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L B Mar 2017
This is a three-part, longer narrative poem, seen
as old photographs that follow the main character, My Aunt, Lillian Goldrick, across two decades.  It was written 30 years ago*
______

“Hey Kid!”     Part I

Photographs aren’t fair
stopping the soul where it’s not
in rectangular guffaws
surrounded by serrated edges, pickets, teeth?
to fence and stab in yellow, soft-covered booklets
with designated floppy phrase
“Your memories”

Happier than she could ever be...

A black and white day at Salisbury Beach, NH
hung over his hammock
Private pin-up girl
tilts her head against silver sheen of shoulder
Hair, dark chignon
except for a few wispy curls about her face
freed by wind
bleached by sun

Stopped

...for three decades
Legs slightly bent—long extended
that could stop trains, stop traffic

Stopped

Modest bathing suit, probably peach
cannot hide (not that she would)
the undeniable
And if there were question left
you could look at her smile—and love her
posed by he message scrawled in sand:

“Hey Kid!”

What kid? Where?
In the foreground?
In the camera’s eye?

In the background—
a Ferris wheel, a billboard
and  r-i-g-h-t  there—Can’t you see it?
Look again—behind her eyes
You can barely see it, but it’s there.
Remember?

The Depression
Only ten years before
It was April
Stroke, heart attack
Both of them gone, a year apart!
The priest came
Last Rites for mortally stricken
Candles, crucifix, the Catholic containment
of holy water that dams the tears

Kneeling around the bed
they said the Rosary

——————————

After VJ Day he came
to the house on the corner
of Commonwealth Ave.
She knew he was coming
but she could not be ready today
nor tomorrow
nor next week—or ever...

“Lill! Will ya come to the door?
She’ll be ready in a minute.
Hey Lill! Hurry up, will ya!
They’re waitin’ fer us!”

Upstairs in the dark hallway
her door clicks shut....
________


"Hey Kid"    Part II


The clock at Joe Rianni’s read 20 minutes to 12...

Crowd from the Phillip’s Theater—gone
though laughter lingers
in a Friday mood
in high-backed booths
where only an hour ago swinging free
were high-heeled shoes
legs crossed at knees....

Now on tables abandoned
deserted fields of French
fries lie cold in salt flurries

Only female straws wear lipstick
as do Luckys bent in ashtrays
Males, uniformly flattened
as powder burned, as mortar might
shells, casings—the evidence of war
Among explosions of tickled giggles
one was taken broadside...

listing     toward      stars
_______

...The clock read 20 minutes to 12

when she walked in--
And Rhea stopped swabbing black mica counters
long enough to absorb late-customer hate
and envy that such beauty can arouse
In voice hoarse and weighted like a trucker’s

“Whadaya have, Lill?”

“coffee”

The small answer settled at the soda fountain
and slowly struck a match...
She was falling from the slant
of her black felt hat
dripping off the point of pheasant feather
Gray gabardine suit
tailored from angle of shoulder
to dart diagonally
toward such a waist!
Turned to skirt hips
that arched and dove toward slit—
then seams that run the round of calf

that seem to flow
to ankles of naught—
...and all that seems

Black     high-heeled     above it

Coffee— cold, stale
Gray glassed-in stare
searches air and random walls
of coat hooks, menus, mirrors...
while lips ****** exiled words— replies

Dragging a demon from her Camel
slowly     purposefully
she exhaled a burly arm of smoke
that rose and laid its hand
against the ceiled atmosphere of embossed tin
Then leaning over her shoulder
in roiling emission of shrugs and sneers—

“Lill—There’s no way outa here!”
________


“Hey Kid!”    Part III

After kneeling backwards on their chairs
after nuns, catechism recited
After—
Five of them scuffed through leaves and litter
along the curbing
spotting cars that counted—
Bugs, beach wagons, flying bathtubs
A slower way home of hunting
shiny chestnuts and muddy finds
rare match book covers
and bottle caps that win ya things!

One breaks from bunch
and trials off to where
dimes turn to candies!
...at a dingy luncheonette...Joe Rianni’s
____

Here—behind smeary wall of glass
pleasure leers while holding back
those grimy fingers, lips that long
for jelly fish, gum drops, lollies
holding back the company
of Baby Ruth, and Mary Jane
O Henry or Bazooka Joe!
For less money but the same salivation
there were colored dots to chew and ****
from strips of paper that last forever!
For a little more, plus the sweet struggle
of desire denied
a kid could be proud owner
of a pea shooter or trading cards!
While in the mouth
were golden imaginings—
the chocolate foil of coins
and the candied pretense of cigarette adulthood
_____

Rhea didn’t see her in the line...

Only grownups with wallets and purses
Only grownups get waited on...
...because Rhea was a Gypsy!
Kids could tell!
by her big red lips and hair to match
by the nasty way she chased them out—
“****** kids!”
Only grownups get waited on....
_______

And the clock read 20 minutes to 12

While a child waits—
time stirs in a ceiling fan
   There’s a drift in attention
      along deepening endless walls
         toward a line of sleepy booths
              carved with

“I was here—in such and such a year”

Her aunt—at the last stool—like always
Their names too close
Confused too often

A little girl wonders
about the sight behind the sightless stare
loafers, ankle socks, the ‘40s hair
the gathered skirt that gathers ashes
as they fall from cigarette
held in yellowed fingertips
Tremors crimp the smoke that climbs—

              ...a strobing pillar

“Whataya want, girly?”

              ...the only movement

“Hey! What’s it gonna be!”

              ...in a shot—

“HEY KID!”

