Maundy Thursday and Later.
Maundy Thursday. The church
Was packed. Full of incense.
Miss Dogberry sat at the back.
Mudrift watched her. He studied her.
The way her hair hung black and long.
Her broad bridged nose. Sat next to her.
She unaware. Priest proceeded with
The service. Miss Dogberry smelt Mudrift’s
Scent passions were stirred. She sniffed
Heavy her nose breathed deep. A bell
Was tolled. Candles were lit. Mudrift felt
Love or was it lust? Moved closer his thigh
Touched her thigh. Priest’s hands were
Raised host lifted high the Crucified the
Bloodied lamb. Miss Dogberry whispered
Softly do you sense it? Mudrift nodded
His loins stiffened. The last supper the Judas
Gone the Magdalene followed him out.
My place or yours? Mudrift muttered.
Mother’s at home Dogberry said no privacy.
Mudrift took her his hand in hers. I live alone
Mudrift muttered no disturbance. His room
Was warm smelt of old smoke and beds unmade.
He offered drinks and put on jazz with lights
Turned low. She undressed slow hand holding
Out each small item. Mudrift watched her
The nakedness revealed the plump body
The broad bridged nose the soft flesh lips
The melon breasts. Is that Stan Getz?
She asked Mudrift that baritone’s his
Saxophone. Mudrift nodded his mind on
Sex not saxophones or soft jazz tones.
He kissed her lips his arms embraced her
Ample flesh. She didn’t mind his lack of hair
On balding head or bearded face rubbing
Her chin. She wanted sex and saxophones
And him within. Maundy Thursday.
The Crucified above the bed upon a cross
Nailed hands out wide eyes looking down
Head to one side. Mudrift made love the
Magdalene Miss Dogberry gazed up above.
poem by Terry Collett
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Related quotes
Magdalene and the Beatles's First LP
Magdalene watched Mary
bend down to put on the LP.
The Beatles. They'd saved
up and bought it together.
She took in Mary's stockinged
thigh showing through the slit
in the side of the school skirt.
Mary placed the LP carefully
onto the turntable, with her finger
put the needle arm down onto
the vinyl. The music started up,
Mary stood up and sat next to
Magdalene on the single bed.
Magdalene sensed her there,
her thigh next to hers, her
warmth, their knees almost
touching. What did your Ma
say when you said you bought
the Beatles? Magdalene asked.
She said nowt, Mary replied,
but Da said it was a load of
shite and where did I get
the money from to buy it?
John Lennon's voice sang
over the twanging guitars.
Magdalene said, did you
tell him we bought it together?
Mary nodded. Her hands
pushed between her thighs,
her young face lit up by
the room's light. Don't you
think Paul's a dish? Mary asked.
Magdalene shrugged her
shoulders, studied Mary's
knee where a spot of flesh
showed through a hole in
the black school stockings.
She wanted to move closer,
kiss the cheek, place her
lips on the skin. She breathed
in the borrowed scent that
Mary wore. Said she'd liberated
it from her Ma's room. Mary
talked of the boy they'd met
in the woods above the school.
Tried it on so he did, she said,
over the guitars and Lennon's
loud voice. Magdalene wished
she could put her hands where
the boy had tried. I put him
straight, Mary said, kneed him
where his fatherhood might flow.
Mary moved up and down on
the bed in response to the music.
The bedsprings complained.
Magdalene sensed the movement,
took in Mary's behind going up
and down on the bed cover.
Glory be. She wanted to kiss.
Needed the hand to touch Mary's,
the skin to join up with hers.
Downstairs a voice bellowed
to keep the bloody noise down.
Mary sighed and bent down
to turn the knob the thigh
revealed in the skirt's slit,
the spot of flesh through
the hole in the bended knee.
Magdalene captured the image.
Hid it in her memory bank for
later, for bedtime, for the cosy
pretend hold, maybe more if in
her dream she was lucky and bold.
poem by Terry Collett
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As You Walked One Summer's Day.
