The Artist's Dilemma
The wind blew in and the wind blew out
And it surged around the eaves,
The door out to the patio slammed
And the yard filled up with leaves,
Then Susan sighed, ‘There's goes my ride,
I was going to take the mare,
Now what can we do on a Sunday when
The wind's so wild out there? '
Her aunt lay back on the couch and stared
At me, with her doe-black eyes,
Not much older than Susan, she
Was Venus, in disguise,
Her fingers ran through her coal-black hair
And her hand smoothed down her thigh,
‘Why don't you ask the artist, dear,
Before his paints run dry.'
I'd finished painting the background in
Of the leaves that swirled in the air,
But put my palette aside and turned
To look for her meaning there,
Then Susan laughed, as she always did:
‘Do you mean that you'd be game?
I've only modelled alone before
But two? It would be insane! '
Imelda slowly uncurled herself
Rose steadily to her feet,
‘I'll be the older matron, while
You shall be young, and sweet.'
I shrugged, effecting a nonchalance
That I didn't really care,
But said, ‘Okay, I can paint you,
Put your clothes on the old armchair.'
I played about with my palette, mixed
The tones in a kind of blush,
Squeezed the Titanium White, and mixed
It in with the tip of my brush,
And when I finally turned around
They were stood, stark naked there,
I said, ‘Clasp hands, then back to back,
And Sue, let down your hair.'
I'd painted my wife a thousand times
So I knew each curve and line,
But Imelda, this was the first I'd seen
And I caught my breath in time,
Her black hair over her shoulders and
Her breasts, so firm and white,
Her hips the marvel of womanhood
And her thighs - a man's delight!
I turned on back to the easel, tried
To steady my shaking hand,
I thought of myself as an artist,
Underneath it, I was a man!
And Imelda caught a glimpse of that
As her lips curled in a smile,
She knew that my heart was pounding,
But my lust would wait for a while.
That painting hangs on the passage wall
And visitors stare in awe,
At the vision of womanly beauty
That the eyes of the artist saw,
And Imelda bridles at compliments
Then gives me the evil eye,
She's often said, there's a place in bed,
But I shake my head, with a sigh!
1 October 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Portrait of Rachel Fayne
She glided into the studio
And dropped her clothes on the floor,
Gave the artist a pirouette,
And said: 'Do you want any more? '
He shrugged, and told her to take a seat
While he etched the background in,
'I'll paint you draped on the canapé,
I'll tell you, when I begin! '
She wandered naked around the room,
At home in the artist's den,
Rachel Fayne was the model's name,
She'd modelled since she was ten.
From auburn hair to her shapely calves
She'd stared from a hundred scenes,
That hung in frames under different names
As a slave, or a Gypsy Queen.
Her lips were full and her eyes were green,
They'd startled men in the past,
Staring from frames in the galleries,
In the windows of shops they passed,
So haughty and so beautiful,
And beyond the reach of men,
Yet here she'd bare, for all to share
Through the brush in the artist's den!
She hadn't sat for John Durrell
Before, but she knew his work,
The famous 'Woman of Paddington',
The 'Girl by the Friendly Kirk, '
His 'Venus under the Waterfall' -
Her heart had skipped a bit,
As she stared green-eyed in her wounded pride,
Would he never ask her to sit?
The summons came through a friend of hers,
'Be there, first thing in the morn! '
She'd bathed, and powdered her body well
By the light of the breaking dawn,
For John Durrell was a master, skilled
And she knew it would seal her fame,
To be tied to an R.A. masterpiece,
And the famous Durrell name.
'Don't ask too many questions, he's
Intense, and immersed in paint,
He's hard and cold, and inclined to scold
If you don't sit still, or faint,
He'll look at you like a curlicue,
An enigma of line and form,
His passion is brushed in his pictures,
So, it won't keep your body warm! '
He laid her out on the canapé
And took up his sable brush,
Mixed the tint on his palette there,
For the flesh tones, and the blush,
He worked with a growing intensity
And he frowned, as if in pain,
As he brought the features to life within
The portrait of Rachel Fayne.