              Snapped
There are photos that go with this. I'll try to post them together on Facebook.
Terry Collett Sep 2013
There were raised voices. Ingrid heard them. Her father's booming voice over her mother's screech. She stirred in her small bed. Pulled the blankets over her shoulder. Sheltered by the thick ex army coat of her father's on top of the blankets she snuggled down trying to shut out the sounds. It was Saturday, no school. She hated school, hated the tormenting kids, the lessons, the teacher bellowing at her. Only Benedict talked kindly to her, only he made her laugh, took her on adventures round and about, the bomb sites, the cinema, the swimming pool in Bedlam Park. The voices got louder, there was a sound of glass smashing. Silence followed, her mother's screeching began again, her father's booming voices trying to drown her out. Ingrid pulled the blankets tighter around her. She daren't go out along the passage until it was over. Even though she needed to ***, she held it in, thought of other things. Her wire framed glasses lay on the bedside cabinet her mother had bought at a junk shop. The thick lens were smeary, the wire frame slightly bent where her father's hand had clipped them when he slapped her about the head for talking out of turn. There was a small cut on her nose where the glasses had caught. A radio began to play, the voices had stopped. A door slammed. Her father had gone out. She poked her head out of the blankets. Music filtered through into her room from the radio. She got out of bed and stood on the wooden floor boards. Her clothes: dress, cardigan, underwear and socks were laid neatly on a chair where she'd folded them the night before. She opened the door of her bedroom and ventured down the passage to the toilet and shut the door and put the bolt across and sat down. The music played on. Her mother began to sing. She had weak voice, kind of like a child's. Ingrid played with her fingers. Pretended to knit, as her mother had unsuccessfully tried to show her, with imagined knitting needles. As she sat she felt the bruise on her left buttock. Her father's beating of a day or so ago. She knitted faster, fingers racing. She stopped dropped a stitch as her mother called it. She left the toilet and went to wash in the kitchen sink. She wished they had a bathroom like her cousin did. Her parent's bath was in the kitchen with a table that was let down when not in use. She washed in the cold water, her hands and face and neck. Dried on the towel behind the door. Her mother came in carrying a cup and saucer. She set it down on the draining board and looked at Ingrid. Get yourself some breakfast and then get dressed, if your father catches you in that state, he won't half have a go, her mother said. Ingrid went into the living room and got a bowl from the glass fronted cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and poured herself some cereals and added milk from a jug on the table and sat to eat. Her mother brought in a mug of tea for her and put it on the table and went off to the bedroom to make the bed. The music from the radio played on from the living room window she could see the streets below, the grass area beneath with the two bomb shelters left over from the War where she and other sat or climbed or played around. Over the street was the coal wharf where coal lorries and horse drawn wagons loaded up with sacks of coal. She ate her cereals. A train went across the railway bridge over the way;puffs of smoke rose in the air. Below boys played on the grass. One of the boys had offered her 6d to see her underwear, but she had refused. He shrugged his shoulders and said your loss and wandered off. 6d would have bought her sweets, a drink of pop, but she had her pride. She finished her breakfast and sipped her tea. Warm and sweet. She let her tongue swim in the tea. Benedict said he would buy her some chips after the morning film matinée at the cinema. Her mother said she would give her 9d for the cinema, but not to tell her father. As if she would, she mused, watching a horse drawn wagon leave the coal wharf. She drank the tea and took mug, spoon and bowl into the kitchen  and washed them up and left them on the draining board. She went to her bedroom and took off her nightdress. The mirror on the old dressing table showed a thin pale looking nine year old girl with short cut brown hair and squinting brown eyes. She only saw a blur. She put on her glasses and peered at herself. No wonder the boys laughed at her and the girls avoided her. Only Benedict was friendly to her. He said she was pretty. She couldn't see it, the prettiness. She turned. Over her thin shoulder she saw the bruises on her buttocks. Fading. Bluey greeny yellowish. She walked to get her clothes off the chair and began to dress. She wished she had a cleaner dress, she'd worn that one for nearly a week. The cardigan had holes and there were buttons missing. She did up what buttons there were and brushed her hair with the hairbrush her gran had given her. It had stiff bristles and a large wooden handle. She stood in front of the mirror and peered at herself. She put the 9d her mother had given her in her pocket. Ready or not Benedict would be there soon. He knocked his own special knock. Once her father answered and glared at Benedict and asked what he wanted. Benedict said, to see the prettiest girl in the world. Her father glared harder, Benedict simply smiled. How did he do that? How did he do that to her father? There was a tensive wait, her father glaring and Benedict looking passive. Then her father called her to the door and said, this here boy asked for the prettiest girl in the world; he must have got the wrong address. Ingrid went red and looked at Benedict. No, right address and girl, Benedict said,looking by her father's brawny arm at her. How she managed not to wet herself she didn't know. Her father just walked back indoors and left them to talk on the balcony without any more words and she never got a beating afterwards, either. Now she waited for that special knock. That rat-rat and rat-rat. She smiled at her reflection. Prettiest girl. Ugliest more like. Rat-rat and rat-rat. He was there. He'd come. She could hear his voice. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, wet fingered she dabbed at her hair. Time to go, time to get out of there. Her knight in jeans and jumper had come on a white horse to take her away; imaginary of course.
Some may term this as a short story, others may term it as a prose poem.
Em Mar 2016
I bought you a crown,
nothing special, it's cardboard,
decorated with construction paper and smeary markers;
it looks like an elementary art project, but you look like a King with it placed crookedly upon your head.

You told them to step aside,
the corners of your lips curled up,
slightly gaped teeth shone beneath your top lip,
you say "the Queen is coming through," and our hands brush as I walk by.

You are powerful, strong, confident —
the King of Sass,
the King of Humor,
the King of Charm,
the King of my heart.

