En.Citatepedia^®.ro

My Apartment.

My apartment she said is not
That big and not in a state I’d
Like you to see but give me
Time and I’ll tidy it up and put
Away the books and papers
Scattered over the floor and table
And put all my clothes and smalls
Away and hey open up the windows
To let in fresh air to let out the smell
Of cigarettes and the cat I keep after
Finding it by the trash and it looked
So sad and unkempt and you said sure
Whenever you like wondering what
She did all day while not out at work
And if she kept the cat in bed with her
And had cat’s hairs everywhere and
How could she live in that untidiness
And come to think of it she did have
That catty smell when you stood next
To her in the lobby and yet you couldn’t
Help being attracted to her couldn’t help
Wanting to just plant a kiss on that cheek
Of hers and maybe get her into bed for
Sex then she said you must come over
And listen to my jazz records and maybe
Meet my mother and if you don’t mind
Her passing wind occasionally we could
All have a good time and all of a sudden
You remembered you had to be out of
Town for a while and maybe after the Fall
You uttered with an awkward smile and
She smiled back and pushed her fingers
Through her hair (unbrushed and tied back
With a blue ribbon) all long and black.

poem by Terry Collett
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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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Unburdened.

It's not the sort of house
You'd want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn't leave for days.

She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.

There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
How to Dress for the Occasion.

We found the first child
Drowned in a bath, the hair
Was floating there on the
Water's skin. Someone sort
Of sobbed or maybe they
Didn't, seemed as though
They had. The second child
Was lying beneath a blanket
Where they'd suffocated.

That's where the main smell
Came from. She breathed in
And smelt pine air freshener
That Caser used in his house,
She wanted to smoke, pull
Out a cigarette and light up,
But didn't. The third child,
Baby really, was stiff in a cot.

Unfed, unwashed, a token of
Neglect. Someone pulled back
Curtains, light broke through
Darkness, lit up the sad scene;
Another nearby let out a cry,
The under the breath kind.

She pushed her knees together
As if about to give birth to a
Different tale, her hands played
With the glass, a finger tapped
The side. The mother was found
In a darkened room, wrists slit,
OD'd days back, slouched in a
Chair, dressed in death and black.

Had sleepless nights after, she
Said, ought to be used to, but
You never are, kind of gets
Under the radar. Caser looked
At her sitting there, her hair
Pulled in a bun, her eyes looking
Up at the Picasso print he'd bought.

She had told him at last. She had
Unburdened herself of the one
Last thing that she couldn't tell
Him at the psychiatric sessions
They'd had at his in town clinic.

Never did like Picasso, she said,
Turning away, putting down the
Glass, as of nothing more to say.

Caser watched her as she got up,
Brushed down her dress, sighed
And walked down the hall, left
His apartment, victim of the Fall.

poem by Terry Collett
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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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What If

What if I couldn’t see?
I wouldn’t know how to be.

What if I couldn’t walk?
I wouldn’t be able to go to the park.

What if I couldn’t smell?
I wouldn’t know early monsoon shower smell.

What if I couldn’t feel?
I wouldn’t even know how to heal.

What if I couldn’t taste?
All the gourmet food would go to waste.

What if I couldn’t touch?
I wouldn’t know love as such.

What if I couldn’t cry?
I wouldn’t be able to let go of grief even if I try.

What if I couldn’t smile?
I wouldn’t be able to feel light even for a while.

I can do all of these things
Lord, it’s a blessing.

, These are the gifts
We realize when we are unfit.

I have really no clue
How the less privileged do.
I guess with courage and acceptance
They go on with grace.