She wasn't to see the canvas, he
Would cover it, out of sight,
Before she dressed, and took her fee,
Was bundled into the night,
Each day she lay on the canapé,
Each day he'd frown and paint,
'There's something isn't quite right, ' he'd say,
In a tone of quiet constraint.
While Rachel felt there was something wrong
With her, a cold or flu,
Perhaps it was her complexion,
It had taken a lighter hue,
She felt quite sick to her stomach,
Couldn't eat, and her sight was dim,
But he'd continued on painting, so
She held her sickness in.
While there on the painted canvas was
A beauty, so profound,
Her eyes of the deepest green, that seemed
To follow him around,
The lips were a pouting marvel,
Breathing life to the easel there,
Durrell becoming excited with
Each brush stroke through her hair.
His heart was beating much faster with
Each stroke applied anew,
The love that cozened, eluded him
Began to seep on through,
While Rachel gasped to take each breath
And couldn't speak, or think,
As the woman within the picture, well...
Her eyes, they seemed to blink!
The canvas facing the furthest wall
Belongs to John Durrell,
The first and the only portrait that
He swears he'll never sell,
For where the woman had been, is white,
No paint was left behind,
And Rachel Fayne, before she died,
They say that she was blind!
22 January 2010
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Black-eyed Susan
Black-eyed susan
You make us nervous
Because were very aware that you do not care
Oh, black-eyed susan
What dont you believe in ?
No is always easier than yes
Whoo !
Black-eyed susan
You must insist :
You are a born-again atheist, oh
Oh, heavy-rings on
Bitten fingers
Black-eyed susan sometimes
Shakes to break
So, watch it
Oh ...
Black-eyed susan
Rest and do nothing
cause its the only thing that you do quite well
Aah ...
Black-eyed susan
Rest and do nothing
cause its the only thing that you do quite well
Aah ...
Black-eyed susan
Rest and do nothing
cause its the only thing that you do quite well
Aah ...
Black-eyed susan
Please remember
We were the first
We were the first
Oh ...
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Courting Disaster
I was twenty-three when I saw her first,
Without a word of a lie,
She had wandered into the woods by me
With a basket, held on high,
Her auburn hair reflected the sun
And she flashed me a dazzling smile,
That turned my head to the way she led
As I followed her, over the stile.
She skipped along at a steady pace
Weaved in and out through the trees,
Collected the broad-rimmed mushrooms there
As she stopped, and fell to her knees,
Her dress flared out as it caught the wind
And her hair was floated wide,
I hid by a tree, and held my breath
As I thought of her, as a bride.
She had such a look of innocence,
Was free as the birds of the air,
The legs and the grace of a peasant girl
Brought up in the great out-there,
She ran right up to a Woodsman's house
That was hidden by branch and vine,
Then danced right in through the open door,
And then I knew; she was mine!
The door was closed when I finally knocked
But I heard a terrible moan,
And minutes later the door unlocked,
In the hall stood a fusty crone,
She stared at me through her hoary eyes
With never a hint of grace,
‘What do you want? ' she growled at me,
For the shock must have shown in my face.
‘That girl, who danced in a moment back,
I'm here to discover her name.'
‘There is no girl, ' said the ancient hack,
‘You'd better return where you came! '
‘I saw her enter, I must insist,
I'll not be gulled by your lies! '
‘That girl's been dead for a long time back,
You'd better leave now, if you're wise! '
She slammed the door in my face just then
So I wandered back through the trees,
A raincloud covered the midday sun
And I felt the chill of a breeze,
The rain came down as I walked back home,
Climbed over the ricketty stile,
Was drenched to the skin as I wandered in,
And thought to resort to guile.
For days I lingered by that old track,
The place that I'd seen her first,
I felt so miserable, holding back,
As I thought, and feared for the worst,
What if the girl was a sprite, who'd died,
Just as the old crone said?
Try as I might, I couldn't believe,
Nor get her out of my head.
I finally went to the Woodsman's house
And I hid in a patch by the vine,
When suddenly out of the door came tripping
The girl, with her eyes a-shine,
She skipped away with her basket, filled
With linen and loaves and cheese,
And I caught her then in a shady glade
As she stopped, and fell to her knees.