I am frail, self-conscious, jealous —
the Queen of Uncertainty,
the Queen of Rosy Cheeks,
the Queen of Midnight Tears,
the Queen of Imagination...
After all, you only see me as a commoner.
Why do you keep the crown but reject the love I used to make it?
Morgan Ella Jan 2011
Once upon a midnight, dreary,

Top Hattie twinkles, lipstick smeary,

...spinning girls like Mischief Managed all glittery on the ball room floor,

I was taken, most completely.

...Batting lashes indiscreetly.

D'lilac lips that pouted sweetly, a Circus Girl that knew the score.

I pinched myself, could i be dreaming?

Of this Nymph, this Empress gleaming?

was her Diva charm misleading? Shoe Addicted Troubadour.

A Siren in Styletto thrilled me,

Abracadabra wish fulfilled me,

......Medusa eyes that drew, yet stilled me- Retro-Futuristic roar.

Like an Airborn Unicorn descending,

advanced upon me unpretending.

my heart of Dragon Scales extending for this Cupcake Thief I'd cover for.

"Mirror Mirror" she whispered, smirking.

Countessa Fluorescent had caught me lurking,

and sent my Great Pink Planet jerking, Cosmopopping, Centrifuchia war.

My Beautiful Rocket was set to swinging,

No She Didn't hear the ringing

in my ears the Twilight singing, to the Limest Criminal on the floor.
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.             <Well, ShallowMan’s ne’er at a loss>
              <for voicing shallow thoughts that gloss.>
              <With trenchant wit he reaps the dross>
              <when seeking sense in applesauce.>

              <But to his aid flies FactoidMan>
              <who always has a Fact at hand;>
              <with him, who needs a whether-man>
              <to answer “if?” or “but?” or “and?”?>

“Oh ShallowMan, let me explain
the Facts of life to you, so plain,
yet flush with truthful thoughts arcane.
When understood, you won’t maintain
that callowness you think urbane.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, give benedictions,
                              save me from all contradictions
                              with your knowledge, no restrictions
                              finding Facts, avoiding fictions.”

“Well, when in doubt, you always may
request my help to find your way
through shades of black and white and gray,
and from the Facts you’ll never stray.
Yes, ShallowMan, I’ll make your day.”

                              “Since yesteryear I’ve wondered why
                              I’m served a piece of humble pie
                              whene’er attempting to descry
                              just what’s a Fact, and what’s a lie,
                              and which be Facts one can’t deny.
                              With candor, can you edify
                              me with some recondite reply?”

“Well, as you know, my Facts are Facts
which naught nor nothing counteracts
and things that do, mere artifacts
in dim myopic cataracts.”

“A lie’s a thing which disagrees
with Facts I utter, if you please,
and hides the forest from the trees
ignoring all my verities.”

“And this reminds me of my youth,
with axioms defined as truth
which I selected as a sleuth
(abetted by a sweet vermouth);
I being now so long of tooth,
to contradict me’s hardly couth.”

                              “That certainly helps me clarify
                              whom I can trust: yeah, you’re the guy!  
                              Now, furthermore I’ve wondered why
                              the moon can’t fall and clouds can fly.  
                              What’s called that law those facts defy?
                              And mightn’t I just give a try
                              to make a guess to verify?”

“If you link your facts to law
(ah, please excuse a gruff guffaw)
you’ll certainly flaunt a flimsy flaw
that strains belief and breaks the straw
of what you’ve heard and thought you saw.
(I‘ll leave you with some bones to gnaw
that leave you holding me in awe
when once you’ve grasped and gasped ‘aha’).
So tell me now your ideas, raw,
but keep it short, your blah, blah, blah.”

                              “Umm, could it be just gravity
                              (well, something like a theory
                              that some call Relativity)
                              which pulls the apple from the tree
                              and puts a strain upon my knee;
                              or is that fact absurdity?”

“Ahem, a theory’s just a theory,
not a Fact, it’s all so eerie,
something which should make you leery
as explained until I’m weary.”

                              “If Relativity’s a theory,
                              and a theory’s not a Fact,
                              is it a fiction I can query
                              when I’m falling, ere I’m whacked?”

“Though theories might be based on Fact,
a theory is, in fact, not backed
by any cause, effect or act
which might be salvaged when attacked.
For you, this Fact may seem abstract,
plumb depths where shallow thoughts distract.”

“Yes, what goes up must soon come down
is quite a Fact of world renown.
But theory’s just a heathen gown
to deck the naked King in town,
and when he falls, he breaks his crown
which leaves him wearing but a frown.”

“It surely should be obvious,
the property of Heaviness
(like Godliness and Heaven-ness)
defines the cosmic edifice,
refuting Newton’s flakiness
and Einstein’s spooky emphasis  
on space-time’s 4-D flimsiness.
Yes, Facts like these are copious
(I count them with my abacus);
to argue would be blasphemous
displaying mental barrenness
about the push and pulling stress
when bouncing ***** rebound, unless
one views elastic laziness
as evil Satan’s stubbornness.”

                              “Well now I think I understand,
                              that gravity seems somewhat grand,
                              but’s just, in fact, a rubber band
                              that stretches through our earth-bound-land
                              constricting us when we expand.”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you finally got it,
just as I’ve long preached and taught it.
I’m so happy that you’ve bought it.
(Not a question nor an audit -
you’re so shallow, who’d have thought it?)”

              <Once ShallowMan dipped into science>
              <seeking FactoidMan’s alliance>
              <gaining, hence, a strong reliance>
              <on the Facts and their appliance,>
              <justifying strong compliance,>
              <turning down those in defiance.>

                              “Hey, FactoidMan, another topic
                              leaves me reeling, gyroscopic,
                              dealing with the microscopic
                              in a world kaleidoscopic.”

                              “Within the realm of vacuum loops
                              Dark Energy in quantum soups
                              of anti-matter sometimes swoops
                              across inflation’s Big Bang stoops
                              where space-time ends and matter droops.
                              Do you believe, or just the dupes?

