What Might Have Been.(Poem)
You had been in Tangiers
until the early hours
of the morning
and was brought back
to base camp on the truck
as the sun was beginning to rise
over the horizon
and had then gone
to crash down
in your tent
too tired to undress
and slept through
until midday
then showered
and sat in the bar
when Mamie came
and sat beside you
and said
where'd you go last night?
I thought you
were going to walk me
down by the beach
and watch the sun rise
from the sea?
I was too tired
you said
I crashed out in my tent
she looked at her glass of coke
I could have joined you there
she whispered
and done what?
you said
slept beside me?
she shifted her buttocks
on the stool and said
well it would have been better
than sleeping in my tent
with that Scottish hen
as her brother calls her
you sipped your drink
and watched
the old Moroccan guy
in the corner
inhale on his marijuana smoke
plus I had her snoring
and moaning in her sleep
Mamie added
giving you her side on stare
yes
you said
it would have been
better than that
and she put her hand
on your thigh
and rubbed it back
and forth and said
but it didn't happen
maybe next time
you replied
imaging it all
in your mind
right down
to the last removing
of clothes
and trying to move
in the tent's small space
your body drained
of all strength
wanting only sleep
the Tangier booze
and belly dancers
and nightclub smoke and music
clinging on your flesh
and ringing in your ears
and she trying
to get you in
the right place
and you closing your eyes
and drifting away
like one who dies.
poem by Terry Collett
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Related quotes
After A Dance At Malaga
In Malaga
at the base camp
you danced at some disco
and drank Bacardi
and coke and it was
well into the early hours
of the morning
when you left
with Mamie
tiptoeing between
tent ropes and the unlit
areas between
and she said
I can't find
where my tent is
and you said
I'd let you share mine
but that young army guy
is in mine
and three in a bed
is a bit cramped
but where is mine?
she said
searching around
touching tent ropes
as she went by
you stood watching
trying to decide
where your tent was
what are we to do?
she asked
let's go back
to the club
until it gets lighter
or we remember
where our tents are
you said
but I'm tired
she said
I want to go to bed
and sleep
you searched around
by the hedge of the field
and then said
wait
I know where
mine is now
and you led her
to the tent
and unzipped it
and there inside
was the army guy
fast asleep
you can come in here
if you like
you said
but she just stood there
in the semi dark
cussing into the night
come on in
and be quiet
you said
I want my tent
she said
I want my own bloody tent
ok go find it then
you said
and began to climb inside
wait
she said
in a hushed voice
and came over
to your tent
and looked in
what about him?
she asked
he's asleep
you replied
what will he say
and finds me here?
you gazed
at the sleeping soldier boy
his mouth open
his eyes closed
a soft snore
filling the air
either come in
or go elsewhere
you whispered
I can't
she said
not with him there
and so she turned
and wandered off
into the semi dark
another chance walking off
into the night
some things you hope for
you murmured
never come right.
poem by Terry Collett
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Two Bricks Over A Hole
You were sitting on the grass
outside your tent
at the base camp
along the road from Tangiers
smoking a cigarette
when Mamie came along
and stood with her arms folded
and her red hair damp
and her face flushed
like a spanked behind
Have you seen the latrines?
She asked
No not yet
you replied
she took a deep intake
of breath and then said
I expected at least
a white bowl
but there are just two bricks
over a hole in the ground
and no paper
to wipe yourself afterwards
you exhaled smoke
and said
You're meant to
take your own with you
Your own latrine?
She said angrily
No your own bog roll
you said
she sighed
and looked down
towards the beach
reaching to
the Mediterranean Sea
I haven't unpacked
my bags yet
she said
and you gazed at her
standing there
in her pink shorts
and white open necked blouse
and tried not
to imagine her
crouched on two bricks
over a hole
in the ground
her legs bent
her panties by her ankles
and her backside
mooning over the hole
Well
she said moodily
At least now you know
what to expect
and went off
towards the beach
her hips swaying
side to side
her taut buttocks
captured in her pink shorts
and the midday sun
touching your head
in a kind of blessing
with its heat
and you inhaled
smoke again
remembering the rain
coming through
Franco's Spain.
poem by Terry Collett
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The three day Rock concert
Pitch your tent in the rain
put money and phone in pockets
hope no thieves around
remember the last time?
