and kissed and it was
Like some angel had touched
You and you never wanted
That moment ever to end
And it felt as if God had woken
From a deep dream and seen
The beautiful effects of love
And remembered and maybe
Years later when you heard
She’d died with cancer and
You had never married her or
Made love to her you sensed
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poem by Terry Collett
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One Left.
There was one left in the box,
A large chocolate candy, the kind
She liked; but what to do? Pass it
Over to her to indulge and risk her
Putting on that weight, she was
Trying to lose or secretly, while
She was looking out of the window
At the birds, stuff it into your mouth
And hurriedly chew and swallow?
There’s one chocolate candy here
In the box if you want it, you say.
She turns from the window, her eyes
Large green emeralds, her lips part
And she says, no, you have it, I'm trying
To lose that extra pound, and looks
Away, her voice not at all convincing,
Just a whiny drawn out, you take it, sound.
poem by Terry Collett
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Cat Comfort
Even when Jodrig
fails to show
for the promised date
or comes
on the wrong day
or comes too late
Tibbles never
lets her down
he comforts
with his rough tongue
on her smooth thigh
or gazes at her
with his one good
and one closed eye
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poem by Terry Collett
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Treasure of Kings.
He was no great one in aristology
until she showed him the ropes
and helped him learn the basics
of cooking a meal
and preparation of vegetables
and how to set a table
and he remembers the time
she bought him a potato peeler
and how excited he became
owning his very own peeler
with the wooden handle
and that ease of taking the skin
off the potatoes
and her daughter laughing
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poem by Terry Collett
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You See.
You see the way she looked
when father died.
That lost
in a dark maze gaze;
that emptied
of being stare,
still there
years later
as could be expected
of a devoted wife.
Could see
in her eyes
worlds set ablaze
and burnt out
leaving just gutted ruins
where love had been
and lived and slept.
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poem by Terry Collett
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Love Is Here
Love is here
she said
lying beside you
in the tall grass
watching
a summer sky
love is rarer
than we think
love comes
like some thief
at night
and breaks into
our hearts
and dreams
but you
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poem by Terry Collett
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Skin A Rabbit
Uncle showed you
the way to skin a rabbit.
The dead furred creature
swung from his hand.
You remember the knife
slitting open
the soft belly
and the innards
dragged out
and cut
until all was cleared
out and ready.
Then he broke
the back ankles
and pulled off the skin,
like one undressing
a small woman
from her coat of fur,
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poem by Terry Collett
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Her Own Way.
How was Florence?
But she never answered.
She’d been there with him
the guy with the dark eyes
and wallet the size she liked.
Did you see the art and the sites?
She stood and unpacked her bags,
emptied the dirty linen in the bins
in the washroom. Thank you for
the postcard; I liked the artwork.
She looked tired, her skin was pale.
Jetlagged, you surmised. Are you
coming out for a meal? For a drink?
She sat in the armchair, closed her
eyes. You sat opposite and stared.
There where you thought she sat,
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poem by Terry Collett
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No Donovan.
Miss O’Toole moves in her
Broad bed. She scratches
Her behind to relieve an itch.
Tries to harness her dreams
But they run off like hound
Dogs into the fields of sleep.
She feels for Donovan. Her
Fingers move along the sheet.
Sunlight eases itself beneath
The lowered blind. She screws
Up her nose. Scratches the bridge.
Mouths words. Dreams scatter.
The alarm clock rings. Dances
Along the bedside top. She opens
Her eyes and captures the leaking
Inward light. Her fingers find no
Donovan. He has fled with dawn’s
Bright touch. She knows she loves
Him more than he loves her. He loves
Her body and that alone as such.
poem by Terry Collett
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