‘I hoped you'd come, ' were the words she said
As she laid a cloth on the ground,
‘I have to hide from that grey old witch
So I go where I'll never be found.'
She broke the bread and she poured the wine
And we ate and drank in the glade,
My mind was filled with a sudden chill
But I thought of fun in the shade.
‘So when are you going to kiss me, then? '
She said when we finished our feast,
‘I've fed your animal spirits, now,
It's time I was paid, at least! '
I kissed her there in the shady glade
And we tumbled there in the leaves,
Then I fell asleep, and she'd gone when I
Awoke, and the heart, it grieves.
I stumbled home, but was feeling faint
I had aches and pains in my head,
I staggered through to the bedroom, then
I found her asleep in my bed,
She woke and sat, and she stared at me
But her face had begun to change,
There were lines and wrinkles around her eyes
And her hair was grey with age.
‘I need you now that my time is short,
Come and rest your weary head, '
I caught a glimpse in the mirror then
And it filled me full of dread,
For the face of a man of middle age
Stared back at me from the glass,
‘Just what have to done to me? ' I said…
‘Do you really have to ask? '
‘I fed on your animal needs, and you
Gave something to set me free,
If you want me to be a bright young thing
Then you must replenish me.'
I saw she aged by the minute there
And she soon let out a moan,
For lying in bed was a figure of dread,
That hoary old witch, the crone!
I'm far too weak to get out of bed,
But Elli goes out on her own,
She carries her basket into the wood
For the mushrooms she eats alone,
My beard is grey and I dread each day
As she bleeds my life from its core,
But she's as lovely as ever she was
At a hundred and twenty-four!
26 October 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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White Horses
We stare at the rocks and shoreline
As if time itself has fled,
For the sea once lapped at our laughter
When he would go on, ahead;
But the seasons change in the counting
And the laughter fades from the eye,
He went ahead at the parting
Caught up in his own bleak tide.
Your hair turned white in the mourning
Your songs all died in your throat,
Your eyes turned wild, and haunting
As I looked for some antidote;
But age crept up and caught you
In a season of sad neglect,
We sit at the shore in silence
And think of some deep regret.
For the waves roll in like thunder
And the foam now caps the crest
And your wild, white hair blows ever
And your eyes are dim, distressed;
I hold your hand in silence
In hopes that you’ll speak of him,
But you take a breath, and mutter
“White horses are coming in! ”
And over the heads of breakers
Where the foam breaks loose at the rip
I fancy the manes of horses
Are tossed at the breaker’s tip;
And shoulders pound at the rollers
While hooves flash white in the tide
And your dim grey eyes reflect them,
As you cry at their foam-flecked ride.
White horses, caught at the breakers
With manes of wild, white hair
They run at the shallow waters
In the hopes that he’ll be there,
Their eyes are dim at the mourning
As the rollers set them free,
You smile at the heads a-tossing:
“White horses – coming for me.”
28 November 1994
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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She Belongs To Me
She's got everything she needs, she's an artist, she don't look back.
Takes the dark out of the nighttime, she paints the daytime black.
You will start out standing, proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through a key hole, down upon your bended knees.
She never stumbles, she's got no place to fall.
She's nobody's child, the law can't touch her at all.
She wears an Egyptian ring, that sparkles before she speaks.
She's a hypnotist collector, you are a walking antique.
Bow down to her on Sunday, salute her when her birthday comes.
For Halloween but her a trumpet, and for Christmas, buy her drums.
She's got everything she needs, she's an artist, she don't look back.
Takes the dark out of the nighttime, you know she paints the daytime black
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Madonna portrait
I saw you painting,
not a sideways glance
of a elephant head
with deep creases showing,
or the neck of a giraffe,
not a Tuscan scene
with tables with white table clothes,
neither an abstract scene
in blue, green and gold.
A portrait unfolded before my eyes,
not a half naked nymph,
or wood fairy
but a Madonna without child
pregnant and serene
looking utterly holy
with olive skin
and great big innocent eyes
against dark colours
in a ruby red cloak.