These lanes are very narrow
you said
walking with Jane
from the parsonage
where she lived
to where the farm road began
Are they?
she replied
I've never thought about it
just that the hedges are high
and the birds chock full
in them and their songs
Yes
you said
They are
and in London
there are no hedges
or narrow lanes
and the only birds
are sparrows
and pigeons
and you wanted
to take hold
of her hand
and squeeze gently
the flesh
and sense her pulse
but you didn't
you put your hands
in your jean pockets
and gazed sideways on
at her and her dark hair
and her profile
and the scent of her
like lavender
as if she'd dived
into a wide field of it
and embraced
the flowers and stalks
What bird song is that?
she asked
No idea
you replied
moving closer to her
the scent getting stronger
the desire to be closer
taking hold but still at bay
It's a blackbird
she said
You'll learn them all
the birdsongs
and where and how
they nest and in what months
and you nodded
and saw how
the summery dress
moved and swayed
as she walked
the flowered pattern
like a field moved
by a soft breeze
and her sandaled feet
touching the gravelled lane
and you thinking
how it would be
for them to be held
and kissed by you
if she were beside you
lying in a field
or in one
of those tall woods
and you pursed your lips
and she looked up at the sky
her eyes gathering
the blueness
and whiteness of clouds
and she said
Monet would have captured that so well
and You
you muttered
He would capture you well
each aspect
of your face
and hair and eyes
and she smiled
and looked at you and said
I'd want to be captured by Renoir
have his arthritic fingers
clutching brush
and capture me
and maybe secretly
lust after me
and she blushed
and turned away
and you thought
Oh yes yes yes
but said nothing
just gazed
and breathed in
her being
her beauty
all there
for you to view
the eyes
the hair
the profile
the way her lips smiled
and sway of walk
and the tall hedges
seemed to explode
with the wild bird's talk.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Drying of Hair.
Jane's mother gave you both
a towel from the airing cupboard
after you had been caught
in the rain
running from the church porch
to the parsonage
and then she went off
to carry on
with her pie making
and Jane took you
along the hallway
to her bedroom
and opened the door
and after you had entered
she closed the door
with a soft click
and you both stood there
in the quiet room
rubbing you heads
with the towels
pushing away
the wetness
from your hair
and you smelt the room
the smell of polish
the lavender scent
the smell
of fresh linen
and smell of the flowers
outside caught still
in the rain
and Jane said
You are only here
because she trusts you
she seems to see through
people's veneer
and weighs them
in the scales
in her mind
and you stood still
rubbing your hair
looking at her
the way she had
the towel in her hands
over her hair
the hair all messed up
and she having
that sparkle in her eyes
like the first spear
of the sunshine
pushing through
the window at dawn
and she gazed at you
with her eyes
like polished marbles
and her words
hung there
on the air
like musical notes
on an invisible stave
and you said
I'm glad she trusts me on
just the one look
and Jane smiled
and kissed your lips
her flesh on yours
and the pressing
of skin on skin
and she gently
moved away
and pointed to the sky
and said
Looks like more rain
and you just nodded
wanting her to kiss you
once again.
poem by Terry Collett
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Martha' Crucified.
Martha had this thing
about the Crucified.
The image, the cross,
the stretched out arms.
The one in the convent
school along by the chapel
always caught her eye.
Stood there staring.
Get a move on Martha,
the nun said. Don't gape so.
Or the image in the dining
room stuck up on the wall
above the abbess's table.
Painted on she thought.
Not the same. Her mother
had the one her mother
gave her on her deathbed.
Old wood and plaster.
The plaster peeling from
the hands of the Crucified.
Martha gaped at Him,
at His wounds, at the wound
in His side where the spear
went in. Forgive them for
they know not. They did so,
the bastards, she muttered,
putting her fingers on the wound
in the side. She had an ebony
rosary in her skirt pocket. Black
Christ on the small ebony cross.
She fingered in her pocket, said
the prayers, felt the stiff body
on the cross. Sometimes she
took it out and kissed it; the ebony
body, the head, the arms. Once
she had a cross around her neck,
silver, small, given by some old
codger. She felt it warm between
her small breasts. Lost it when she
took it off to wash and it slipped
down the plughole in the convent bog.
She knew her mother had this wooden
crucifix on her chest of drawers.
