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Terry Collett Feb 2016
I am lying flat on the bed,
a nurse is rubbing my leg stumps,
her hands are smooth,
fingers skillful.

Another nurse
is beside me;
I  can hear
their conversation
between each other.

She died in the night,
the nurse nearby says,
terrible wounds,
didn't think she
would survive.

I think of Jean
and how she had
just gone off after
our row yesterday.

Her children were dead
at the scene;
the house took a direct hit
in last night's blitz,
the nurse nearby says.

It is tragic children
being killed like that,
the nurse rubbing
my leg stumps says.

I stare at the area
of their voices as if
I could see,
but I see nothing,
darkness where voices
come from.

My hands lie dormant
by my sides.

It is oddly sensual
this rubbing,
painful but sensual,
as if the mixture
of pain and rubbing
combined to make it
seem sensual.

I remember Clive
touching me the last time,
his hands moving
between my legs
and kissing my feet
and even now
I sense his kisses.

The last time
we made love.

There between me
he lay.

Then, he was gone
and died at Dunkirk.

The reality shocks me
and I move,
Steady , Grace,
steady, am I hurting you?
the nurse says,
holding my leg stumps.

No,
I say,
no just a memory.

She rubs again,
the sensuality fighting
with the pain.
A BLIND WOMAN IN HOSPITAL WITH NURSES IN LONDON IN 1940.
Therese G Aug 2015
Trees are in love with humanity.

they reach out to kiss our heads
with the tips of their browning leaves
while we like a vengeful lover
first kiss back with words
and then cut them down with blades

but someday we too will be cut
from life
and our concrete jungles
will fade into dust

only stumps remain.
Okay. So, I was thinking. What if the school makes me write a stupid poem about the environment right now? And I was like, nuh-uh I am in no way going to write something like "nature is so beautiful, we need it, we should preserve it" kind of crap (Well, this poem is still 50% crap anyway). So, I decided to write a not-so-bad poem about preserving the environment. Namely trees.
As one who's born in England
There is something I don't know
Exactly what is "cricket" ?
Please tell me so I'll go

Both teams dress in white
The bowler doesn't bowl
He doesn't bend his arm to throw
I don't understand the goal

The ball goes out it scores six runs
But it must go in the air
The ball rolls out it scores four more
Is this really fair?

The games can last for days and days
But what confuses me
Is that every game at four o'clock
The players stop for tea

A game is called a test
But is every test a game
some may last for just one day
The length is not the same

There's a throw they call a googly
I know what that means
I got hit there playing hockey
It ***** your breath so you can't scream

There's wickets and there's bails
mid slips, and those silly stumps
I'm sure that if it confuses me
What does it do to umps?

The biggest question that I have
Besides, what's a sticky wicket?
Is of all the players on the field
Which one of them's the cricket?
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.

Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.

Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.

If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep  of each lot.

Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.

Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

— The End —