Your fingers mixed colours expertly
on the palette
to the right exact hue
and blazing lights
lit the canvas
on the easel
and the painting
became an old world masterpiece
with stroke after little stroke
adding depth and meaning
and somewhere in the distance
a midnight-black dragon appeared
with a open mouth
as if drawing nearer
truly alive
detailed to the smallest respect
and evil in every way.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beautiful (2)
Black hair falls from her bun
As I lay my hands on her back
She tenses up just a little bit
Then relaxes as I come nearer
I push my hands deep into her back
As she smiles and looks just a little
To see me smiling back at her
I see her blush and turn back
I smell the perfume she wears
As my hands climbs through her hair
Burning passion reaping us both
As she grabs my hand from her neck
And puts it slowly into her hand
Then with a sigh I hold it in mine
This sweet love finer than wine
i can only call this but one very thing
Beautiful
poem by Branden Aeling
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018 ~ Like A Kite
a robust south wind blew today
caught my baggy clothes
from behind, the arms
of my sweater and pants legs
flailed briskly in the breeze
closing my eyes, I felt like a kite
putting hands in my pockets,
I let go of my body
and went to that child
in my subconscious
the wind in my hair,
rocking back and forth
in my shoes,
I was floating above everything
soaring not to see or be seen
but to catch more wind,
surf the skies, escape
a wide smile on my face
as the wind died down
gliding gently down
back to earth
like a kite
poem by Stan Pelfrey
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I Cheated Death.
Suddenly all went cold
And of my mother's hand I took hold
I held on like a drowning man would a lifeline
For I knew this might be the end of my timeline
And there in the corner he stood
Bright silvery robes, a golden cord around his waist, there he stood
Shoulder length hair as golden as the sun's rays
Eyes bluer than the Caspian, bronze skin that hath no flaws
His feet shod in sandals
His presence brightened the candles
I felt a hope build inside
A fire rekindled inside
But as quickly as it came
The hope left and with it the fear came
As I looked in horror to the other corner
There she stood, crowned by darkness in the left corner
Her eyes the colour of blood
In a black robe of death she was clad
As I focused on her, I felt the life leave me
Just as the anaconda squeezes the life out of its prey, the life left me
The odour of burning Sulphur filled the room
And with it an impeding gloom
I squeezed my mother's hand ‘til it hurt
Every breath I took hurt
I tried to tell my mother I loved her
But all that came out was a croak
Slowly the woman in the left corner removed her cloak
Revealing a crown of long fiery hair
Her eyes fixed on me in an evil stare
Her blood red lips parted in a smile
A smile so evil it shouldn't be called a smile
I turned to the other corner seeking comfort from my angel and this evil evade
But woe unto me he had slowly began to fade
And with him, the light
Impeding my sight
I felt my body consumed by a cloud of darkness
And at that moment, I felt the presence of death in the darkness
Funny how in the movies they tell you to stay away from the light
How I longed to see a light
For I knew the darkness would only lead to more pain
I shut my eyes hoping that when I opened them again
My angel would be there telling me it's alright
Bringing back hope and light
But lo and behold as I re-opened mine eyes
There I lay, in my hospital bed my mother looking on with wet eyes
She told of how I almost died
Of how my breathing stopped but her hope never died
I sat up in wonder looked to the right and there my angel stood
In fear, I turned to the left, and she too in her shroud of evil, stood
Her eyes blazing with anger
For death had been cheated and left with a deep hunger
And I knew, she would be back
And then it struck me,
Death never leaves empty handed
That's when I saw the nurses covering the old woman's body across
With a white sheet and a priest making the sign of a cross
Once again, death did reap
And it is inevitable that she will return to reap
Her taste of fruit, the unripe fruit...
poem by Esperanza Chilupula
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I Were A Painting
If I were a painting
Captured on canvas
Alone in the portriat I would stand
And brush strokes bold
Yet soft as a whisper
The work of a feminine hand.
Caught in a still life
Surrounded by shadows
And lost in a background of blue
If I were a painting
My price would be pain
And the artist would have to be you.
I imagine the colors
Would all run together
If you ever allowed me to cry
So don't paint the tears
Just let me remember me
Without you in my eyes.
