What Max Wanted
What do you want from me?
Max's wife said
and he looked by her
at the waitress
at the cafe
who was walking
with some order
behind his wife's back
and he noticed
the cute ass as she moved
the way she swayed
and the hands
holding the tray
huh? What is it
you want from me?
his wife repeated
her eyes peering at him
taking in
that aspect of him
as he turned his head
look said Max
following the waitress
to the table across the way
his eyes slowly
undressing her
his mind making up scenes
like in some movie
you say come on Honey
let's go out for a meal
and talk
and what are you doing
looking elsewhere
and not talking
his wife said
spittle on her lower lip
Max looked back
at his wife and said
oh yes sure
I was thinking
of the Picasso print
we saw the other day
you know that one
we both liked
and you said you'd like it
for your birthday
well maybe
I ought to get it
what do you think?
And the waitress
looked over at Max
as she went by
and he saw
a whole new ball game
in her eyes
and caught the cheek
and ear
and was sure
he captured some aspect
of her perfume
and his wife said
Picasso?
That Picasso?
are you sure Max?
and she went into a daze
and smiled
and Max imagined himself
and the waitress
and sex games
and a party
going wild.
poem by Terry Collett
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Baylitz's Wife And A Game Of Chess
Baylitz's wife served you snacks and booze
while you played chess in the lounge
at the small table set aside for games
and you watched her come and go
the swaying of her hips
the well crafted thighs
beneath the dress
the way her hands held the tray
her eyes green as emeralds
searching you as she laid it down
watch your bishop
Baylitz said
but in your imagination
you were already undressing his wife
for bed letting fall her dress
and bra and underwear
of flamingo pink or soft sky blue
you've left your castle well exposed
Baylitz muttered
his fingers over the piece
waiting there to pounce
you made a protective move
and he smiled and studied the board
as his wife stood by the window looking out
your eyes moved over her frame
caught in the sun's light
imagining her beneath you
in their broad bed
her lips on your chest
ah you've sacrificed your pawn too easy
Baylitz said and swooped in
for the kill of your piece
by his black bishop
you sat back in the chair
gave a sad expression
your eyes touching his wife's soft flesh
your king's in danger
Baylitz said
and your eyes moved back to the board
and studied Baylitz's fingers
lingering murderously
but too late
he moved in for the kill
checkmate
he stated
you sighed
and looked at his wife
who pulled a face
you sat
your dream of sex and love
stilled in frozen frame
another time maybe
Baylitz said
ok
you replied
unfulfilled.
poem by Terry Collett
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Gazing At Sunflowers
Your first wife’s friend
came in with her
for a coffee and chat
and you were sitting
on the sofa
with the sleeping cat
and she looked
at the Van Gogh print
of sunflowers
over the mantelpiece
above the open fire
did you paint that?
the friend asked
staring at it
through John Lennon
type glasses
no you said
it’s a Van Gogh print
oh she said
peering closer
I do like flowers don’t you?
Yeah you replied
sunflowers have a way
when Van Gogh
pushes them through
and she stood in silence
taking in the print
and flowers
and colours
and you noticed
she had a run
in her stockings
from the back
of her knee
to where
her thigh disappeared
beneath her drab dress
and your first wife
came in and said
oh you’re not looking
at that painting are you?
He knows all about
those arty types
with their odd ways
and weird eyes
and her friend said
turning round
scratching her ass
I know nothing
of art and such
it’s way out
of my class.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Woman Called
A woman called for you today said Max’s wife.
Oh said Max who was she?
She didn’t say Max’s wife replied.
Well dames that don’t leave names
Aren’t worth worry over Max said
Lighting up a cigarette and sitting
In a chair by the window.
She seemed to know you Max’s wife stated stiffly
Seemed quite put out when I told her I was your wife.
Dames are always put out over something or other
Max said noticing his wife’s beauty spot
And how it moved as she spoke.
She was a brunette.
Ah a brunette huh?
Yes a brunette his wife said.
Well? She said after a minute’s pause.
New York’s full of brunettes.
