Wax in chanting imagery
on stone, scissors, paper
39 strong hues mixing
cut into pieces
melting into sculpture
revealing landscape
vistas of the earth
(C) 2017 Christos Victor. All rights reserved.

Adult coloring book therapy and the child's game "rock, paper, scissors" with a bit of a pun thrown in.

CRAYON in 25 words
child's hands glow
making a satin bow

wired plaid ribbon
two spools are given
laid on another; told
loop and fold, be bold!

chenille ties twist
you have the gist
pull apart and fill
cut the tails with skill

you’re done now
smile take a bow
2018 © Christos Victor
We were just kids
Still innocents
Getting dangerously close
To what’s realer than we know
We could hear laughter bouncing off the walls
When guns screamed out and friends began to fall
We didn’t know what we were doing
We never found where we were going
We were just kids,
No innocence.
Letters on a mat
Not for me nor for my love
Our children have aged
Working today decorating a three bed house and saw pile of letters which made me think of this as our grown up kids now get letters too .)
Wow how time as flew x
Terry Collett Mar 12
There was that light
through the branches
of the trees
above us.

It made patterns
as we looked up
lying on our backs
after making love.

It seemed
as if we were like
some other
Adam and Eve
having plucked
the forbidden fruit:
some fruit it had been,
lying there
our bodies cooling down.

We were silent
as if words would fail us.

Birds sang nearby;
there was rustling
in the undergrowth of life,
of tiny witnesses.

We had come straight there
from school
having finished early.

You lay there
like a Russian peasant
beautiful of eyes and limb.

You turned to face me
and kissed my brow,
then my nose,
then lips,
then chin.

You murmured words
lost to me
in that time
of sexuality
and sense of infinity.
G Mar 12
There was a time when I was young
When you and me promised we wont be apart
Sealed with a kiss
Tell me what happened to that promise

Promise to never be apart
Promises that did't come from the heart
How did you do it
How can you just quit?
LNI Mar 11
Blighted and sorrowful of all creatures are women.
And I, one of them.

I’m massacring my unborn children as a merciless contemporary Medea.
Is there any sense in reproducing creatures of perpetual sadness and despotic desires?

Motherhood. Motherliness.
A fragile pebble carried carefully by my heart.

My mother, sad as the gloomiest Sunday, hopeless as a death wish.
She would often ask me to smile. She was saying I was always cheerless for a girl.

Then she would show me how to do it.
It’s still the saddest smile I've ever seen.
Terry Collett Mar 11
Farm smell,
cattle sounds
over the field.

You and I
lay on the grass
in the churchyard.

You were talkative
and I listened to your voice
as if angels
sang around me.

Your mother you said
asked about me.

I was invited to tea
the following Sunday.

I told you
about the wren's nest
I found, but never
touched the eggs.

You turned to face me
and we kissed.

Lips on lips touch;
we parted and gazed.

Your dark eyes
peered into mine.

Your fingers
touched my lips.

Mustn't tell
about kissing,
you said.

I said I wouldn't tell.

We lay back
on the grass
holding hands.

We were silent
listening to the cattle
and birds in the hedge.

Felt your fingers
in between mine.

Soft touching.

I wanted
to kiss you again,
but didn't say,
just us
and the sun on us
as we lay.
Terry Collett Mar 10
The sun's out
a warm day
and we're there

on the grass
sharing sweets
from white bags:

soft coffees;
sherbet drops.
Father's out

on retreat,
you tell me.
Half and half,

the sweets shared.
Where's he gone?
You pick out

a toffee
and unwrap
the paper.

An abbey,
you reply.
I take a

sherbet drop
and suck it.
How's your Mum?

I ask you.
She's fed up.
Why is that?

Can't tell you.
You sit there
chewing slow.

We're leaving,
you whisper.
Leaving here?

Yes, sometime.
I stare at
your blue eyes.

Why is that?
Mum wants to.
You look sad.

But do you?
I ask you.
I have to;

can't stay here.
You take a
lemon drop.

I'll miss you,
I tell you.
Mustn't tell

any one,
you tell me.
I won't talk,

I tell you.
We're silent.
Sweets are shared.

I missed you
once you went.
I often

thought of you;
your blonde hair,
your blue eyes

and your stare.
© 4 minutes ago, Terry Collett
Terry Collett Mar 10
The leg fitted you well
although you hated it,
hated putting it on,
but you did moodily
speaking a stream of abuse;
not at me, but the quack
who took it off.

The nun who stopped
in the doorway
of the girls's dormitory said:
you shouldn't be
in here Benedict.

I asked him in,
you said,
wanted him to help me
with the leg.

Makes no difference,
the nun said,
rules are rules.

She eyed me sternly,
so I left.

Wait for me,
you said,
ignoring the nun
who began to lecture you
on your bad language
and rule breaking.

You stood up
and taking your crutch
you walked past the nun.

It is rude to go
when someone
is talking to you,
she said.

You stopped
outside the door:
I'm listening,
you said,
but I've heard it
all before.

She sighed in a prayer
and rubbed the rosary
hanging from the belt
about her habit:
then listen, Anne,
and do as you are told.

You looked past her
then at her:
can I go now?

I looked at her,
then you.

You may,
she said.

So we walked down
the passageway,
and into the dining room,
and sat down at a table
waiting for breakfast;
you in a foul mood
and I just wanting food.
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