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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I Go Back

Jack and Diane" painted a picture of my life and my dreams,
Suddenly this crazy world made more sense to me
Well I heard it today and I couldn't help but sing along
Cause everytime I hear that song...
I go back to a two toned short bed Chevy
Drivin my first love out to the levvy
Livin life with no sense of time
And I go back to the feel of a fifty yard line
A blanket, a girl, some raspberry wine
Wishin time would stop right in its tracks
Everytime I hear that song, I go back
I used to rock all night long to "Keep On Rockin Me Baby"
Frat parties, college bars, just tryin to impress the ladies
I heard it today and I couldn't help but sing along
Cause everytime I hear that song....
I go back to the smell of an old gym floor
The taste of salt on the Carolina shore
After graduation and drinkin goodbye to friends
And I go back to watchin summer fade to fall
Growin up too fast and I do recall
Wishin time would stop right in its tracks
Everytime I hear that song, I go back, I go back
We all have a song that somehow stamped our lives
Takes us to another place and time
So I go back to a pew,preacher, and a choir
Singin bout God, brimstone, and fire
And the smell of Sunday chicken after church
And I go back to the loss of a real good friend
And the sixteen summers I shared with him
Now "Only The Good Die Young" stops me in my tracks
Everytime I hear that song, I go back....

song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Beautifulness.

There's an empty cottage
at the end of this lane
Jane said

and there's a large apple tree
in the garden
and no one goes there

so maybe we can look
through the windows
and see what's there

sounds good
you said
and she smiled at you

in her shy manner
and brushed her fingers
through her long black hair

and breathed in
the summer air
and there were birds

flying overhead
and a small brook
running along side

the lane
and you felt happy
being there with her

looking at her profile
at the way her eyes
looked about her

and her flowered summer dress
she said her mother made
and the way she swayed

her hips as she walked
and you sensed her nearness
her just being there

just a fingertip away
and when you came
to the empty cottage

she ran ahead and peered
through the windows
and you came along beside her

and looked through the glass
at the emptiness within
and she said

let's see if the doors are locked
and she ran to the door
and pushed but it was locked

and she said
just a chance we could have gone in
and pretended it was ours

and imagined where
we could have put our furniture
and we could have gone up the stairs

and looked out and pretended
it was our bedroom
and we had just married

and then she was silent
and you stood behind her
and touched her arm

and said
let's go pick some apples
and you can pretend

you're going to cook
an apple-pie
for our dinner instead

and she smiled
and gently pressed her lips
on your cheek

a small wet warmness
entered you
and oh

you thought
as she ran to the tree
that she would always be here

just the summer sun
and she in her beautifulness
and 13 year old me.

poem by Terry Collett
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In The Good Old Days

We'd get up before sun-up to get the work done up
We'd work in the fields till the sun had gone down
We've stood and we've cried as we have bristly watched
A hailstorm a' beatin' our crops to the ground
We've gone to bed hungry many nights in the past
In the good old days when times were bad
Chorus:
No amount of money could buy from me
The memories that i have of then
No amount of money could pay me
To go back and live through it again
I've seen daddy's hands break open and bleed
And i've seen him work till he's stiff as a board
An' i've seen momma layin' in suffer and sickness
In need of a doctor we couldn't afford
Anything at all was more than we had
In the good old days when times were bad
We've got up before and found ice on the floor
Where the wind would blow snow through the cracks in the wall
And i couldn't enjoy then, havin' a boyfriend
I had nothing decent to wear at all
So i long for a love that i never had
In the good old days when times were bad
Repeat chorus
Tag:
In the good old days when times were bad
In the good old days when times were bad

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Smile To Remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?'

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

poem by Charles Bukowski
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A Lust Story

the story of our meeting is quite a long one
i do not even know where to start it:
the mall, or the beach
or the lobby of this hotel by the sea
where you have seen my body
and i know
with the way you look at me
from the tip of my hair
to the tip of my toe
you desire
what i have

you think
i have so much to give you for the night where we can just be two
exploring the contours
and curves and islands of some hairs and rivers in our arms
and soft grasses on our bellies
hills on your breasts, plains on my chest

and i look at you too, i am fond of deep seated eyes that twinkle
like some tiny stars, chinky, and warm
i gaze at your face, shining gently like the moon of the night
over the cool marshes
the sound of geese subsiding finally
inside my heart

of course, your body too is one island filled with desire and bursting energy, like volleyball players under the sun

and i confess i like it
and want to taste it and even eat it,
like i have turned into one
cannibal or wanting to be one, at least on that first meeting
at the lobby of the hotel by the sea
(was it named Caprice?
or Escape or Hideaway?)