A dark wood, a fleshy plastered Christ,
nails through and hands and feet.
She kissed the hands when her mother
was out, her lips touching the smooth
plaster, the eyes closed, the feel of
smoothness on flesh. Not the real
Christ of course. Least not yet.
She'd wait her turn. The real thing.
See what death and Heaven bring.
poem by Terry Collett
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Beneath the Blue.
You both walked along
the narrow country lane
to the small church
and lay in the overgrown grass
in the churchyard
looking up
at the summer sky
and Jane said
It's so peaceful here
I feel as if part of me
were mixed
with the whole
of nature
you listened to her
looking at her
sideways on
seeing her profile
laying amidst
the green grass
her head facing
the blueness of sky
her hands resting
upon her breasts
with one leg straight
the other lifted upwards
with the knee bent
Do you feel that?
she asked
looking at you side wards
her eyes leaving the sky
and resting on you
Yes
you replied
but not thinking
of what she had
but of the beauty of her
and you being there
and taking note
of her eyes and hair
and moving lips
and hands at rest
and her soft youthful breast
and that glimpse
of thigh capturing
your eye
Yes
you repeated
I feel a part of that
feel almost drowned
in its beauty
and she turned
and you saw her smile
and heard birdsong
and felt the sun on skin
and the saw the expanse
of sky and clouds
white chariots moving
across the blue
and wanted that moment
for always and forever
and you reached out a hand
and touched her shoulder
and would had touched
and felt her more
had you been bolder
and she said
We lay here with the dead
but our bones and flesh
are filled with life and love
unlike theirs
wasted away
Yes
you whispered
feeling her bones
beneath the flesh
Just like us some day.
poem by Terry Collett
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Another Night with Miss Pinkie
Miss Pinkie (she dropped
the title Mrs from
her name ages ago)
lay on the sofa
and said
take me if you want
spank me if you will
and he stood
looking at her
a glass of scotch
in his hand
the music of Mahler's
symphony number 4
coming through the door
from an outer room
she lay butt naked
her amble flesh
spread out
her hands resting
on her breasts
who's the orchestra
on the Mahler piece?
he asked
can't remember
she said shifting slightly
her blue eyes searching him
aren't you going to oblige?
she said
he drank back
the scotch
and put the glass down
on the small coffee table
can I sit first?
sure
she said and sat up
and moved over
to allow him room
beside her
he gazed at her
at her dyed blonde hair
at her eyes deep
like oceans of blueness
knowing she had
19 years upward on him
and all she wanted
was a few hours
of talk and laughter
and a leisurely screw
one of the old guys
died at the home today
he said
out of the blue
oh which one?
she asked
the one who sat
in his room each day
and looked out
the window
and said next to nothing
oh him
she said
think he was
broken hearted
she added
he took in
the beauty spot
on her cheek
like Marilyn used
to have years ago
so how about it?
she asked
are you ready for it?
the Mahler piece softened
some moving movement
well?
she said placing
a hand on his thigh
maybe you could put
on Brahms for a change
he said
sensing her hands
move upwards
maybe
she said softly
if you're a good boy
the lights were low
the lights from the street
added a different shade
of glow
ok
he said
and her hands moved
and did their work
and so did his
bit by bit
time over time
the music playing on
in the background
that and flesh slapping
and the sofa squeaking
was the symphony
of a sexual sound.
poem by Terry Collett
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These tears of mine
Tears of mine, lover of mine
Until when shall i mourn,
Your presence which is ever absent,
I miss the days we never spent,
The kiss you never gave,
The scent i never smelt,
And the tenderness of yours,
I miss you so,
These are tears of mine
I thought i touched you,
I thought i kissed you,
I thought i felt you,
It was just but a dream,
I miss you so,
These are the tears of mine
My nights are desolate,
My bed is empty,
My hands are damp,
My lips so dry,
Rescue me oh my love,
I miss you so,
These are tears of mine
I see myself,
I imagine,
I cogitate,
Then i cry
Yes come to me,
Yes set me free,
My cheeks are wet,
I miss you so,
These tears of mine
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Janice and You and the Spider
You stood
in the playground
of St Jude's school
which was really
the basement
of a bombed out house
which had been gutted
and the basement tarmaced
and the walls
were still there
where kids climbed up
and around
the thin ledge
when Janice
put her hands
over your eyes
and said
guess who?