“It’s nothing but a passing phase,
(a theory that in fact betrays
obscure occult communiqués
that fevered fantasy conveys)
of those who thump creation days.
Just check! The vacuum state portrays
perfection in your shallow ways
reflected in that vacant gaze
you cast upon the dossiers
of all my Facts that so amaze.”

                              “And what about the quantum theory?
                              Particles not hard but smeary,
                              just like waves? It’s kinda eerie!
                              Facts could not be quite so bleary
                              leaving Bohr, well, sad and teary.
                              FactoidMan, just tell me, dearie,
                              what the Facts are, bright or dreary.”

                              “And then again what are those holes
                              (as black as ravens bathed in coals)
                              wherein the past and future strolls
                              exploiting fields that Higgs controls
                              beneath the shady shallow shoals
                              between magnetic monopoles.”

“The science lab’s a ‘fact’ory
concocting stuff that cannot be
(like unknown realms and notably
those tiny things NoMan can see
with naked eye on bended knee
neath microscopic scrutiny)
and claim they’ve found reality;
they call their god a ‘Theo’ry
(a fig-ment of the Yum-Yum tree)
that leads them to hyperbole
about the singularity
that’s dipped in dazed duplicity
denying all eternity.”

“Here’s my advice that seems to work:
ignore the ones with ‘facts’ that lurk
behind their ‘proofs’ (which always irk),
and being challenged have the quirk
of stepping back within the murk
(indulged, I chuckle, smile or smirk).”

              <Now ShallowMan is quite content>
              <receiving FactoidMan’s consent>
              <to quibble and express dissent>
              <as long as keeping covenant>
              <with fingers crossed and belfry bent>
              <when viewing Facts in sealed cement:>

                               “The Facts you give me circumvent
                               those ‘truths’ your chuckles supplement;
                               although they might disorient
                               they can’t be wrong, I won’t dissent,
                               just using ones which you invent.“
“(No need of source in that event).”

                               “Your wise advice is simply sound
                               in cases where a game is bound
                               to parcel points out round by round
                               or else on verbal battleground
                              where know-it-alls are duly crowned.”

              <Though ShallowMan is kinda slow>
              <he still takes time to learn and throw>
              <his facts and theories to and fro,>
              <amazing facts which seem to show>
              <that theories sometimes come and go,>
              <returning strengthened with the glow>
              <of new found facts (for which to crow)>
              <that fill the gaps of long ago.>

                               “Oh FactoidMan, just tip your cap!
                               I’ve found a piece to fill the gap
                               that simplifies a mouse’s trap:
                               if triggerless, it still will clap
                               to give the mouse a mighty zap
                               that makes its tiny back bone snap.”

                               “With mousetrap type simplexity,
                               reducible complexity
                               helps arguments’ duplexity
                               with twists of crude convexity.”

“Ha-ha! That serves to prove my case:
for each gap filled, two in its place,
each growing at the doubled pace;
for unfilled gaps, I’m saying grace
(they help, indeed, for saving face)
Trying to get out of neutral....
don't know whether I'm in first or reverse...
Terry Collett Mar 2015
The coach is parked outside the gospel church along Rockingham Street. Brown with a yellow line along the side with the name of the coach company's name: RICKARD'S.

Janice stands next to her grandmother waiting to get on the coach; she's wearing  a flowery dress and a white cardigan and brown sandals. Next to Janice's grandmother is Benedict and his mother and Benedict's younger sister Naomi.  Members of the gospel church who have organized the day out to the seaside are ticking off names from a list.

Weather looks good- the grandmother says, eyeing the sky which is blue as a blackbird's egg.

Benedict's mother looks skyward. - It does, hope it stays that way. Benedict looks at Janice; she smiles shyly. She's wearing the red beret. Her hair looks nice and clean brushed. Sit next to her on the coach.

Wouldn't surprise me if it isn't a little cold by the coast- the grandmother says, looking at Benedict's mother, seeing how tired she looks, the little girl beside her sour faced.

Maybe, hopefully it won't be for their sakes- the mother says, looking at the coach and the tall gospeller with the one eye. - mind you behave, Benny, no mischief.

That goes for you, Janice, no mischief or you'll feel my hand- the grandmother says, her voice menacing, and don't forget to make sure to know where the loo is don't want you wetting yourself.

Janice blushes looks at the pavement-  I always behave, Gran, and yes, I'll find the lavatory once we get there, she says.

One Eye ticks off Janice and Benedict's names; his one eye watching them as they board the coach,and sit by the window, and look out at the grandmother and Benedict's mother and sister. Kids voices; smell of an old coach stink; the window smeary. Janice waves; her grandmother waves back. Benedict waves; his mother waves and smiles, but his sister looks down at the pavement.

One Eye and two other gospellers stand at the front of the coach calling off names and the kids respond in return in a cacophony of voices, then they sit down at the front and the coach starts up. A last minute of hand waving and calling out of goodbyes and the coach  pulls off and away along Rockingham Street.

Well, that's it, just us now- Benedict says, looking out of the window, looking past Janice.

No more bomb sites after this for a few hours- Janice says, no more being made embarrassed by Gran. I know she worries, but I am eight and a half years old, not a baby.

That's the elderly for you- Benedict says, always thinking us babies when we're almost in double figures.

Janice smiles. She looks at Benedict. He's wearing a white shirt and sleeveless jumper with zigzag pattern and blue jeans. He's left his cowboy hat at home; his six-shooter toy gun has been left behind, also. Glad he came; like it when he's near; I feel safe when he's about.

Have you any money?- Benedict asks.

I've  two shillings- she says, Gran said I might need it.

I've got two and six pence- Benedict says, my old man gave me a shilling and my mother gave me one and sixpence.

The coach moves through areas of London Benedict doesn't know. He looks at the passing streets and traffic.