yes, the lobby of this hotel by the sea, and we decide to share
a room, get some drinks, you like the vodka, and you want me to want
the vodka and i take the vodka from your hand, and we all drink
the vodka, and we were carried by the vodka like hypnotized
kids by this magician
to the heavens,

we do what we can to give meaning to the meeting and the mating
and the loving (though we suspect this matter, takes time i suppose,
takes time, you tell me, this is just a matter of sharing bodies,

sort of)
that was nice, i like it, and you are telling me, your first time, and you
really like it too, sipping not spitting, lipping and licking,
and caressing hair, mostly hair, and running fingers on my loins,

night, dawn, dusk, early morning, where boats still dock
on the white sandy shore,
coconut trees, leaves no ripples of the wind
cigarette butts wet by lips
unwashed by the tide

then it is over, it ends at the lobby of the hotel by the sea, you wear
a bleached buri hat with a blue ribbon,
and thick sunglasses, and you are carrying a bag, checking out
talking to the billing section
while the van waits taking you to the airport

and me too, by the lobby of the hotel by the sea, and we part
i'll take the boat back home

we tell each other finally, not looking intently now
(what intent really? on diminishing interest after the sharing
of some natural resources)

take care.

(i do not even bother to say: till we meet again)

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Her Mother's Dark Moments

In one of her mother’s
dark moments

of opening up
Clara’s mother had said

of the baby
which died

after a few days
that she threw it

in the trash
before anyone

could find out
about the darn thing

and you could
back then girl

you could get away
with almost anything

if no one knew a thing
about it

and then her mother’d
clammed up

and go back
to staring into space

as if she’d opened up
too much

and Clara tried to imagine
what it must have been like

to have done that
and she tried to picture

her dead sister
lying amongst trash

and what she looked like
and what colour hair

she had
and her eyes

when she was briefly alive
what colour they were

and how they stared out
at the mother

glaring back at her
not wanting

not caring
and it all came back

to that in the end
the wanting of being

of love
and seeing he mother

there just sitting
and staring

and not wanting
and not caring

just the occasional glimmer
in eyes

that were becoming
darker and dimmer.

poem by Terry Collett
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I Like Smells

i like smells...
woodsmoke, and food,
black coffee in the morning.
the smell of rain,
of mud, of wetness.
the smell of the walls
of the cave, of the stone,
of the moss...
the smell of sex, of arousal,
of a woman's neck.
the smell of pine needles,
of an old house,
of fresh turned earth...
the smell of old books,
of old dogs, of shadows
without form...
i've even become accustomed
to the smell of death!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Taking Root

I'd seen Lianne at her cottage door
When I'd walked the old bush track,
The cottage had been abandoned, but
She was gradually bringing it back,
She painted it and she patched it
There was nothing she couldn't do,
I even saw her up on the roof
Repairing a faulty flue.

I simply waved at the girl at first
And she'd smile, and wave on back,
She must have been used to seeing me
On that little-used outback track,
I wondered why she would settle there
In a cottage, out on her own,
I never saw anyone else to share
The place that she called her home.

I stopped, of course, and I spoke to her
Once I'd passed a dozen times,
She said that she loved the fresh, clean air,
That she'd travelled from colder climes,
The sun was warm in the early spring
But I mentioned about the drought,
‘The summer heat is intense out here
With nothing to keep it out.'

What trees there were had died long since
For the lack of a steady rain,
They stood, grey, gaunt and twisted, like
Arthritic men, in pain,
She said she was going to grub them out
And plant fresh trees when she could,
Something with lots of leaves for shade
And water them, well and good.

