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Terry Collett Jun 2017
The baby
still born
just the brief time
to hold

before they
took her away.
You didn't
want her

to be taken
to hold her close
to stare

at the sleeping
No farewell wave

or look making.
You wanted
to breath life
into her

small nostrils
kiss her into life
pray her eyes
would open

at the last moment
but the eyes
stayed closed.
Unmoving tiny

pink fingers
sculptured neat.
You wanted her
to ****

your milky dugs
but the lips
remained shut
pinky white

tingeing blue.
Just the still
born baby
and you.
Terry Collett Jun 2017
Nesta Owen
at the white
plastic clock
on the wall
of the lounge
a deep sigh.

Phil Owen
her husband
of six months
had gone drinking
with his friends
and was going
to be late home
once again.

She switched off
the TV and sat
the yellow
flowered wallpaper
which she loathed.  

In the last
six months
their relationship
had in Nesta's opinion
and declined.

dark haired
good looking
had been the most
sought after young man
in Howell's
department store
where she worked.

He fell
he claimed
for her cornflower
blue eyes
and long black hair.

The front door opened
after her husband
had fiddled
trying to get
the key in the lock.

She went to see him
and was about to ask
why he was so late
when he hit her
so hard about the head
that she felt as if
she was inside a bell
that had been struck
and she fell against
the wall of the hall.

Her lips
began to swell
her watery eyes
stared at him.

He stared at her
walked past her
and up the stairs
as he walked
not giving her
another thought.

Her thoughts
had been spattered
all over the inside
of her brain
and she sensed
the oncoming of pain.
Terry Collett Jun 2017
You saw the girl
at the corner table
of the cafe
in Edinburgh
ill looking
sipping the coffee.

You walked
over to her
and said
ye swatch nae weel.

She looked at you
what's it tae ye?
she said
buck aff.

You smiled
and sat down
can ah gie
ye something?
you said.

She looked
past you
at the small
cafe door
then back at you.

if ye want
she said
her voice softer
less hostile.

You went
to the counter
and bought
a few bars
of chocolate
and another coffee
and sat down again
and gave her
the  bars.

Aw fur me?
she said.

You nodded
and smiled.

She opened a bar
of chocolate
and ate it quickly
eyeing you steadily.

What's in it fur ye?
she said.

you replied.

Depends oan wit?
she said.

Ye can bide wi' me
at mah place
you said
eyeing her paleness
and her thinness.

She ate on
looking at you.

After the one bar
she ate the other
sipping at her coffee
in between.

Once she'd finished
and said
she'd go with you
but had to go
to the toilet first
so she went off.

You sat there
the other people
in the cafe.

She returned
after a while
looking white
and her eyes were red.

You both left the cafe
back to your place
with nothing more said.
Terry Collett Jun 2017
Kersteen locks
the hospital
toilet door
sits on the seat.

She's escaped
from the ward
has bought
chocolate bars
with money
she liberated
from her mother's purse
when her mother visited
her earlier that day.

Fit loch noo?
her mother said.

Aam still nae weel
Kersteen replied.

She eats
the chocolate bars
as quick as she can
then waits
and sticks *******
down her throat
to make her puke.

A bang on the door
ur ye in thaur
a nurse says.

leans over
the bowl
wipes her mouth
with the sleeve
of her dressing gown.

Aam oan th' cludgie
she says
willnae be lang.

Whit ur ye daein?
na makin' yerself
boak again Ah hiner
the nurse says.

Nae ay coorse nae
Kersteen replies
swallowing puke
and spiting out lies.
Terry Collett Jul 2016
Delia has seduced
the girl who came
with goods
from the grocer
(in the bed
she shares
with Chrissie)

before that
on the Monday
she had bedded
the post girl
who brought a parcel
(that time on the sofa
the bed being unmade)

and before that
it had been Chrissie's
best friend
(the weird one
but who had
lovely *****)

now she is heading
to the girl
Chrissie had asked
to **** and sort
the garden
who has a
lovely ***
(Delia had seen
from the bedroom window
and wants to ******

but Chrissie is still
downstairs and spots
her(Delia) walking
down the garden path
with that look
in her eyes

Chrissie opens
the kitchen door
and calls Delia
where are you going?