Billie, my canary, has learned new words- Janice says.

What words has he learned? - Benedict asks, looking at Janice's profile; at her well shaped ear, the hair fair and smooth.

Super, pretty and boy- Janice says.

Talking about me, is he?- Benedict says.

No, about himself- Janice says, but who taught him the words neither Gran or I know. Was it you? She asks.

Me? why would I teach him to say those words?- Benedict says. If I was going to teach him words they'd be naughty words.

You haven't have you?- Janice says, or I'll get the blame; Gran thinks I taught Billie those words when I didn't.

Well, I may have said certain words in his presence when I came round the other week- Benedict says.

Was it you who taught him to say Billie without a *****?- Janice says.

Benedict looks down at his hands in his lap. Did he actually say it?- Benedict says.

Janice nods. I got in trouble over that- she says, gran thought I taught him; came close to getting a good smacking, but she thought it over and said she didn't think I would.

So, who does she think taught him?- Benedict asks.

Janice raises her eyebrows. Who do you think?- she says.

So, please don't teach Billie words- Janice says, or I could be for it.

Sorry- he says, looking at her, thought it'd be a laugh.

Gran doesn't share your sense of humour- Janice says. Now she wonders if she ought to let you come around anymore, and I like you coming around. So please don't teach Billie words.

I won't- he says, not a word, not a single word.

She smiles and kisses his cheek. He blushes. What if the other boys on the coach saw that? How would he live it down? Girls and kisses. He's seen it in films at the cinema. Just when a cowboy gets down to the big gun fight some woman comes along and spoils it with that kissing stuff. He's seen Teddy Boys who seem quite tough, spoil that impression when a girl gets all gooey and kisses them.

Janice looks out the window, watches the passing scene. She like it when Benny's there. She doesn't like most boys; they seem rough and tough; seem loud and spotty and smell sweaty, but Benny is different, he's tough in a gentle way, has good manners and that brown quiff of hair and his hazel eyes that seem to look right through her, right into her very heart.

Benedict doesn't think other boys saw the kiss; he sits feeling the slight dampness on his cheek; he doesn't think having a kiss, makes him look weak.
A BOY AND ******* A TRIP TO THE SEASIDE IN 1957.
Terry Collett May 2013
After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans

you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street

she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm

her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands

and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them

where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things

she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?

sure if you think
she'll worry
you said

be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone

ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict

and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station

and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor

and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs

Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said

the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied

and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare

Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside

there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed

and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people

and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty

and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way

and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?

just a creep
wanting a peep
you said

peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful

yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said

what then?
she asked

oh something
he oughtn't
you said

and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew

and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.
Terry Collett Jun 2015
Elaine sat in class.
She'd seen John
on the bus, but he
had not looked over

at her, but gazed out
the window, sitting
beside the boy Trevor.
She looked back and

he was sitting at back
of class with a boy
called Rowland, he
looking at some book

the boy was showing him.
Once the pupils were
all there Miss G took
the register calling out

the names. Elaine wished
John was beside her at her
desk; wished he was talking
to her not the Rowland boy.

She sat uneasy, her body
plumpish, her glasses smeary
needing cleaning. Miss G
talked about music; about

Mozart; about his piano
works and put on a LP and
the pupils sat arms folded
or hands over faces listening

-or not- to the unfolding
Mozart music piece. Her sister
talked of boys over breakfast;
what so and so had done and

where and their mother had said
NOT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE
loudly but did boys really sniff
after girls as her sister had said?

Elaine never heard John sniff her.
He had kissed her that day, but
not sniffed-thank God- and she looked
at Miss G as the music played away.
A GIRL AND HER THOUGHTS ON  A BOY IN CLASS IN 1962
phil roberts Feb 2016
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
A different kind of valentine
Terry Collett Oct 2013
Down came
the heavy rain
***** coal
coloured puddles

and you and Helen
stood under
the railway bridge

she clutching her doll
Battered Betty
close to her chest

you staring out
at the grey rain
thunder and lightening

making Helen scream
and clutching
your arm

her thick lens spectacles
steamed up
and hiding her eyes

I hate lightening
she said
what if it strikes us dead

it won't
you said
putting on

the brave boy routine
not while
you're with me

she didn't look
convinced
to a great degree

and peered out
through her smeary spectacles
when will it stop?