and you put
your hands
into the pockets
of your short trousers
and said
Miss Murphy
or Miss Ashdown?
no
Janice said
it's me
and she removed
her hands
from over your eyes
and you turned around
and looked at her
and she had
her red beret on
and a pink scarf
around her neck
to keep out
the cold
you must
have known
it was me
she said
who else
would put their hands
over your eyes?
her eyes were bright
and you thought
you could see yourself
in them
as if they were small mirrors
Jupp might do
or maybe Carmody
you said smiling
she didn't smile back
but pulled her lips
tight in a line
then she took your hand
and pulled you
along the path
that led
to the school toilets
and pushed you
inside a cubicle
and shut the door
behind you both
and said
don't you love me?
there was a large spider
hanging from
the cistern chain
close to
her red beret
and it hung there
suspended
swaying back
and forth
and you said
of course I do
right down
to your white socks
but there's a spider
above your head
and she looked up
and screamed
and a voice
outside the door
asked
are you all right
in there?
Janice's eyes widened
and she watched
as the spider
moved up the chain
and she said
yes it's all right
Miss Murphy
just a small spider
and you stood there
next to Janice
wondering what
Miss Murphy
would say
if she saw you
and Janice
in the lavatory
together
and the voice said
ok as long
as you
are all right
and the footsteps
moved away
and Janice took
your hand in hers
and you sensed
how cold it was
slightly blue
and it was just
9 year old Janice
and the big spider
and 9 year old you.
poem by Terry Collett
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At the Foot of the Cross
At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.
The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.
Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.
With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John
He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.
Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.
Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms
poem by John F. McCullagh
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What Others May Think.
Apart from the water tower
and the farm
and a few scattered cottages
there were no other buildings
for a mile or more
just you and Jane
and birds in the early morning sky
I like it at this time of day
she said
I like the fresh smell of nature
and the farm
and having few people about
you walked beside her down the lane
that led away from the farm
you noticed how her black hair
seemed freshly washed
and blew slightly in the mild wind
does you father mind
you being out with me?
you asked softly
he doesn't know
she replied
he thinks I came out alone
for a morning walk
why didn't you tell him?
you asked
he was busy writing his Sunday sermon
and it was easier to just go out
and not disturb him
she said looking around at you
her eyes studying you
as she walked on down the lane
would he mind you being with me?
you asked
I don't think he knows you as yet
seeing as you have only moved here
a few months and don't come
to the church
you stopped and took her hand in yours
it was warm and soft
and pulsed with life
she looked at your hand
holding hers and she rubbed
her thumb over the back
of your hand
you wanted to kiss her lips
or cheek just to feel
her flesh on yours
but you didn't you just looked at her
and waited to see
what she would do next
she let go of your hand
and looked around her
there might be people looking
from those cottages up there
she said suddenly pointing up
at the rising bank which went up
to two cottages high up
if they see us they may tell Father
and then it would be awkward
and he might suspect things
and then she went quiet
and looked at the running stream
by the lane
but we haven't done anything
we just walk out and talk
and hold hands now and then
it's not what we do
it's what others think we do
she said softly
and stood looking at you
waiting for you to speak
but you said nothing
just leaned in close to her
and kissed her cheek
and said
even Christ permitted kisses
even the one from Judas
and she smiled
and the early morning sun
pushed through trees
and shone on her hair
and there was the sound of birds
singing in the air.
poem by Terry Collett
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Henry and Woman Servicing
You don't want to go
With that kind of woman,
Henry's mother said.
What kind of woman
is that? Henry asked.
The kind that offer
themselves to men
who are not their
husbands, his mother
replied, sitting back
in the soft chair by
the fireplace, joining
her fingers, forming
what she used to call
her church. Henry watched
her church form of finger
forming, his eyes sliding
over his mother's dyed
hair, the grey streaks,
the nose, the thin red
painted lips. But isn't
that kind of women
providing a service?