This one came to the apartment and rang our bell
And stood at the door asking for Max.
There are plenty of men called Max in New York Honey he said
Comparing in his mind his wife and the brunette
He’d met at a bar the other night.
She seemed your type his wife said sulkily
The type that sways her hips and sticks out their ass.
Yes I know the type Max said and sighed
They can never leave me alone.
I tell them I am happily married to the best dame in New York
But they seem not to hear Max said
Watching smoke rise upwards.
Best dame in New York huh? His wife said.
Sure you are he said taking in his wife’s plump ass
Hanging over the side of the chair like melted cheese.
She smiled and said must have been a mistake
On her part coming here and asking for Max.
Sure it was Max said dames sometimes make mistakes
They have no sense of direction.
His wife smiled at him sexily hoping.
Max smiled back and hoped for erection.
poem by Terry Collett
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Siren
I became a criminal when I fell in love.
Before that I was a waitress.
I didn't want to go to Chicago with you.
I wanted to marry you, I wanted
Your wife to suffer.
I wanted her life to be like a play
In which all the parts are sad parts.
Does a good person
Think this way? I deserve
Credit for my courage--
I sat in the dark on your front porch.
Everything was clear to me:
If your wife wouldn't let you go
That proved she didn't love you.
If she loved you
Wouldn't she want you to be happy?
I think now
If I felt less I would be
A better person. I was
A good waitress.
I could carry eight drinks.
I used to tell you my dreams.
Last night I saw a woman sitting in a dark bus--
In the dream, she's weeping, the bus she's on
Is moving away. With one hand
She's waving; the other strokes
An egg carton full of babies.
The dream doesn't rescue the maiden.
poem by Louise Gluck
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Wife- better half of life
Wife is the better half of life
Give wife love affection as soul-mate
Wife is not glorified maid as said
Wife do not want money salary honorarium
Do not make hulla gulla and do not beat drum.
Mian bibi relationship should not be commercialized
Third party intervention in family relation vandalized.
Wife is not a domestic labourer
Wife is backbone of the family
The maile stone of the family
Wife is the torchlight of the family
Wife is the colorful star
Do no put any question to her.
Wife is there to give everything
Wife is not to take anything in return
Wife is the goddess.
Only mad man can say wife is a domestic servant
Make wife a wife life-partner better half
And enjoy life freely.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Over His Latte.
He's only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter
waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress
serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at
the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,
but it doesn't come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows
her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.
She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over
the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother
would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman's coffee; he notes the
waitress's fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman
in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,
as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he's not;
he's away with that girl from the office,
having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before sex. She looks boringly
away. He sips more latte. He doesn't like
her white hat or black dress anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
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Are You a Good Husband?
All married men want to be called a good husband
A good husband is a decent husband
Mr. Husband what you done to deserve this decency?
Has your wife ever referred to you as her good husband?
It is known that the eyes cannot see itself
Unless by reflection. Have you ever asked
Your wife for a performance appraisal
Honey, how did I perform last year?
On a scale of one to ten, one for very poor
Ten for excellent, how did I perform?
Your wife may think you are now on new drugs
If you receive less than six, you need to
Start fence mending before it is too late
A good husband sees his wife as his friend
A nice husband treats his wife as his lover
A decent husband regards his wife as a soul-mate
You should anticipate what your wife
Will need before she makes any request
By the way, have you ever bought a gift
For your wife without an occasion?
Do you have to wait for her birthday?
To inform her that she is very special to you?
Do you have to wait for your wedding anniversary?
To tell her that she is the best thing in your life
When last did you talk to your wife in-laws?
When last did you visit your wife in-laws?
What have you done to be called a good husband?
Ask for performance appraisal on a regular basis
Remember, if you make your wife happy
You will get happiness in return
poem by Julius Babarinsa
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Dubrovnik 1972.
Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street
cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open
on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking
of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress
who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your
brother said, I don't
fancy yours much,
indicating with a nod
of head, another
waitress over by a
nearby table, plump
and spotted, wearing
a scowl instead of a
smile, and all the while,
he eyeing, as young
men do the beauty
that had caught your
eye going by, but all is
fair in love, so men
have said, so picking
up the book on
Schopenhauer, and
further reading,
holding the cigarette
between the fingers
of the hand not
turning pages, you
inhaled with deep
concentration the
smoke and words
spread across the
page, written by a
philosopher of a
foreign tongue
and different age.
poem by Terry Collett
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Wife is well imprisoned
He was nice to me and my wife.
I cut ties with him as on my wife fell his eyes.
The other was nice to me and my wife.
I cut ties with him as on him fell my wife’s eyes.
If one’s wife is cute,
Better be away
.27.04.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Gypsy's Wife
And where, where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight
I've heard all the wild reports, they can't be right
But whose head is this she's dancing with on the threshing floor
whose darkness deepens in her arms a little more
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Ah the silver knives are flashing in the tired old cafe
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee
She says, "My body is the light, my body is the way"
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the bride's bouquet
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?...
Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove
These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood
And there is no man or woman who can't be touched
But you who come between them will be judged
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If there's God why I die
‘’Is there God then why I die’’
Wife of ant says
‘’ Why wife of ant says if there’s God
Why I die, filthy feminine house I will
Burn down and leave’’
God says
‘’Is there God then why my children die’’
Wife of ant says’’
‘’Why wife of ant says if there’s God
Why my children die, filthy clitorising rain giraffe, I will sow seed of hairy itching grass under her feet, will grow to waist’’
God says
Wife ant opened her head to sun
She asks
‘’ Is there anything worst on earth than
Soaking of my waist in mourning tears for years
Wuw nothing’’
God rubbed his nose, nguu….
Says ‘’I will see who’s strong
Me or wife of ant
Ninety days later
Wife of man whom God nickname as ant
Whelped puppy
Strange, horrible and unnatural
‘’O God, why my wife give to puppy’’
Man prayed
‘’ To teach your wife lesson
So tomorrow she’ll not mock me again
If she attempt, I wipe off her eyes in world
And her seed will not grow on earth
My land’’
God says
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Who is a wife?
Who is a wife?
Who can be a virtuous wife?
Who is a wife?
Who can stand the strife
To be a wife?
There is a woman
And there is a wife
Any one can be a woman
But not any one can be a wife
A wife will stand for her pride
A woman will always want a ride
A wife will say
“we ‘ll have a say”
A woman will say
“I ‘ld have a say”
A wife will say
“WE bought you those”
A woman will say
“Mom bought you those”
A wife would say
“We share the bills”
A woman would say
“I share the bills”
A wife cooks what “we” like
A woman cooks what “I” like.
A wife loves unconditionally
A woman loves conditionally
A wife always stands by…
A woman sometimes stands by…
A wife thinks about “us”
A woman thinks about “me”
A wife supports the plans
A woman plans the supports
A wife keeps the relationship
A woman snubs the relationship
A WIFE IS OPPOSITE OF A WOMAN
Who then is a wife?
Amidst all my strife
I‘ve found a darling wife
You too can, if you also tried.
poem by Jr. J.Lakie Kollie
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The Gypsys Wife
And where, where, where is my gypsy wife tonight
Ive heard all the wild reports, they cant be right
But whose head is this shes dancing with on the threshing floor
Whose darkness deepens in her arms a little more
And where, where is my gypsy wife tonight?
Where, where is my gypsy wife tonight?
Ah the silver knives are flashing in the tired old cafe
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee
She says, my body is the light, my body is the way
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the brides bouquet
And where, where is my gypsy wife tonight? ...
Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove
These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood
And there is no man or woman who cant be touched
But you who come between them will be judged
And where, where is my gypsy wife tonight? ...
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Picasso Is...
Picasso is...
Picasso transcends mortality.
Picasso is fury artistic dynamics in motion.
Picasso always moving in styles
to new levels of artistic perception
through seen seam fractures
of shift broken molten imagery.
Picasso is walking through walls.
