My Hands

My hands, she said,
shall wipe away
the tears that flow
too readily, since

my demise,
from your eyes.
Shame that only
in a dream,

she said as such,
but you shall treasure
her words just as much.

poem by Terry Collett
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Maybe He Loves Him More

Grief tests ones faith,
Mrs Mullins said.

Her son was dead;
killed in the war.

Makes you wonder
how a loving God

can take away
the one you love

and what the reason is
and what for.

Maybe,
her six year old

daughter said,
He loves him more.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Gift

The gift lay unwrapped,
you didn't want to open.
You knew the kind of thing
he'd give and want response.

The power lay with you now,
the power not to unwrap,
see, and give praise or care.
Your cupboard is chock full
of unwanted gifts, lying there.

poem by Terry Collett
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With You

With you
he could settle down,

with you
he could help make

babies in the womb,
but without you

he drifted
in and out

of dangerous seas,
without you

he wandered down
dark passages to doom,

and all because
you left him

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poem by Terry Collett
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Baltimore.

Baltimore.
Met him there,

beefcake type,
more hard brawn

than soft brain.
Yet there was

that aspect
of him that

haunted at
nights after

he went back
home to his

wife and his
other life.

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poem by Terry Collett
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Never More.

Never more
to have her place

her hand
through your chest

to pull out your heart
and let it hang there

dripping blood
or squeeze it

to make those
squishy sounds

as she said
she loved you

most of all.
She died

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poem by Terry Collett
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Winter Cold.

Maybe you should
have said yes

years before
when the first kiss

had landed
and her eyes

were bright
as new coins

but no you
had to wait

until she’d met
someone else

and her heart
was no longer

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poem by Terry Collett
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Be There

Be there by the bridge,
Sorbus said,
I'll be wearing a flower
in my buttonhole.

But she never showed,
least not
that he knew,
she saw him through
the falling snow:
bespectacled,
black bearded,
with pointed chin
and hooked nose.

She wanted more
than that
to please
and feed
her hidden rose.

poem by Terry Collett
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Smoke From Chimneys

Whenever you see
smoke rise up
from chimneys,
you think of her:

Anny Horowitz.
You think of Auschwitz.
1942.
A nine year old Jew.

Whenever you smell
smoke from chimneys
and see it
rise up into blue skies,

you remember her:
Anny with her blue eyes,
at Auschwitz
with her blonde hair

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poem by Terry Collett
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Then.

Then she would say
if only I’d met you

before him
and you’d say

yes but that
is how it is

and those quick
chance meetings

in back offices
or far away cafes

or in the elevator
going up or down

when alone
you kissing her

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poem by Terry Collett
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