I mentioned a couple of species that
Would grow at a furious pace,
Like the Australian willow, it
Was known for its speed, and grace,
She'd put some in when I passed again
And we talked of family trees,
She said that her Gran had left the place
To her, to do as she pleased.

‘My people, back in the early days
Were some of the pioneers,
They built this cottage and tilled the soil
And they persevered for years.
But Gran took off for the city once
Her husband took ill, and died,
He's buried out in the back out there,
With his father, by his side.'

She showed me the graves of her forefathers,
The stones were weathered and worn,
She'd tried to tidy them up a bit
Erected a limestone cairn,
‘They came and slaved and suffered here
And died, and followed suit,
That's why I came to save the place,
I felt like taking root.'

I caught a glimpse of her eyes at that
And saw a glimmer of tears,
She was the last of the line of them,
These family pioneers,
She wasn't a striking beauty but
Had passion, guts and grace,
And that's when I fell in love with her
And I told her, to her face.

She smiled and patted my hand: ‘You're sweet,
But you don't know me at all,
Maybe you'll get to know me, if
You keep on coming to call.'
So I did, on into the summer then,
And followed through to the fall,
But then I was sent away for months
To a farm where I couldn't call.

She had no phone, she had no mail
No electricity,
She spent her nights on a garden seat
With a lantern on a tree,
The summer had seen a blistering heat
But the fall brought on the rain,
It was well into winter by the time
I was able to call again.

I found her out in the garden, where
She stood in a sort of trance,
I tried to engage her attention, but
She barely spared me a glance,
Her skin was coloured a shade of grey
And her legs were rough and stark,
Her feet had sunk in the mulch out there
And her ankles looked like bark.

I pulled at her hands but she simply leaned,
She swayed like a sapling bent,
Out from the tips of her fingers grew
Some strange disfigurement,
Her hair was tangled with creepers
That were snaking along her back,
I thought I could wake her with a kiss
But I seemed to have lost the knack.

I left her there in the garden, but
I see her from time to time,
The seasons come and the seasons go
But Lianne continues to climb,
Her clothes fell off, they were rotted through
Now she needs no type of suit,
Lianne's as busy as ever,
As she said, she's taking root.

20 September 2012

poem by David Lewis Paget
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An Invitation.

She invited Joey
to her apartment
on the second floor

and as she opened the door
her dog came
barking along the hall

Shut up Bonaparte
she said
Go away

and the mutt walked back
with its tail
between its legs

to its basket
under the table
and she ushered Joey in

and closed the door behind her
and said
What would you like to drink?

tea coffee coke beer?
Coke will be fine
he said

and she told him
to go sit in the lounge
and once he sat down

he looked around the room
and on the small table
by the sofa where he sat

was a photograph of her
and her husband
taken on their wedding day

she dressed in white
and smiling
and he in a black suit

like a hit man
in a mobster movie
and she came in

with his coke
and set it on the table
by the sofa

and then went out again
swaying her behind
which made him smile

then she was back
with a tall glass
of white wine

and she set it down
on the table beside him
and sat down

and began talking
about the night
he had met her

and her husband
in the bar in town
and how she had invited

him over to meet her husband
and he had bought them
both a drink

and while her husband
talked to his friend
she had flirted with him

and made him laugh
and how after that
they'd all meet

on Friday evenings
in the same bar
and her husband

had invited him
to their place
to play chess

and he remembered
how he used to play chess
holding off letting

her husband win
so he could stay longer
and see her more often

and then she leaned over
to get her drink
and she put one hand

on his thigh
and reached over
for her wine

and he smelt her scent
and the brush of her hair
as she leaned over him

and having her glass
she leaned back
her hand still resting

on his thigh
and that look of mischief
burning in her eye.

poem by Terry Collett
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Lot's Wife

