Then.
Then she would say
if only I’d met you
before him
and you’d say
yes but that
is how it is
and those quick
chance meetings
in back offices
or far away cafes
or in the elevator
going up or down
when alone
you kissing her
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poem by Terry Collett
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Small White Coffin.
The mourners come,
Each one set out
Along the way
From chapel door
To where the small
White coffin lies
And preacher stands.
One small red rose
Upon the lid,
To tell of love
And show the grief
Of baby dead
Which lies beneath
The coffin's wood
Which was a tree
And proudly stood
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poem by Terry Collett
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Benny & The Brooklyn Broads
Benny liked the broads
From Brooklyn best,
Especially Betty
With the big boobs
Bursting from her bra,
Or Delia
With the delicious dimple
And dark drapes
Coming down
To her sweet knees
Or Lisa
With the luscious limbs
And eyes like lamps,
But most of all
He liked Suzie
Who oozed sexuality
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poem by Terry Collett
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In Your Heart
In your heart
is there room for her?
You move things,
make way for her,
push feelings to one side
so that she can have
an area in your heart.
You put to one end
old loves, past girlfriends
and like Dante's Paradise
you let light in
to block out
the dismal darkness
from her sad disquiet
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poem by Terry Collett
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Breath.
Breath on a mirror.
The writing with a finger
I love you in the steamed
up space. He rubs it off
with the edge of his hand.
If only she could wipe him
from her heart with as much
ease as he had wiped away
her words of love with brush
of hand from mirror's face.
He gazes at his reflection
and with a finger wets a brow.
She looks on hoping he will love
Her too, sometime, somehow.
poem by Terry Collett
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Dead.
Dead and yet
not forgotten
reminded of that summer
when she said
you see that tree
on that small island
in the lake?
yes you replied
taking in her eyes
that look outwards
the blueness
the brightness
and her hand
reaching out
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poem by Terry Collett
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Joe Doe and Hemmingway
He envied Hemmingway
everything except his death;
he envied his ability to write
neat cut prose, to travel widely,
to fight in battles and wars and
survive, to make love to beautiful
women with ease, to drink and
smoke and do as he pleased, to see
things beyond the horizon of other
dangerous worlds. He envied Ernest
everything except his death; that was
too messy, too bloody, a step too far.
poem by Terry Collett
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No More Echoes.
Two mental breakdowns
In as many years;
The ECT, she
Knows too well; the dark
Corridors; the sharp
Broken mirrors, all
Reflecting different
Selves; the slashed wrist;
Bath-almost-drowning
Business; the white
Coated nurse and docs
And the tricks up their
Long thin sleeves; and the
Emptiness inside
With the long slow fall
Into that so long
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poem by Terry Collett
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The Shoes
The shoes were placed
row on row,
large and small,
some with laces,
some without,
black and brown.
If shoes could speak,
if their leather tongues
could pronounce words,
what hard histories
they could tell,
what deep sadness
they could relate,
and there at Auschwitz,
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poem by Terry Collett
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In My Head
In my head
voices speak,
Ingrid says,
each one suggesting
different things,
proposing I do this
or that, each voice
distinct from the other.
The Psychiatrist
pares his nails,
gazes at the photo
of his wife and kids,
the silver frame,
the wife with that stupid grin,
and the voice of Ingrid
grating on his ears,
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poem by Terry Collett
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