Henry asked, walking
to the window, watching
his father mowing the
lawn, sweat on the brow,
the eyes dead looking.
Service? His mother said,
her tone icy, Service?
She repeated, that's not
service, Henry that's sin.
S.I.N. Henry raised his
eyebrows, there was in
the pocket of his pants,
a pack of fives, unused
as yet. Oh, Henry said,
Duncan Smold had this
woman in the back of
his car, he called it hard
smooching or some such
word. Henry's mother
eyed him closely, her eyes
narrowing. Then he sinned,
Henry, he sinned, she said,
pushing a hand through
her hair, her features going
red. Oh, right, Henry said,
I'll tell Duncan next time
he's in his car with some
woman in the back, that
he's sinning, Henry turned
away, he didn't want his
mother to see him grinning.
poem by Terry Collett
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I Miss
I miss
I miss the way you say my name
I miss your smile
I miss the way you make me feel
I miss you
I miss the sparkle in your eyes
I miss the love you had for me
I miss having your shoulder to cry on
I miss your arms around me
I miss the way you make me smile
I miss the way you hug me
I miss the way we always met
I miss everything about you
I miss your warmth
I miss the love raidiating from you
I miss the softness of your lips
I miss you
poem by Kalista Mccart
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Rainy Day Under Trees
She stood with you
under the trees
the rain falling hard
the Sunday church service
had been a wet affair
the walk home together
then the bus
to the end of the road
and she said
Is it ever going to stop?
her hair was limp
and hung over
her forehead
her eyes bright
her complexion white
Sure
you said
But I've built an ark
in the woods behind
just in case
and she laughed
and took your hand
and said
How any animals
have you got so far?
Couple of woodlice
and beetles
and the odd worm or so
and you smelt
the scent on her
the warmth
of her hand
in yours and you both
under the trees
out of the rain
but the drops fell through
You remember that time
we went to the hay barn
to keep out of the rain
and we were wet through
and took of our clothes
and lay in the hay?
she said
snuggling closer to you
No can't say I do
you said
and she smack your arm
and said
Oh yes you do
and there was a break out
from the sun
through the branches
as if you say
I' still here
I'm trying to get through
and she looked at you
and you smiled
and said
I can still smell the hay
and you lying there
beside me
and the damp clothes
hanging over the hay bale
and you and I close
and warmth
and then she put
her finger to her lips
and shushed you
and drops of rain
came onto her head
Let's keep it kind of holy
she said
and kissed your damp ear
her lips like a blessing
soft skin on soft skin
and she moved away
and the rain eased
and you both moved out
into the woods
pleased.
poem by Terry Collett
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To Cut a Long Story Short
Your lips like cherries fresh
from the garden
Your breasts enough to fill
my palms
My hands tremble when I picture
your breasts
The way our lips merged together
without space between us while
our tongues played hide and seek
Your eyes i miss to drown inside
I miss your fingers caressing my body
The scent of your detailed body and
the fragrance of your smile
I miss the two of us
poem by Moffat Mbuzi
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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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Kick
Hey, Miss Magdalene girl sympathy mind hey, Miss Magdalene girl power. Power off, yeah grant a flesh show meek inherit nothing but death song queen sex go-go moving like a bad dream promised so long ago blessed art thou among women is this easy come is this easy go mingled with fear you get what you wish, wish, wish, wish, wish Gabriel get out this is my Nazareth wicked joy trembling town wicked joy be a raging machine chosen worthy to explode a king a king, king, king, king, king, king, king, king drilling down deep inside heartache tests the pain girls on the bar swing around danger does the same Magdalene, Magdalene, Magdalene, Magdalene peace grants suspicious crashing like some animals southern terror claws scream
song performed by by White Zombie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Miss My Baby
(Cyndi Lauper, Jan Pulsford)
Come to mama 'cause you know
Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba
In the middle of the night
When the last sheep jumps through my head
Why shut out the light?