Picasso is rebirth in conception.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Mamie in Malaga.
Mamie met you
in the base camp bar
in Malaga
her curly red hair
damp from a recent shower
and said
Picasso was born here
In this bar?
you said
No
she moaned
In the city
in 1881
and she took the drink
you'd bought her
I like Picasso don't you?
she asked
taking a sip
of the drink
and you noticed
the tight tee shirt
snugly holding
her firm breasts
and her eyes bright
as sunlight's breaking dawn
yes
you said
I like his later work
not the Blue
or Pink period or
that Cubist shite
and your eyes
slipped downwards
along her slender frame
the tight blue jeans
caressing her small
but plumpish ass
her fingers holding
the glass
and you thinking
of other things
far removed
from Picasso‘s art
though knowing he
would understand
where your mind
had wandered
and what the scene
your mind had set
like some dramatist
preparing for a play
she sipped more
of the drink
her head thrown back
the nice turn
of the neck
the chin
the nose
the ears protruding slight
between her red
and curly hair
and wondered deep
as you drank your own
if the other hair below
between her thighs
was as red and tight
as that above
and she said
breaking through
your thoughts
Was it lust or love
that moved his brush
Picasso I mean?
and oh you mused
taking on her words
and squeezing
the meaning
from each syllable
that was uttered
on her breath
to lay my head
upon her breast
not to sleep
but dreaming rest
and you turning to her
said High love or low lust
fed by his fond muse
moved his brush I trust.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Mountains On Fire (Fun Poem 94)
Many years ago, my wife and I
went to Scotland and stayed in a holiday chalet.
Behind it stood a mountain
and you had to crane your neck to see the top.
One day my wife awoke
and looked out the window and panic gripped her.
“The mountains on fire! ” She shouted,
loud enough to wake the dead.
I got up and looked out the window.
“Oh Yea.” I said and went back to bed.
“What are we going to do about it? ” She asked.
“What are we going to do? ”
“Come back to bed.” I said.
“When the mist clears you will see the mountain is Ok.”
5 February 2009
poem by David Harris
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I Caught A Little Ladybird
I caught a little ladybird
That flies far away;
I caught a little lady wife
That is both staid and gay.
Come back, my scarlet ladybird,
Back from far away;
I weary of my dolly wife,
My wife that cannot play.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Sex And The Medical Profession
Sex and the Medical Profession
I’m sitting in my car waiting for my wife who is at mass
I find it impossible to believe in any religion, but I say
nothing it is important for my wife to believe in a merciful
god. Paris, and agony, my wife prayed but did call
an ambulance. Battling doctors, how young they are, I felt
like a low paid, reluctant actor in a hospital drama, one
who has to play the nurse when he really wanted to be
the famous heart transplant surgeon.
The doc asked if I smoked. No! She looked sullen since
I didn’t, it is so easy to blame the fag. I said I had smoked
15 years ago, she looked relieved and told me to keep up
the good, work: she removed the catheter a lovely pee
Is better than sex, if temporarily, now I feel like making
love, my wife tells I’m deluded, I say nothing but bid my
time, keep a blanket in my car in case I should meet
someone who is equally barmy.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Love Vigilantes
Oh Ive just come
From the land of the sun
From a war that must be won
In the name of truth
With our soldiers so brave
Your freedom we will save
With our rifles and grenades
And some help from god
I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
Ive got to go home
Ive been so alone, you see
You just cant believe
The joy I did recieve
When I finally got my leave
And I was going home
Oh I flew through the sky
My convictions could not lie
For my country I would die
And I will see it soon
I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
Ive got to go home
Ive been so alone, you see
When I walked through the door
My wife she lay upon the floor
And with tears her eyes were sore
I did not know why
Then I looked into her hand
And I saw the telegram
That said that I was a brave, brave man
But that I was dead
I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
Ive got to go home
Ive been so alone, you see
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'd gone into that restaurant and sat down and the waitress had taken my order and everybody else had seen me with this what must have looked like this creature, this animal, sitting on the top of my head!
quote by Derek Jacobi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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