They say I looked back out of curiosity.
But I could have had other reasons.
I looked back mourning my silver bowl.
Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.
So I wouldn't have to keep staring at the righteous nape
of my husband Lot's neck.
From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead
he wouldn't so much as hesitate.
From the disobedience of the meek.
Checking for pursuers.
Struck by the silence, hoping God had changed his mind.
Our two daughters were already vanishing over the hilltop.
I felt age within me. Distance.
The futility of wandering. Torpor.
I looked back setting my bundle down.
I looked back not knowing where to set my foot.
Serpents appeared on my path,
spiders, field mice, baby vultures.
They were neither good nor evil now--every living thing
was simply creeping or hopping along in the mass panic.
I looked back in desolation.
In shame because we had stolen away.
Wanting to cry out, to go home.
Or only when a sudden gust of wind
unbound my hair and lifted up my robe.
It seemed to me that they were watching from the walls of Sodom
and bursting into thunderous laughter again and again.
I looked back in anger.
To savor their terrible fate.
I looked back for all the reasons given above.
I looked back involuntarily.
It was only a rock that turned underfoot, growling at me.
It was a sudden crack that stopped me in my tracks.
A hamster on its hind paws tottered on the edge.
It was then we both glanced back.
No, no. I ran on,
I crept, I flew upward
until darkness fell from the heavens
and with it scorching gravel and dead birds.
I couldn't breathe and spun around and around.
Anyone who saw me must have thought I was dancing.
It's not inconceivable that my eyes were open.
It's possible I fell facing the city.

poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Christina and You and Home for Lunch

As you went by
the girl's playground
after getting off

the school bus
Christina called to you
through the wire fence

and said
my mother said
you can come home

for lunch today
if you like
ok

you said
where shall I meet you?
Cedric will bring you along

she said
and so when
the lunch time

recess bell rang
you followed Cedric
out of the school

and saw Christina
by the outer fence waiting
are you sure

your mother doesn't mind?
you asked
of course not

she said
Cedric walked on in front
leaving you and Christiana

to walk on behind
she talked about some girl
in her class who had a boyfriend

and claimed
to have had sex
and then she went on

about the teacher
who had been expelled
for taking pupils home

in his lunch hour
it was boys though
she added

and then you came
to her house
and she took you in

and there was her mother
in the kitchen
nice to meet you

she said
Christina has talked
about you so much

Cedric behind
his mother's back
was making gagging gestures

with his fingers
down his throat
Christina looked at you

and smiled
nice to be here
you said

are you sure it's all right
me coming?
of course it is

Christina's mother said
now sit down
and I'll serve up for us all

and so you all sat down
around the table
and Cedric looked at you

then looked down
at his knife and fork
and Christina said

glad you're here
and she put a hand
over yours

and gave your hand
a squeeze
then removed it

when her mother
set down the plates
and then sat down herself

and you all began to eat
in an unusual silence
Christina giving you

a bright eyed stare
and Cedric looking
over your shoulder

as if you weren't there
after lunch their mother
cleared the table

of plates and went off
and Cedric went
into the lounge

leaving you and Christina alone
what do you think?
she asked

about what?
you asked
my mother

what do you think of her?
she seems nice
you said

she gets depressed a lot
Christina said
but today

she was at her best
oh right
you said

sorry she gets depressed
come on
Christina said

I'll show you my room
you raised your eyebrows
won't your mother mind?

you asked
not if she doesn't know
Christina replied

isn't it a bit risky?
you said
yes

she said
that's what makes life
so interesting

so you followed her
and tiptoed up the stairs
and she showed you

her bedroom
and her favourite doll
and other favourites of hers

lined along her bed
then she kissed you quickly
and then stood back

and smiled and said
best go down now
or she'll wonder

where we are
and so that was it
and as you followed her

down the stairs
you could hear the radio
playing some classical music

and her mother
humming along
and sounding quite happy

and Christina giving you
another kiss
behind her mother's back

and after saying thank you
to her mother
you all left

to return to school
the clouds promising rain
and so back to school

and the boring lessons
once again.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We'll Meet Again

