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Terry Collett Oct 2019
I surveyed the scene
about me

it was our first camp base
and out tents
were in a field
a guide pointed out

It was raining heavy
and I and this ex-army guy
ran towards our tent
and once there
we clambered inside
and zipped up

They say the rain in Spain
he said
but didn't finish

we could hear the rain
hit the canvas
above our heads

there was little room
in the tent to do much
so we lay on our sleeping bags
our cases unopened
by our sides

I mused on Miriam
and wondered who
she was shacked up with

ex-army spoke about
his time in the army
and his mother's new boyfriend
whom he loathed

and I hoped the rain
would soon stop
so I could get
a beer and burger
with fries from the cafe
in the main building
and find Miriam

but it rained still
and I listened half-heartedly
as Ex-army got on
with his dismal speech

and I wanted Miriam
but she
was far from reach.
Mark Sep 2019
Tried my luck, under the roof of the New York Dodgers dome
Didn’t make roster, hopped on Route 66, went to another city
Ended up at the front gates of Walter Disney’s home
Which has been re-zoned to downtown LA, oh what a pity
Walked the streets, buzzing to pollinate all the beehives
Saw some Fred Astaire dudes, showing off their colorful jives
Wandered down a blackened, one way street
And who the ****, do you think I would meet?
The one and only knife wielding ghetto ****, Huggy Bear
Who said, I wasn’t now, looking all that smug, oh dear
Then along came his crew, Bonnie and Clyde
Now I wanted somewhere to ******* well hide
All of a sudden, a striped tomato pulled up and out jumped Starsky n Hutch
Yelling out to the ****, Huggy Bear, who spoke double-dutch
Leave the boy alone, and go on and get back on home
Thank god you showed up, for I was ‘bout to write my last poem.
Nigdaw Jun 2019
The air was different back then, somehow lighter, less heavy metals floating around and nuclear sunsets I suppose. I was born in the 60's but the 70's are my era, long hair, flares, large collars and music that still haunts today. What you need is children to amalgamate past, future, present. With their mp4's, downloads, (records and CD's old hats no one's wearing anymore ) tv box set binges, live pause, catch up, iPads, iPhones, igiveup. Technology speaks to them in so many different tongues and guises, the world has shrunk down to "someone is typing" messages from the other side of the world, nay the universe, friendships based on snapchat, facebook, twitter that don't even have the decency to start with a capital letter, Skype, facetime, with people you don't even have to 'know' coming round wanting tea and outstaying their welcome, instead hanging back in the ether waiting for the right moment the right meme to slot into the conversation. I sit and let it all wash over me, a tide ebbing and flowing long into the night, stretching time zones and bedtimes to the limit,  in fact talking beyond bed, those waves never sleeping always whispering, I share music and photographs that are things from my life, they will never understand beyond the boring stories I tell them, a fount of useless information that flows, analogue from the corner of the room, the old man, the old days, you never had it so good, I am in awe, everything new, all to discover, everything to play for, world  full of possibilities, not the same old 9-5 humdrum waiting for the weekend so we can pretend to be free again, it's all happening now. I enjoy these moments as an observer, no need to join in just sit and smile, with an occasional LOL or amusing emoji. My daughter bought Hotel California on vinyl the other day, I'm still in there, somewhere.
I wrote this as a kind've rant one night after an evening sitting in my living room with everybody talking, but not with each other.
ashton Nov 2018
he was tossing a baseball with his friends when he saw her.
she was riding the yellow bicycle down 1st avenue,
as she passed his house, a thin string linked the two together.
every day she would pass his house, the string became stronger.
the first day she stopped in his driveway, he was dumbfounded.
her soft, blond hair was pinned back with a small headband, but one strand happened to escape the confinement to frame her slender face.
she was the definition of grace, her slacks hugging to her slim figure in the most delicate way.
the string never seemed so robust as she neared his front door.
they spent that day together, in a comfortable and slightly stiff silence, led zeppelin playing faintly in the background.
in slow motion, he watched as she tucked the piece of hair behind her ear nervously. she caught him watching, her cheeks burning and a grin creeping onto her face.

and in that moment, he vowed she would be his forever.
Terry Collett Aug 2018
Madrid is where
you were ripped off
by some trader,

where we ate
that god-awful meal,
but the art was good,

and the sunshine
warmed us through,
and the wine

or Bacardi and coke,
and the base camp tents
were o.k.

