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Terry Collett Jun 2018
Harry at my elbow waits,
whispers words,
not quite audible

through death's wall,
but tries, and I
in lowly mood

scarce notice
the words from wind,
gazing out at dawn's light,

searching disinterestedly
view's scene of dull of sky
and tree's green,

Harry murmurs
close to ear,
and I unseeing,

think it brain's overspill,
not aware that Harry's
standing there,

birds chorus excitedly,
sun steps out
****** girl shy,

and I gaze out
dark mooded,
see nothing to excite,

nothing beyond
the dull horizon's show,
and still Harry stands

at elbow's touch
and whispers on
through death's cloth,

and I hear not
nor so seems,
thinking perhaps echo

of night's dreams.
Terry Collett Sep 2017
I am listening
to Bruckner's 7th
and I think back to 1967

and this guy says
join the band(I played saxophone)
we got gigs in Germany

and Denmark next month
he wanted me to play toot toot
in the pop songs his band played

but I said no
I wanted to play jazz
like Coltrane and Coleman

not go toot toot
behind some pop stuff
sitting back as Bruckner ends

I wonder if I got it wrong
and should have gone
toot toot behind the pop song.
Benny looks back
Terry Collett Sep 2017
Dalya argued in harsh whispers
with the Yank girl in the back of
the mini bus. Don't want to know
about who you've spread your

skinny thighs for. Benny couldn't
focus on Solzhenitsyn's book on
the labour camps and for whom
her legs were spread. He closed

the depressing book with its red
cover and Solzhenitsyn's gaze
looking at him. Yank Girl, reddening
muttered: just chitchat in confidence,

not for all and sundry. We're coming
into Copenhagen, the driver/guide said.
Yank Girl looked daggers at Dalya,
then gazed out a window. Dalya wiped

spittle from her lips and wiped her hand
on her jeans. Benny wondered who it
was that lay between her thin thighs.
Not him; may be the guide or bearded

Aussie or the school teacher with
the red ears. Dalya sat back and
held his hand. Her  fingers entwined
with his, skin on soft skin. Last night
she spread her wings and he was in.
Benny outside Copenhagen in 1974
Terry Collett Sep 2017
I was working in a factory
which made camping stuff;
I was busy in different departments,
when a young student started
(a little bit younger than I was )
on the Monday.

After a week or so
he stopped me and said:
I understand you like
classical music?

Yes, I do, I said, why?

Have you heard any
of Mahler's symphonies?
He said.

No, I haven't heard
his stuff,
I replied.

You want to get
his 7th symphony,
he said,
it's very good.

I'll try and get it,  
I said.

A few days later
he slit his wrists
with one of the knives
they used for cutting twine;
medics came
and took him off.

He never returned.

I bought Mahler's 1st symphony;
I gave the 7th a miss
just in case it had
an infectious kiss.
Benny at work in 1969
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫

My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.

Bjorn, and the flickas sailed  from East to West.

Santa Lucia never shone so blessed

as she did in my private Euro-mix.

Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.

Cassette wheels whirred –  branding, then impressing

grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing

love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).

The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:

Frida, Agnetha  –  your longships linger

Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.

portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,

enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.

I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2013/08/09/abba-76-77/

♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫
What gave you your direction?
What made you want to write?
What ever was the reason
that saw you editing all night?

Perhaps you loved Lord Byron
or for you was Poe the man
or maybe Keats or Dr. Seuss,
with his green eggs and ham.

What had you writing poetry?
Who did you want to be?
The answer to that question
is an easy one for me.

You'll probably howl
when you hear of my choice.
He's hardly a Jane Austin
or Helen Steiner Rice.

And it wasn't Charlotte Bronte
who gave to me the thrill.
But a little fat comedien
with the name of Benny Hill.

As a youngster I remember
his rather raunchy rhymes
that some would look at with contempt
but they did that in those times.

I just remember that he creased me up
and I would laugh and laugh all day.
I would memorise and tell to friends
when we all went out to play.

As the years went on and I read the greats
everything grew in my mind.
I read and read my poetry
anything that I could find.

But of all the brilliant scholars
that have written and do still.
None will grace my heart and make me feel
like that poet Benny Hill.
29 August 2014

— The End —