Make way to the beer tent
then have a good walk about
your favourite band will be on soon.
Try and get down to the front
but you end up crushed in the middle
by now your covered in mud.
Still you don't care because
you've had a good drink
and the music is loud and great.
Everyone is jumping and moving
to the heavy metal thump thump
your having a fantastic time.
You do this for three days
then you pack up your tent
your worn out and tired
but you'll be back next year.
The great British Rock concert
music, rain, mud, blocked up toilets,
weak beer, hot dogs, drugs,
as British as Fish and Chips!
poem by Kevin Halls
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A Nomad
I have not lived in a house since i brought you up,
But rather i have been moving from tent to tent;
Because i am a nomad and i do move from place to place.
I brought you up this way and you have learnt a lot,
But you are matured enough to take up your own decisions.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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AE01 Mismatch
beneath branches piles of leaves
rise weeds, young trees, skinny
vines wrap around tree trunks
quiet, dark, warm in winter night
with sleeping bag, tent for rain
can foods, gallon of fresh water
no light, i waited for sun to shine
buried my tent with leaves, i see
surrounding with my hunting scope
sleep at day time find food at night
good plan for a dreamer, why hide
world is open wide from hills to tide
poem by Manonton Dalan
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For I Am A Nomad
I have not lived in a house since i brought you up,
But rather been moving from tent to tent always from one place to another;
For i am a nomad and i brought you up,
So you are now matured enough to take up your own decisions today.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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He used to have a tent show, a little tent show, and I thought I was going to get a job working one year on the tent show, but he closed it down and I never got to go out there, but anyway, he had a sax and played drums.
quote by Earl Scruggs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Camping at Lake Berryessa
My children slept
on the thin vinyl floor
while above our tent,
just past the dark tree-line,
the Milky Way glimmered
like cool waves breaking
on the black coast
of the deep mountain sky.
All night
the lake whispered softly
under gentle western winds
as egret and owl
kept guardian eyes
on the sleeping
human shore.
While watching my sons sleep,
I heard the low murmur
of wild turkey and possum
scuffling through dry dust and leaves,
searching our campground for leftovers
peanut butter crusts, hot dogs and beans,
any careless, easy meal,
when I felt rolling pressure
pushing insistently at base of our tent,
and, alarmed, heard quick, powerful,
exploratory snorts.
Holding my breath,
I gazed into the deer’s
questioning,
fearless eyes,
and wondered
if we campers
were part of this
ancient community,
or welcomed,
honored guests,
or simply curious,
rude intruders.
poem by Steven Federle
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Wanderers
AS I rode in the early dawn,
While stars were fading white,
I saw upon a grassy slope
A camp-fire burning bright;
With tent behind and blaze before,
Three loggers in a row
Sang all together joyously—
Pull up the stakes and go!
As I rode on by Eagle Hawk,
The wide blue deep of air,
The wind through the glittering leaves,
The flowers so sweet and fair,
The thunder of the rude salt waves,
The creek’s soft overflow,
All joined in chorus to the words—
Pull up the stakes and go!
Now by the tent on forest skirt,
By odour of the earth,
By sight and scent of morning smoke,
By evening camp-fire’s mirth,
By deep-sea call and foaming green,
By new stars’ gleam and glow,
By summer trails in antique lands—
Pull up the stakes and go!
The world is wide, and we are young,
And sounding marches beat,
And passion pipes her sweetest call
In lane and field and street;
So rouse the chorus, brothers all,
We’ll something have to show
When Death comes round and strikes our tent—
Pull up the stakes and go!
poem by James Hebblethwaite
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Mamie and You in Madrid.