You didn't like
Sans Sabastion;
I went to mass

at the Burgos cathedral;
you said you would
give it a miss.

Malega where
Picasso was born
was your favourite place.

The base camp
was good and that night
at the disco

up until the small hours
dancing and drinking.
And the Spanish guys

were dancing too,
eyeing up the girls,
giving them

the language thrill,
but we went to my tent,
but the ex-army guy

was asleep there so
I walked you to your tent
and walked back

to my own
neither of us alone.
Terry Collett May 2018
The Moroccan moon
above us shining
as we lay in that
sand dune hugging close.

Up at the base camp
the sound of singing
and an old guitar
being played. Voices
floating down to us
singing and laughter.

We lay there kissing
seeking moon's shadow
hearing the sea's roar.

You took off your shorts
and pink underwear
as the moon played you
and I undressed too.

We missed the party
and hullabaloo
and the hard drinking
from old wine bottles.

On the edge of it
the world turned about
as we lay there sexed
and undone in dark
with the wind's slight moan
touching our young heads
in our sand dune beds.
Terry Collett Mar 2018
We went to a mosque
in Tangiers; had to take
off our shoes or sandals

in her case. And it had
a certain something about
it: peacefulness and holiness

and sunlight was there and
water. And she said: I hear
that girl with the long blonde

hair had her handbag stolen
right off her shoulder; they
cut the straps; they gave chase,

but lost him the side streets.
I liked the patterns and purity
of the place. I stood gazing

around, taking it all in. So I
decided to hold my handbag
tight in my hand when I walk

around now, Miriam said.
Good idea, I said, breathing
in the atmosphere, sensing I'd

walked into a whole different
world in time: colours, patterns.
Where shall we go afterwards?

She said, I'm thirsty. We'll go
get a coke, I replied, sensing
her boredom beside me. I took

a last look around and followed
her out into the street, after getting
the shoes and sandals for our feet.

We found a place and got cokes
and French rolls and salads, and
sat and talked. She about the girl

and the thief, and I mused on her
cute *** on the seat and red painted
nails on her opened sandalled feet.
Terry Collett Mar 2018
They watched
the snake charmer
in Tangiers,
a belly dancer
in some night club
where the *****
was expensive
and the air full of smoke
and noise.

Arriving back at base camp
they went their separate ways,
each to their own tent
which they shared
with another.

She wished it was him
in her tent,
not that other girl
who spoke almost non stop
about this and that.

He lay in his sleeping bag
musing on her.

His friend lay asleep
in the sleeping bag
over the way.

He recalled her excitement
watching the snake charmer
with his pipe blowing
and the snake seemingly
hypnotized moving slow.

He wished she was there
beside him,
kissing and making love,
but she was elsewhere,
not there,
and a sense of frustration
in him and the air.
Terry Collett Mar 2018
Your brother and you
sat in the common room
of the abbey: you a monk

and he a teacher, your
conversation carried on
in soft voices. I sat on a

chair by the radiator and
window peering out at the
cloister in the summer

evening below. You laughed
softly at a comment on
some past event; he smiling

at the memory of you two
as boys. The cloister garth
was empty; both moon and

retiring sun occupied the sky.
A black robed monk went
past my view below, then

out of sight, where I did
not know. Soon be supper,
you said, see you before

the office of Compline. You
left and the door closed.
Your brother retired to his

room along the passage.
I watched as the sky grew
dim; the shadows appeared

in the cloisters where light
could not reach. Across
the way a monk walk past

his window unaware I secretly
watched his walk. Soon be
supper in the refectory,

I mused, leaving my window
seat, leaving the radiator
and its welcoming heat.
Terry Collett Feb 2018
The tall monk
with Parkinson's
stood giving communion
to those who lined up
during Mass.

His hand shook
as he placed the host
on the tongue.

I held open my palms
and he placed
the host there.

The Christ,
the body,
the sacrifice.

After he had provided all
he walked back slowly
to his place at the altar
and continued the service,
two other monks
with him.

I knelt in a pew;
the tongue absorbing
the bread, the host,
the Christ.

The incense hung
on the air;
the smell so familiar.

Closing my eyes
I uttered a prayer
and waited listening
to the chanting
going on there.
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