Delia stops
thought you had
gone off to work?

not yet
Chrissie says
where were you off to?

Delia smiles
just thought I'd see
how the garden girl
was doing
Delia says

she's doing all right
Chrissie says
looking at Delia
why aren't you
at college teaching?

I'm in late
Delia says
wanting to go
and investigate
the garden girl's
behind and such

have you
made the bed?
Chrissie says

no not yet
Delia says
but I am hoping to

Chrissie sighs  
well make it now
and don't forget
to put on the casserole
before you go

Delia nods and walks
back into the kitchen
with Chrissie
and closes the door

(she wanted to explore
the garden girl
and make love
perhaps or more.
Cori MacNaughton Aug 2015
Here is the inimitable Jeff Buckley's poem, "My New Year's Eve Prayer," which he performed live at Sin-é in Manhattan, NYC, in 1996.

"You, my love, are allowed to forget
about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.

You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight
of all the years before,
like bad disco clothes.
Save them for a night of dancing ****** with your lover.

You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.

You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth
and your most terrifying magic;
and dreaming is for the courageous.

You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
and sing me idiot love songs
if you've lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.

You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
and to live again,
more alive and incandescent than before.

You, my love, are allowed to beat the **** out of your television,
choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind.
****! ****! ****! **** the *******
before the song of zombiefied pain
and panic and malaise
and it's narrow right-winged vision
and it's cheap commercial gang ****
becomes the white noise of the world.

Turn about is fair play.

You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.

You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses
to those around you
and those up in heaven.

You, my love, are allowed to show your babies
how to dance full bodied,
starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.

You, my love, are allowed to **** in every single endeavor.

You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket
in the New York summertime
with the wonder of your own special gift.

You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.

You, my love, are allowed to have time.

You, my love, are allowed to understand.

You, my love, are allowed to love.

Woman, disobey,
when little men believe;

You, my love, are Rebellion."
For Hello Poetry user "Jeff Buckley":

While I agree that musician Jeff Buckley's lyrics are poetic, and often reach the level of true poetry, here is one of his actual poems, never set nor intended to be set to music.  

It is a ****** good poem,  touching on a number of subjects near and dear to my heart, which strongly resonates with me.

For the record, I have come only recently to the music of Jeff Buckley, within the past year, through my wonderful and musically adept husband Marek.  Buckley's music has moved me far more than that of most other singer/songwriters, save only for Steven Wilson, Mariusz Duda and Nick Drake.  He and I shared a lot of influences in common, from old 1920s blues and jazz, to pop standards, French music, classical and early British rock and progressive rock.  His first and only studio album released during his lifetime, "Grace," is not to be missed.

Sadly, he drowned at the age of 30, accidentally or otherwise, robbing us all of his incredible gift.  Not only was he an amazing songwriter, but a fine guitarist and, most of all, an incredible vocalist.  He had not only an amazing vocal range, but as mentioned a widely divergent source of influences, lending to some truly transcendent music and lyrics.  

RIP Jeff Buckley.  You are sorely missed.

For those interested in seeing his performance of the poem, which shows what a humble guy he was, you can find it here:
Eric Rodda Aug 2014
The train goes rattling down the track
A trail of smoke is at your back.
A spot of soot may close your eye,
To miss the gums as they fly by.

The porter shouts "All tickets please",
To check that all have paid their fees,
The engine driver blows his whistle,
As the view converts to thistle.

Out on the verandah the children play,
"Come inside", the parents say.
From the windows they hang around,
Not a care is to be found.

Traveling onward 'round the bends,
A joyous journey with our friends.
Then at last our stop we reach;
Hooray! Hooray! It is the beach.

Eric Rodda 1996
My only poem - Written in 17 minutes on the train trip from Adelaide to Marion, on the way home from work, after reading about a poetry competition...
Some people call me young
But to others, I am old.
How you see me depends
On the way my impression is sold.

— The End —