Madrid
and after the street salesman
conned you
out of coins
in your change
Mamie said
well put it down
to experience
we all get caught
at one time or other
and they have
brought forth
great art
and you stared at her
at her hair and eyes
and said
yes I guess
but you were still peeved
about it but then
thought of the night before
when you and she
had slept all night
in the coach
through France
and into Spain
she with her head
on your shoulder
making little
snoring sounds
sometimes talking
in her sleep
other times
turning towards you
with her mouth
slightly ajar
and her hair
in a mess
and you had moved in
on her and kissed
her brow
like one planting
a soft kiss
on a corpse
and that made you laugh
and she said
what's so funny?
and you said
taking hold
of her hand
crossing a street
just something
entered my head
what?
she said
about kissing a corpse
you replied
what corpse?
and that reminded you
of the time they brought
your father's body home
for the night before
his funeral and as
he lay there
in the coffin
your gran had said
kiss him goodbye
and so you did
and that stayed with you
the feel
and chilled skin
and how it didn't seem
to be him
just a shell
but you loved him still
for all that
and when you told her that
she said
how sweet
and you gazed at her
at her eyes
and hair
and kissable lips
as you walked
the Spanish street.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Sight In Camp
A SIGHT in camp in the day-break grey and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by the hospital
tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended
lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,
Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious, I halt, and silent stand;
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first,
just lift the blanket:
Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grey'd hair,
and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you, my dear comrade? 10
Then to the second I step--And who are you, my child and darling?
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third--a face nor child, nor old, very calm, as of
beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man, I think I know you--I think this face of yours is the face
of the Christ himself;
Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he lies.
poem by Walt Whitman
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While You Were Sleeping
Last Night while you were sleeping,
Did you know that I was wide awake,
On my side, at your side
Waiting for morning to break.
I watched as you slept,
As the dreams enter in your soul
Then through my eyes, I realized
That truly, I love you so.
Last night, while you were sleeping.
Last Night while you were asleep
Did you know too, that I was there
On your bed, also laid my head
Along with my soul and prayer.
Lying quietly at your side
As I have done the nights before
To be with you, my love so true
Could any man ask for any more.
Last Night while you were asleep.
Last night while you slept,
As waiting for morning to come,
While at your side, I laid that night
While dreading the coming of the sun.
As always with you I was there
Even when morning began to arise
But then again it came, as so did the pain
As I said goodbye to another night.
Last night while you slept.
Last night while you did sleep
You never knew that you weren't alone,
As when you awoke not one word did I spoke
As on the couch I slept from which I never roamed.
Upon my side there I solemnly laid
Being so still, and quite as a mouse
Not to make a sound that might give my secret away,
I wandered; did you too feel lonely in this house.
Last night while you had slept.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Sleeping To Dream (Live @ Java Joes - 06.27.02)
words by jason mraz
music by jason mraz & peter stuart
I'm dreaming of sleeping next to you I'm feeling like a lost little boy in a brand new town
I'm counting my sheep and each one that passes is another dream to ashes
and they all fall down.
As I lay me down tonight,
I close my eyes and what a beautiful sight
I'm sleeping to dream about you
I'm so tired of having to live without you
So I'm sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired
I found myself in the riches (Your eyes, your lips, your hair.) Well you were everywhere
But I woke up in the ditches. I hit the light and I thought you might be here
but you were nowhere. You were nowhere at home.
As I lay me back to sleep
Lord I pray that I can keep
Sleeping to dream about you
I'm so tired of having to live without you
So I'm sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired
(It's just a little a lullaby to keep myself from crying myself to sleep at night.)
Sleeping to dream about you
I'm so tired of having to live without you
So I'm sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Rest Is Peace For Me
My rest deserves peace, justice rolls
In the shadows for the heat of heaven.
Sun’s work is a doing, moons belong,
But where does the camel roll over?
My place in the arena of thought
Is fought over by the generals of a tent
That houses the rich, the tent we hand over.