she said
it's not near
you said

you have to count
the seconds
between the lightening

and the thunder
and that should tell you
how far away it is

she took off her glasses
can you wipe these for me?
so you took the spectacles

and wiped the glass
on the end
of your shirt

until clear and clean
and handed them
back to her

and she put them on
that's better
she said

peering out
at the rain
and the puddles

on the cobblestones
of the short road
and the bomb site

nearby
you counted
after the flash of lightening

and the bang of thunder
10
you said

it's 10 miles away
she peered out again
at the grey sky

and pouring rain
seems right above us
she said

you gazed at her
standing there
drowned looking

with her hair
hanging over her face
and stuck

to her head
her dress clinging
to her tightly

her shoes sodden
you felt heavy
as if you'd swam

in a lake
and climbed out
fully dressed

with your jeans
and shirt wet through
clinging to you

I'm cold
she said
her teeth beginning

to chatter
her knees knocking
she clutching

Battered Betty
you put an arm
around her

and held her close
smelling the damp
the rain

the peppermint
on her breath
come

you said
let's go home
before we catch

a death
and you took her hand
and ran along

the cobblestones
stepping by puddles
and down Meadow Row

her fingers becoming cold
her hand wet
and slippery

and she beside you
clinging on
to her doll

by its swinging arm
making its one
good eye open

and close
like one feeling sleepy
wanting to doze.
SET IN 1950S LONDON.
Lauren Grace Jan 2018
I struggle with the seatbelt in your car.
You express passionately,
"You'll have to stay with me forever."
You don't understand how much it frustrates me that I love you.
Because I know the whole unadventured world lays ill at ease outside your smeary windows.
But the safe sentiment of your vehicle leaves me wrestling with myself.
To be free or to be unassailable.
Christa tomasulo Jul 2016
In the early sun, a dew soaked swing set basks in rust as we play
I find your eyes at the window watching.
Smiling.
I am safe. I know this.
Concrete paints my knees red.
And you totter over with peroxide and a hug.
I am safe. I know this.
You'd find a path to the sun if only it stretched my popsicle lips into a smile.
I stalk home past midnight; a stomach gurgling with liquors I can't pronounce.
I find you on the couch flipping channels as your eyelids turn weak.
You approach me with a slap I was expecting.
Then a hug
Then a slap
Then a hug.
I am safe. I know this.
I'm panting with worry. My mind racing. Each thought like a poorly aimed bullet.
But you somehow find a way to extinguish them in your fists.
Until my smeary wet mascara stained cheeks swell into a laugh.
I am safe. I know this.

It is winter and you sense my eyes so flameless, fragile.
I am restrained by the presumptions of my fate.
My arms have been ripped from my sides so naturally you tear off your own limbs for my use.
Your appendage helps me to climb.
I'm out of the ditch. Because I am loved.
I am safe. I know this.  
It is industrial where the stringent work. I cower at the mass of its stolidity. But even then I find you, the earths drippy clay molding to my quirky nervous and dissatisfied self.
Everywhere else.
I am safe. I know this.
And my dear mother.
You are loved. I hope you know this.
phil roberts Jul 2017
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
Terry Collett May 2015
Helen's hair
hangs dampened
by the rain

as we wait
underneath
the hawning

of a shop
on the way
home from school

her thick lens
spectacles
are smeary

so I can't
see her eyes
will it stop?

she asks me
I hope so
I reply

don't fancy
standing here
till bedtime

I look up
at the sky
grey and black

rain falling
I'm all wet
she mutters

even my
socks are damp
in my shoes

let's run then
I tell her
so we run

through the rain
splashing through
deep puddles

on pavements
she clutching
my wet hand

semi-blind
in her smeared
spectacles

rushing past
the shop fronts
our passing

reflections
in windows
quite ghostly

as in dreams
thunder claps
above us

from the sky
and Helen
loudly screams.
A BOY AND GIRL CAUGHT IN DOWNPOUR IN LONDON IN 1955.
Alexsandra Danae Oct 2011
hand on the smeary glass pane,
staring out this window ~
separating me;
refusing me my right to freedom...
the sun shimmers, golden,
like a bright, hot, cruel joke
I feel my pulse racing;
chest tight with anxiety, despair
these butterflies squirming in my gut,
making me nauseous...
I cannot have what I most want;
that which I most painfully need
- denied what my heart so desperately craves ~
shivering, sobbing in cold anguish;
spirit shrieking in piercing agony...
soundlessly, I plead for time to sew up my wounds
- I don't know how much longer I can stand to watch them bleed:
just oozing forth from my desecrated insides,
as if my soul is slowly being drained...

Lord, I beg of you,
help me overcome this plight ~
alone, I'll never find enough strength;
unable to rid myself of this grief,
powerless to shed this burden, this weight,
and all my life's joy would be lost ~
just wasted, neglected, thrown away...
so please, lift me, carry me,
for I am only human
- and I am so very weak,
so very weak...
Terry Collett Apr 2014
The milkman
let me and Helen
ride on the back
of his horse-drawn

milk wagon
through the Square
stopping here and there
to deliver milk

and eggs
and orange juice
Helen had got caught
in a downpour

of rain
and her thick lens
spectacles
were smeary

where she had wiped them
on her dress
her hair
had been plaited

into two plaits
over her shoulders
soggy looking
ought to

go back home
and change out
of the wet stuff
I said

or you'll catch
yourself a cold
Mum's out
Helen said

gone shopping
up the Cut
with the others
the milk wagon

moved on
the horse trotting
slowly forward
the man with a boxer dog

walked by
and gave us
a stare
sitting there

you could go
to my flat
my mum'll
find you

something dry
I said
I’ll be all right
Helen said

I'll dry out
the milkman
stopped again
and we got off

and walked through
the side
of the flats
and crossed Bath Terrace

and into Jail Park
you sure
you're all right?
I said

your dress
is clinging
to your legs
she pulled the dress

from her legs
I’ll be ok
so we went
into the area

where the swings
and slide were
and got on
the swings

for big kids
and pushed ourselves
high into the air
holding on

to the chains
at the side
our shoes trying
to touch

the grey clouds
then we went
on the slide
but Helen got stuck

half way
because her wet dress
held her there
so she climbed down

and we walked back
to my flat
where my mother
got her some

dry clothes
of my sister's
and put Helen’s clothes
in front of the fire

to dry
and we watched
the steam rise
from them

into the sitting room air
as we sat
on the sofa
with our bemused stare.
BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON.
Circa 1994 Jun 2015
*******,
dry heave,
dry eyes -
all on me.
I'm a picture
I'm your paint.
Smeary me, deary
to show that you love me.
phil roberts Apr 2017
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
Terry Collett Feb 2014
Thought you weren't
going to come
Helen said
she stood by Baldy's

grocer shop
her thick lens glasses
were smeared
by recent rain

her plaited hair matted
had chores to do
at home
you said

you looked at the sky
guess you got caught
in the last downfall
you said

she nodded
brushing raindrops
off her green raincoat
with her small hands

then wiped
her smeary glasses
with damp fingers
where are we going?