When I know I'm gonna wake up again
In crumpled sheets
There is no silhouette
To the sight of me
It's much to cold in this bed
Oooooohhhh,
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh,
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh,
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh,
I miss my baby
Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba
I turn on my side
And I can hear myself breathe
It's pretty quiet outside
I miss the sound of you next to me
When you talk in your sleep
And you mention my name
I close my eyes to remember
But it's just not the same
Oooooohhhh
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh (Ooh, I miss him)
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh (in the middle of the night)
I miss my baby
Can't pet your head all with the covers to your chin
And watch you kick them off again
Can't watch you sleep in the light
From the slit in the door
And what I can't have
It makes me want it even more
It makes me want it even more
Ba, ba, ba, ba
Oooooohhhh
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh (in the middle of the night)
I miss my baby (in the broad daylight)
Oooooohhhh (oh, I miss you)
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh (oh, I miss you, miss you)
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh (in the middle of the night)
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh (gonna kiss you)
I miss my baby
Oooooohhhh (in the broad daylight)
I miss my baby
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Will I
Will I miss the skies?
Will I miss the clouds?
Will I miss the ocean?
Will I miss the bay?
Will I miss the sunrise?
Will I miss the moon?
Will I miss the mountains?
Will I miss the trees?
Will I miss the city lights?
Will I miss the snow?
Will I miss the laughter?
Will I miss the jokes?
Will I miss touch?
Will I miss love?
Will I miss you?
Will i?
Will i?
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not Always What We Seek
After you'd got on
the school bus
and sat down
in one of the side seats
Jane said
who did you fight with
in the playground
lunchtime?
Woolgar
you said
he pushed me over
against the wire fence
and I got up
and went for him
she looked disappointed
I didn't think
you could be violent
she said
I'm not usually
but it was an automatic
response to being
pushed over
you said
my daddy said
one should turn
the other cheek
especially if you're a Christian
she said softly
the school bus
started up
and took off down
the school drive
sorry
you said
but the creep
got under my skin
and if you let them
get away with it once
they'll always do it
she gazed at you
then out
of the window
at the passing shops
and buildings
of the town
were you watching?
you asked
yes I saw you
from the girl's playground
she muttered
not looking round
guess it looked
kind of bad
yes it did
she turned
and looked at you
but at least
you don't do it
all the time
she said
and touched
your hand
with hers
and you felt sad
inside that you'd
made her feel like that
and you saw
how lovely her
dark eyes were
how there seemed
to be a mini universe
in them with their own
galaxies and stars
and moons
next time I'll think twice
you said
before hitting
the other boy
she nodded
and smiled
and her hand
squeezed yours
her skin soft and warm
her hair black
and drawn back
into a ponytail
sitting there
beside you
her grey school skirt
and jumper
and white blouse
the neck open
the sight
of her throat
and you wanting
to kiss but not doing so
her neck
her skin
the feel
of her hair
against your cheek
sometimes
you thought
we can't have
what we seek.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On Westminster Bridge.
Fay looked down
at the River Thames
from Westminster Bridge
and you stood next to her
watching the boats
go under the bridge
and disappear from view
and she said
my dad said he'd take me
on one of those boats
and out to sea
but he never has
you looked sideways at her
taking in her blonde hair
and her blue eyes
and the way the wind
touched her hair
and made her dress
move about her legs
I've been on boats
on the river before
you said
making conversation
not seeking to impress
or boast
I like the chugging sound
of the boat
you added
Fay touched
the edge of the bridge
where she stood
and said
this bridge was built in 1862
I heard about it in class
Miss Ash told us about it
oh yes she
with her massive shoulders
and arms and big breasts
you said
and Fay laughed
and blushed slightly
God knows what my dad'd say
if he heard you say that
and me laughing
she said
looking at you
and shyly smiling
probably give me
what's for
she uttered quieter
ceasing to smile
her eyes taking on
a dark gaze
looking out
at the river again
you've got to have a laugh
now and then
haven't you
you said
wanting to put
an arm about her
but not doing so
just putting a hand
next to hers
on the bridge top
feeling the cold stone
wanting to feel her flesh
soft and warm
suppose so
she said softly
her fingers close to yours
almost touching
you moved your hand
closer across the stone
crablike and touched
her small finger with yours
she breathed in the air
and so did you
and she said
oh to be in London
and out of doors.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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