It's only the frame
That holds me together
Or else I would be falling apart
If I were a painting
I wouldn't feel
And you wouldnt be breaking my heart...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Painted Clown
Thick vials of color, paramount to evil plans-
hours spent gazing at a black canvas
surgical precision, each stroke methodical
to reap the greatest rewards.
Stark white paints sheer evil;
plump red lips, a ghastly show. Eyes turned black
a palette of evil hues. No detail overlooked-
Disguise complete, never paying the toll
to enter our dreams
Perfect villain for centuries gone by.
Children haunted, terrorized into eternity.
Spell cast, never broken. Painted one only whispered about.
Lives spent fleeing his haunting twisted smile.
A grin of satisfaction, painted in perpetuity.
Lurking in dark shadows, always ready
to pounce. I saw him today. Forever chained to his
heart stopping fears. Looking over my shoulder,
scanning faces in the crowds for my master of evil.
Warn the young and naive of his sinister power...
poem by Robin Bennett
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A dead world
as thy light turned to darkness
As thy world to black from blue
As thy eyes turned from bright to dull
And thy lust for blood became strong
As thy hair turned blood red
As thy clothes turned to black
As thy hands, feet became clawed
And thy lust for blood became strong
As thy people died with red, black
As thy city, town destroyed
As thy hunt for her started
And thy lust for blood became strong
The world died, so did I...
poem by Sesamarna Syfyre
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Cut Throat
Delia Demoat cut her husband’s
Throat. Delia slit it clean. She held
His hair tight with her small hand
In a firm grip. There was little fight.
Unexpected and sudden. He slumped
In the chair blood shooting across
And spraying the TV screen. Delia
Released his hair and stood back
The bloody knife in her right hand.
She was shaking, her hands shook.
On the floor by the armchair where
He sat a small book. Blood-soaked
Pages and cover. A gift from his lover.
She dropped the knife, stared at the
TV screen, some I Love Lucy show,
Canned laughter, black and white.
Flickering images. She peered over
The back of the armchair. He was
Slumped bloodied there. She ached,
The bruises showed on arms, her split
Lips mouthed words. Delia breathed
Hard, spat on his head, the phlegm
Sat there on his hair; she sniffed air,
Smelt cigar smoke, his aftershave.
She looked up. Lucy gazed at her on
The screen, canned laughter once more,
Surreal; show over, she peed on the floor.
poem by Terry Collett
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When is a Painting Finished?
I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.
I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.
But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.
Painters have different opinions
about this.
Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.
However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?
And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.
Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.
Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.
Once I stopped to look at the road
where the village met the meadow.
A sturdy artist stood there
in front of his easel
painting the landscape
with skilful brushstrokes
on a well-stretched canvas.
I stared for a while
at the burgeoning picture
and then asked him:
“How do you know
when is the composition complete? ”
He gave me a piercing glance.
“Well”, he said,
“if you take a hammer
and hit me on the head
I know that the painting is finished.”
poem by Paul Hartal
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Edna's Asthma
Edna had asthma
And she used to put
This big black mask
Over her face
To help her breathe
And she talked
In short gasps
And wheezed
Between words
And had the best eyes
You could remember
And a smile that lingered
Long after she turned back
To shove the mask back on
And stood with one hand
On the table to steady herself
And the other gripping the mask
And it seemed death stood
In the wings of the house
Biding his time
Leaning maybe against
The dresser or in the dark hall
And Mother said Edna thought
Others talk about her
Behind her back
And it made her quite paranoid
Hearing whispers
When it may have been
Just the harsh wind
Through loose shutters
Or dull women’s mutter
And you guess she knew
You thought about her
And loved her down
The cold long nights
Thinking of you
As that young boy
With the cheeky grin
But then death
Took off with her
Worn out and thin.