We’ll meet again she said
but you never did

at least not
as she had meant

as once before
but through a window

of a florist shop
where you were buying flowers

for some other woman
whom you thought

you loved
with passions hot

and thoughts crazed
and there she stood

gazing in
not seeing you

and you looking at her
standing there

remembered the time
when you and she

had almost made it
to her bed for hottest sex

when you heard
her parent’s car

pull up in the drive
and car doors slam

and feet on gravel
and rushing

to put tidy clothes
in disarray or half removed

and she blushing red
like a bottom spanked

made haste to button
undone buttons

and zip up zips unzipped
and all before the key

undid the lock
and both of you in shock

made fast
your footsteps down

the stairs with faces flushed
and unbrushed hairs

and looking at her then
in the florist shop window

all proper and prim
you wondered

what it was
that made hot fires glow

then in short time
burn out or sadly dim.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Take Me Down

Someday Im gonna pack up
And then Im goin back up
To that place where sentimental feelings arouse
Where the grass is so green
And the air is so clean
That when the wind is right you can even smell the cows
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Where time shifts into neutral
And idles away
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Ive got to get back
To that city today
If youre new in town
Then youll wanna look around
But you dont know where to begin
Well, theres bubble gum alley
And the local car rally
Not to mention the toilets at madonna inn
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Where time shifts into neutral
And idles away
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Ive got to get back
To that city today
Its not much of a hassle
To drive up to hearsts castle
And its not too far from pismo beach or morro rock
You can visit downtown at your leisure
Because for your shopping pleasure
The stores never close down until five oclock
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Where time shifts into neutral
And idles away
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Ive got to get back
To that city today
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Where time shifts into neutral
And idles away
Take me down (take me down)
To that good old slo town
Ive got to get back
To that city today

song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The farmer and his wife (Sestina)

A girl was lying down flat on her back
with a straw hat at eye height over hair,
she was sun-struck, curling and fair
with a rain cloud ominous and black
drifting in a blue sky and a small track
meandering past and it needed some repair.

Some of your makeup is in need of repair,
there’s a guitar bag slung over your back
where you walk pass the girl at the dirt track
with the strong wind frizzling through your hair
and the sky is already turning black
but the evening up to now is fair.

Slowly you walk past the local fair
with some of the stalls needing repair,
the guitar you are carrying is black
and you walk straight on, do not look back
at the whistles of some men with long hair
while home you take a narrow long track.

Watching our horses on the racetrack
you are really sexy and very fair,
our horses do parade with shining hair
you notice that the stands need some repair
and I am standing somewhat at your back
while you are dressed prettily in black.

The highway is like a ribbon that is black
where it meets the old overgrown farm track,
there are huge blue-gum trees some way back
and you agree that the price of the Lucerne is fair
where some cows graze at the pen, needing repair,
swishing with tails to drive flies from their hair.

I pull my fingers slowly through my hair
and there are streaks of grey in the black,
but the cattle are only doing fair
while my love is coming with the field’s track
that must constantly be kept in repair
and I hear her singing over my back.

There were torn out hair a long time back,
when I met my darling and she was fair,
at a fight at a track, I was in need of repair.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Little Soap & Water

Stink like a bear stuck on a tree trunk
Baby you smell like a nasty payment
Wishing you had soap you couldn't buy Old bread in your Ice box
Ted in your knee trunks
Girl your boyfriend got a stinky job
Better then smoking steaks on a grill
You missing new points smoking a bottle
Your woman is a woman that sleeps all night
Know she stinking off her panties
Co patties where you work
Dancing like you twerk
Nasty manager never taking baths
Plane air pollution smell a bird
Oil got my clothes stinking
Go home FizTzle take a bath
She smells you but she work in air conditional
Clean your clothes smell good
America stinks how about you
Smell pollution like I'm smoking
A Little Soap & Water.

poem by Tommy Laster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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