she asked
you looked at her
standing there
her wet features

and clothes
raindrops falling
from her nose
best go back

to your place
to get out
of your wet clothes
you said

don't matter
she said
it does
you said

you'll catch a death
she looked at you
I’ll dry
she said

no
you said
best go home
your mother

will let you changed
out of the wet things
while I wait
she pulled a face

OK
she said
so you both walked back
to her place

she talked
of her mother's
chesty cough
and you talked

of the silver looking
6 shooter
your old man
picked up

at some junk shop
once you got
to her home
her mother moaned

but let her changed
out of the wet clothes  
and said to you
want a cuppa?

sure
you said
and so she poured you
a mug of tea

and a biscuit
and after while
she ironed some clothes
she asked about

your mother and her legs
and if
they were any better
no

you said
they' re just as bad
the tea was sweet
and milky

but you drank it
and nibbled the biscuit
and watched her iron
her plump hands

at work
her huge bust
swaying
to her motion

then Helen
came into the room
in dry clothes
her hair unplaited

and hanging
in long strands
you look
like a drowned rat

her mother said
I should wait here
if I were you
until the rain stops

Helen looked at you
then at her mother
ok
she said

I can show Benedict
my doll collection
you smiled
it could be worse

you thought
drinking your sweet tea
worse things
could happen to me.
A 8 YEAR OLD BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON.
Terry Collett May 2014
Gefen said
that girl you like
that one
who stinks somewhat

and looks as if
she slept in a barn
is in the girl's bog-house
crying

I looked at him
and flicked
my cigarette card
against the wall

of the playground
it wasn't near enough
to win I didn't think
why's she crying?

I asked
how the ****
would I know
he said

just saw her go in
and heard the sobbing
I watched
as another kid

flicked his card
near touch the wall
and fall
ok you win

I said
and walked up the steps
from the playground
and walked

to the bogs
and listened
with ear to the door
that you Enid?

I asked
no it's Coleman
what do you want?
I said nothing

and wandered off away
and there was Enid
by a window
what's up?

I said
she looked at me
through smeary glasses
not here

she said
not what here
I said
I can't say here

ok where then?
I said
so she beckoned me
to follow her

along a dank passageway
(there were many)
until we came
to where the cleaners

kept their brooms
and buckets
and such stuff
and she sneak inside

and pulled me in
beside her
well?
I said

sniffing the air
of disinfect
and soap
and yesterday's clothes

can't sit properly
she said
and she lifted
her dull grey dress

to reveal a red weal
along her thigh
and beyond
it hurts when I sit

and I can't say why
and it hurts to sit
she lowered her dress
and looked at me

red eyed
and dripping nose
your old man?
I asked

she nodded
and looked around
the small room
her eyes vacant

say you've got a boil
on your backside
and ask for a cushion
I did last term

when I had boils
on mine
she looked unsure
really?

yes really
I said
I'll ask
old ma Murphy

if you like
she's got loads
of cushions
Enid looked at me

her eyes dull
as dishwater
ok
she said

she kissed my cheek
and followed me out
and along
to Murphy's room

uncertain
and unhappy
as if facing
death and doom.
TWO BOYS AND A GIRL AT SCHOOL IN 1950S LONDON.
Terry Collett Aug 2014
We met by Dunn& Co
the hat people
on the corner
of the New Kent Road

Helen had a faded green dress on
and was carrying her doll
Battered Betty in one arm
her thick lens glasses
were smeary
her brown hair plaited

what are you going to show me?
she asked

have you seen
the pie and eel shop
up the road there?

no don't think so

well this guy stands inside
the shop by the window
and he takes an eel
and cuts its head off
then slits it open
then scraps out its guts
then cuts it up
into pieces ready
to be cooked for pies
I said

she pulled a face
is that
what you wanted
to show me?

yes it's very interesting
and helps you see
how it goes
and is kind
of a biology lesson
without the crabby
old teacher moaning on
I said

Helen was not impressed
I’ll be sick if I see that
he really cuts its head off?

sure he does
and quick and clean
no messing around
and scraps it
into a bin by his feet

Helen held her doll
closer to her chest
and slits it open?

yes he's a quick worker
one slit and all the guts
are scrapped out

enough already
she said

she put a small hand
to her mouth
I hate eels
I hate eel pie
she said
between her fingers
her doll leaned over her arm
its arms hanging loose

so do I
but it's interesting
to see these things

not to me it isn't
she said

ok let's go elsewhere
I said

where?

we could go to The Cut
and look at the market stalls
and maybe get a drink of pop
and an ice cream

she looked down
at her scuffed shoes
I’ve only got 3d
she said

I’ve got 2/-
that'll be enough
I said

she looked at me
through her glasses
her eyes like marbles
ok but we must make sure
Betty gets a drink too
she said

sure
I said
she can share mine

so we set off
from Dunn& Co
at a steady pace

Betty looked unimpressed
bouncing along
in Helen’s arms
one eye hanging loose
her blonde mattered hair

and I listened
while Helen
talked and talked
all the way there.
A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON AND EELS
Donna Jun 2017
Washing smeary stains
off window , I can now see
the beauty outside
My two little dogs always press there noses against living room window so I am always washing window :D
Anais Vionet Mar 24
I babysit the daughter (Ivy) of a doctor at the hospital where I volunteer (to accumulate ‘clinical hours’ for my med-school applications). According to my mom, the purpose of my current existence is to get into med school.

That may sound crazy or theater-mom-ish but she has strong arguments - like Aristotle (all things strive toward full potential), stoicism (there’s a role for all living things) and vitalism (there’s a purpose, in life, beyond survival) - so, who am I to argue?

Straight brag, I’m a certified, Girl Scout Safe-Sitter®. Little Ivy and I will be eye to eye (metaphorically) for three hours today - no phones, TV or Internet - just paints, swings, barbies, a Montessori math game and a new toy called “MyFirst camera” which lets her take pix, and then print them, low-res and smeary, on ultra-thin paper.

