Blue Moon.

Blue moon at least
That is what he said
It was but she had her
Doubts and anyway
That was the least of
Her problems her bleeds
Being three months overdue
And what was a girl to say
Or do what with the parents
Being such religious fools and
That cane over the fireplace
That her granite hard grandfather
Put there as a threat to breakdown
Of order or morality and moon blue
Or no she knew it was either to abort
The babe in some dark room or go.

poem by Terry Collett
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Feel Them.

Feel them. Feel her fingers.
You do love me don't you?

she'd say. Yes, sure I do,
you'd reply. But the words

were not touching home;
not so much a lie as a sad

misunderstanding of their
meaning. She’d lift your arm

behind your back in some
kind of female arm lock.

You’d laugh and repeat,
yes, of course I love you,

of course I do. Her spirit may
rest now years after the sudden

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poem by Terry Collett
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All Alone.

All alone except for
The dame sitting across
The way drinking coffee
Her lips ready to sip her
Hands holding the cup
Her finger looped through
The handle and she closes
Her eyes as she sips and
You notice how the lips part
And how the raised cup touches
The softness of her and you
Watch and imagine the lips are
Touching yours and she is
Emptying you of all your juices
And swallowing you up and
Draining you away just like the
Contents of the cappuccino cup.

poem by Terry Collett
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Spied

How was it for you?
Uncle asked, lying
Slumped across Auntie,
Some small-beached
Whale, his voice escaping
His lungs as would air
From a punctured tyre.

Fine, it was fine, Auntie
Sighed, her soprano
Voice easing beneath
His sweaty soft bulk,
Unaware their young
Niece was standing silent
By the half open door,

Capturing them in the
Semi light, waiting small
And innocent to ask for
Water, dithering, unsure

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poem by Terry Collett
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Witness.

The child looked
From parent
To parent,
Took in the
Raised voices,
The angered

Features, the
Long pointing
Fingers now
Jabbing the
Air, the way
She was so

Overlooked,
Not really
There, some small
Entity
Standing by
The back door,

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poem by Terry Collett
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What You Miss.

One day she said
you'll look back
and wonder why

you never took
advantage of the kiss
you could have had

and maybe
how comes you never
made it to our marriage bed

and why I chose
some other over you
and if you do

look back
at this moment
and apart

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poem by Terry Collett
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Summer 1962.

Summer 1962
just you and

her sitting in
some field on

the green grass
beneath a hot

summer sun and
she speaking about

things between
you both and you

not really listening
but hearing a steam

train in the distance
and wondering how

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poem by Terry Collett
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Friend In Need

O’Brien went to the same school
as you and used to thieve from

local shops and kid’s pockets and
bags and from the teacher’s desk

and probably from his mother and
father if he was at home asleep in

his chair and he used to take things
openly from the tuck shop without

paying and borrow things and not
give them back. O’Brien was your

best friend at school but never stole
from you for some reason anyhow.

You often wonder what happened
to him and what he’s doing now.

poem by Terry Collett
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His Silence

Granddad carried his silence
Like a cloak. His chair by the fireplace
Held his shadows, dark images
Of trenches, friends blown apart,
Decapitated, armless, legless,
Crowded around him as he sat
And stared. Some days in his garden
With you by his side, his comrades
Hid beyond the sun’s rays,
The cloud’s motion, the birdsong,
He’d speak in slow monosyllables
Of flower’s growth or colour or scent
Not caring at that moment why the guns
Were silent or where his friends all went.

poem by Terry Collett
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Don't Listen

Don’t listen to him,
Gran said,
indicating
with a nod

of her head,
to Granddad
in the other room,
sitting by the fire

with his loose clothes
holding in bones.
You stood by the door,
peeping through

the thin crack
between door
and frame,
your young eyes

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poem by Terry Collett
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