Palaces will be built for those who worship
In the competent ways known to God,
A man visits the world in possessed spirits.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Julie and You in Trafalgar Square
Julie sat on one
of the fountain walls
in Trafalgar Square
and lit a cigarette
she looked about her
as if she were onto
something harder
as if she had some one
looking at her
from some secret place
you gazed at her
unused to seeing her
not in her hospital
dressing gown
and slippered feet
her hair had been brushed neat
and makeup applied
and she said
I was picked up here
some months back
by some guy
who wanted sex
he thought
I was a pro
and the things
he asked for
god that was the worse
and with that
she paused
and stared at the Square
at the people
and the pigeons
and she inhaled deep
and then exhaled
blowing the smoke
out of the corner
of her mouth
like you'd seen done
in the movies
what did you say
to the guy
who picked you up
and what did he want
you to do?
she looked at you
her eyes scanning
your features
and then leaning closer
she said
I told him I wasn't
a whore and to go off
some place else
you watched her fingers
holding the cigarette
the way she held it
between her fingers
as if it was some
precious item she'd found
what did he want you to do?
you asked
he wanted sex
in all my orifices
she whispered
before inhaling again
the cigarette was clamped
between her lips
and she rubbed
her fingers
on her jeans
she screwed up her eyes
against the smoke
my grandfather said
if it wasn't for whores
more women
would be raped
and attacked
you said
that guy was a creep
he smelt of strong aftershave
and body odour
she said
what a combination
you said
she stumped
the cigarette butt
onto the wall
and flicked it
across the Square
let's go and view the art
in the Gallery behind us
she said
and you followed her
to the Portrait Gallery
her buttocks swaying
like some ship at sea
the jeans tight
and clinging
and across the Square
church bells were pulled
and were ringing.
poem by Terry Collett
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On A Seven-Day Diary
Oh I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and talked and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and watched a show and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate steak and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and fucked and went to sleep.
Then it was Saturday, Saturday, Saturday!
Love must be the reason for the week!
We went shopping! I saw clouds!
The children explained everything!
I could talk about the main thing!
What did I drink on Saturday night
that lost the first, best half of Sunday?
The last half wasn't worth this 'word.'
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and went to sleep,
refreshed but tired by the weekend.
poem by Alan Dugan
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I'm So Tired
i'm so tired (lennon/mccartney)
I'm so tired, i haven't slept a wink
I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink
I wonder should i get up and fix myself a drink
No,no,no.
I'm so tired i don't know what to do
I'm so tired my mind is set on you
I wonder should i call you but i know what you'd do
You'd say i'm putting you on
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm
You know i can't sleep, i can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, i'm going insane
You know i'd give you everything i've got
For a little peace of mind
I'm so tired, i'm feeling so upset
Although i'm so tired i'll have another cigarette
And curse sir walter raleigh
He was such a stupid git.
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's better to have a thousand enemies outside of the tent than one inside the tent.
Sleep? Date Written 05/02/2008
I should sleep, my neck it tells me so
But there within the cold quilt I'm alone.
I should sleep and leave this vile machine now
But it calls me to caress its keys once more.
I don't sleep the way I really ought to
My words they need insomnia to live.
I don't sleep and my life becomes a muddle
But there's nothing I can do to right this wrong.
I need sleep, my body's hungry for it
For I know that in the morning I'll be tired.
I need sleep for a dream of someone near me
But it won't fill the space that's empty by my side.
I won't sleep and my eyes will become blackened
And my body will yearn for tender touch.
I won't sleep for I'm running out of time here
And life is precious time never recouped.
poem by Clare McWilliams
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In Tents
In Waltham, on a Soccer field
A city of pink tents was pitched.
A neighborhood with real thin walls
Some chat, some snore, some mainly itched.
In the distance, thunder rumbled.
Streaks of lightening split the sky
Soon, I knew, the rain would come here.
We must find shelter, you and I.
I am not the outdoors type-
Five star hotels are more my speed,
But out here on the soccer field
Tent building skills are what I need
I 'liberate' a sheet of tarp
To serve as floor for our domain
And with your help I pitched the tent
while laughing in the pouring rain.
Once inside the nylon bubble
(My shoes and clothes quite soaked with rain)
A tiny leak, a Chinese torture
Drop by dropp upon my brain..
Back out again into the Tempest
Back out across the sodden field
I’m seeking out a piece of plastic
to keep out the piss warm rain.
I return to our tent in triumph
A sheet of propylene I found
Is just the thing to keep the rain out
I plop down on the slick wet ground..
The woman in the tent beside us
Like a lusting Walrus snores,
But twenty miles this day behind us
I soon won’t care if Lions roar.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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