I met Ivy when she was 4, now she’s on the edge of 6. She’s got large chestnut brown eyes that match her hair - which is cut in a shoulder length angled-bob. She’s about 3½-feet of cuteness, in her pink ballet-flat shoes. I’d describe her clothes, but she changes about every hour. “What are you wearing now?” I find myself asking the princess or jedi. “Can I help you officer?” I ask the business-like cop in a ballet tutu.
We’re old hats at this babysitting gig.

When Ivy picked up her camera, I asked, “Can I take your picture?” reaching out to take the thing.
“In a minute,” she said, lining me up in the viewfinder. “No,” she said, suddenly turning into a photographer highly critical of my look, “(pose) Like a model,” she directed, before striking, for a brief moment, a perfect, indifferent, hands-on hips pose herself. Kids pick up on everything. I took her direction and struck a pose.

Later, as we painted dragons that looked like flowers, she asked, “Why’s the sky blue?”
When Ivy asks questions, it’s like she’s getting a second opinion or testing to see what I know.
“Blue?” I asked, acting like I was confused. “The sky is GREEN.”
“NNOOO,” she said.
“You’re colorblind!” I exclaimed in alarm, “Does your mom know?!
“The sky is BLUE,” she said, with the seriousness of certainty.
“We’ll see,” I said, like a doubting thomas.
I held up five fingers, “How many colors am I holding up?”  
She looked at me, side-eyed for less than a beat, then said “No.”
We had hours of fun.

Later, when her mom came home, she asked “How’s it going guys?” As she set down her purse and keys.
Ivy looked up from her work, gluing a collage of the day's photos to poster board and said, “Ok.”
“We had fun,” I reported, “I’ve been teaching her some comedy things.”
“Like what?” her mom asked, nonplussed.
Ivy eyed me suspiciously.
“Like when she falls, she should wait for the laugh. She can’t just - hop right up.”
straight brag = shameless self-promotion
Dream Fisher Mar 2017
I can't say I have many friends,
So I glued faces to my ink pens.
They lend me words where people fall short
And sort these emotions to thoughts I've absorbed, see.
I've become rather smitten with comments that are written
Because while the pen is mightier than the sword
It's my teeth to my tongue I have bitten
So while my words remain sitting in front of my screen
I reread and delete them and make them more terrific for an audience to read.
Still I over think causing my thoughts to seep and the ink still bleeds.
But I'm getting ditracted, this is about my friends, the pens, not me.

Mr. Bic writes quick with his thoughts in a rush
And Sharpie goes deep but tends to make my words gush
Uniball  makes my mind think unclearly
as my hand runs across making words all smeary
Lastly, a rainbow gel pen who is such an old friend,
Her name was lost long ago.
They are flawed by their nature,
Still they remain the closest friends I know.
phil roberts Aug 2016
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
wordvango Jul 2015
her assets,
I don't judge her as she tells me
her daddy taught her how at ten.

She looks at me different
is all I know,
because all I do is love her.

I don't try to get in her,
or know her secrets,
I don't have to.

When she feels guilty,
she pours them all over me,
I reassure her.

That, no matter what,
unconditionally, it turns into a sensual thing, her
eyes look at me , and I know she is happier
then ever,
I love her.

And she goes to her job stripping,
and I take care of her eight year old son for another night,
and I kiss her cheek, tell her to be careful.

Everyone, I think needs something.
I need her somehow. And she , uses me.
I smile though when she comes home at seven A.M.
bleary eyed hair mussed makeup smeary.

I just kiss her and she goes to bed.

and I happily, make breakfast for her son.
phil roberts Mar 2016
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
phil roberts Dec 2015
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
phil roberts Nov 2016
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
phil roberts Oct 2016
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
Evan Stephens Feb 2021
You were a smeary bruise,
your eye hysterical,
cut from white twill
in the brumal March;
I slipped my blues,
to a blonde chorale
in your room, on the hill
gushing with larch.
We practiced slow,
while black cones bled
coffee. Your breath
came in little throws,
your heart in parcels of red,
that led to our little death.
phil roberts Jan 2016
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
phil roberts Aug 2015
She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts
Evan Stephens Sep 2022
Creeping phlox blossoms, star-blanched,
crawl gently in choir in the thunder yard,
like soft fare for the silver river fee.

Linen immortelle, shadow-bleared,
knotted aegis against a raw, wracking world:
smeary cloth-stalks lengthen duskily.

Rain-pinked palm, sloe-blotched:
tawny token of revival from those
who idle beneath rude thunderheads.
Evan Stephens Jul 2023
It's a fundamental law:
all matter emits radiation
(all of us even you right now)

& the energy level depends
on the temperature of the object
(inversely related to intensity).

This is black body radiation.
Here, in our meager summer rooms,
we have long infrared auras

(only lizards see them);
our atoms are gracefully aching away,
smeary leaking daubs in halo.

The hotter something is
(like that fling of sun up there)
the more energy it heaves away.

That molten starry tussle
is 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit
(& so we see it yellow-white) -

"But," you say, "what if something
is hotter than a star, what then?"
Something, you mean,

like the strange chemistry that burns
burns burns burns burns burns
in my brain on a Tuesday night

when remembering an autumn day
in a cemetery in Paris so many years back
(Chopin Morrison Abelard Heloise Wilde Piaf &c)

it was such a perfect day with her
(the synapses and relays are all
clicking clicking clicking clicking

with wild remembrance)...
Well, then (in theory)
I should be giving off ultraviolet light

at an almost infinite rate (wouldn't I?).
I don't know what it means
that I am here in the plush dark

quiet and quelled by thought
(except perhaps the catastrophic energy
is scrawling and etching me into oblivion).

— The End —