poem by Terry Collett
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Black Flowing Hair, A Memory Of You
I see you leaning by a wall next door
Against an afternoon sun
And though it is your back that faces me
I know
From the beating of my heart
That it is you, Black-flowing-hair
I can smell you
In mint
And you shall be inside me
As I breathe
So I can live for another time
You are
My tallest tree
On top of the Sleeping-dragon-mountain
And I look up to you
Like my full moon one cold night
Untouched by my fingers
Black-flowing-hair
The world may not have found love in my eyes
As I have none to boost
Since I have given it to you
All of it
I shall find it
But shall not take it back
From you
Your shadow is my god
And it is only that I can touch
Without you knowing
The shadow
Of your
Back
My self-made god
Is enough life
I do not ask much
I cannot
You do not know me
There is no need
I only give myself
I do not have to take any
In return
Now I declare
I have found my place
In you
I have found myself
In you
I have found you
I am Mute-white-dove -sitting
On the breast of Black-flowing-hair
Touching the clouds
Holding the rainbow
Saving all the raindrops of my life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Moonlight Sonata
The Moonlight Sonata
coaxes light through the window
a warm glow is between us.
Then air turns to ash and
we close our eyes.
Once when we could still see,
there were hands between us.
One a teacup, the kind saved
for the careful company
the other a nesting bird
enveloping, gentle, weightless.
I could feel in your arms
steel bands that hummed
with precision over a vast
network of machinery,
driving one day into the next.
The smell of heat hung on you,
white heat, blast furnace heat.
Skin seared to ochre, a badge,
medallion, a sign of your time.
The heavy scent of oil, grease
and solvents hung like
a shroud around your shoulders.
The shoulders from where I could
see a world shaped by the will
of your vision,
the will of your back.
I could see your hair
black, curled, swept back
by the wind or tide as
you leaned in to stand your ground
or go under for the third time.
The leather chair smelled of
smoke and grass. I could
wait for you there while you
slept, slumped, heavy breath
moist, warm on the back of
my neck.
Then our eyes are open
you speak, finally, your voice
is soft and hollow the way
mourning doves purr as the
streetlights go out. All the
sadness and regret is in your eyes
so your voice can carry across
the room to meet the music halfway.
I hold your hand like a teacup
the taste of ash, the grit, on
my tongue. I wish for wind
any expansion of air so I can see
light through the window and
feel again
the warm glow between us.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Sweet Delight
There was that sweet delight
especially when she
had that smile on her
and as you sat
by the pond with her
and she joined her hands
over her knees
and stared ahead
at the ducks out there
and you gazed at her
sideward on
and took in
her fine breasts
and thighs
and she said
ducks are very greasy creatures
to eat unlike rabbits
which are very dry
and you said
I guess they are
but my sisters wouldn't
touch either with a bargepole
and she raised her eyebrows
and sighed and said
guess they would
if they were starving
and you said
I guess people would eat
almost anything
if they were starving
and she turned
towards you
and said
I read somewhere
they ate each other
in the Civil War in Russia
and there was
some sweet delight
when she said that
and the way
her breasts and thighs
captured your eyes
with love of course
with a small dose of lust
mixed in
and that wished
for passion
and dream of sin.
poem by Terry Collett
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4. Blow me down
The North wind blew on Monday
As the East wind got the flu
The West wind blew on Tuesday
As the South wind never knew
The North East wind had Wednesday
As the South West wasn’t chuffed
The North West blew on Thursday
As the South East hardly puffed
The East and West blew Friday
As the others had a rest
The North and South blew Saturday
As the weekends were the best
The lot of them had Sunday
As the winds turned into storm
The whole of them had Monday off
As the week got back to norm
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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While Hair Brushing
Juliette drags the brush
through her hair you have
to brush it at least one
hundred times her mother
had said years ago and say
a prayer each time you get
it through and maybe God
will bless you and as she sits
and brushes her hair she
remembers her mother standing
over her when she was a child
and the hair was as long then
as it is now and oh God she
says how I hated it the knots
and tangles and the number of
times I used to cry each time
she pauses in front of the mirror
the brush held mid air sometimes
when she brushes her hair and
stares in the mirror she sees him
there looking at her as he did back
then watching her every move
his dark eyes greedily drinking
her in and once he placed his
hands around her waist and kissed
her neck how she cringed his spittle
still there her uncle his breath his
hands touching always when she
was alone and once when undressing
he came in and stared and said he
thought she was becoming a beautiful
young girl now she brushes her hair
again the brush stiff and heavy gripped
in her hand and as she stares into the
mirror heavy with times and care she
thinks she sees him still staring still there.
poem by Terry Collett
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