Paris: 1981

(for Laura Bessant
a brief, ecstatic, mad affair of the heart)

When I first kissed you
it was the springtide of our lives
Paris 1981. 
There, in the fantastic decadence of our youth
we set our hearts free on the River Seine.

Following its sedated flow, assured
we walked hand in hand along the Quai de la Tournette.
I looked into your eyes
pleading with the moment, forever, just us.
Laura, can we claim a possession of dreams?

Wandering through the marketplace of Louis Lepine
our senses were liberated by the rioting carnations. 
Do you recall their seductive perfume?
I sense the furious scent now!
I refused to let your hand go,
upon my core its imprint remains.

Retiring to our Hotel, do you remember its name? 
Abbaye Saint-Germaine.
We fell into our bed.
I watched as you ran your fingers through your golden hair
with a deliberate seductive care.
How we wrestled together as lovers do - fierce, impatient, yet with tenderness.

As the light from a Paris morning
spread over the crumpled sheets
I reached out and touched your cheeks, soft.
And, in the rising light, I embraced your warmth again.
You sighed from passion. I smiled and winked at God.

Sipping Cognac
in the Cafť due Commerce
you tried to teach me French.
ďJe suis amoureux duh twah, Jí ainmerais coucher avec toiĒ
I was so inept, we broke into tears of laughter!

It mattered nothing,
we knew the language of lovers.
We need not have spoken to be understood.

Standing on the balcony
 I drank the balmy air of our last afternoon.
Across at number 26 you spoke with the Landlady
and, pointing to me, gave a knowing sexy glance.
The Landlady knew and smiled too.
I did not know what you said on the hazy day
but that night the sounds of Edith Piaf
came across from number 26 in sensuous delight.

How we danced a lingering twilight of our romance
never sleeping the night.
I held you, we held tight.

Boarding the Ferry at Calais
my lips parted from yours.
In my mouth your taste held sweet.
As your fingers slipped from my grasp
we bid ďAdieuĒ

Such was springtime, Paris 1981.

Terry Lee

(Laura Bessant passed away in early 2000 dying of cancer,
we never met again, however from this time a child was born
Josie Lee Bessant, who I met for the first time 20 years later)


(for Pris)

Iíd like to run away
to sail the Earthen Sea.
To find a quiet grace
and have a simple, wondrous faith.
To live, of course!
And not to wait for deathís sure fate.

Yet, be that I am here by a chance of 
destiny and of love.
I am awash in this tide
of my fractured soul, ebbing and flowing
that dares on the sea to dream to be free
untouched by grief, unclouded by despair,
brilliant, madly irrational!

I climb the mountains of my mind,
and fall into the valleys of my heart.
I cry the tears of the night
and laugh in morningís mockery light.
Impatient with love
I am saddened by dreams.

Terry Lee
(c) 1st October 2001


I always dreamed that Iíd own a room
in which, unfearing, Iíd consume lovers
innumerable and new,
and old and faithful and untrue,
lovers in leisure and in haste,
lovers to share in my devoted taste,
lovers who want to do this or that
in the bed or on the mat,
upright or horizontal
(the angle is all the same to me).
Lovers to kiss, to embrace, to soar,
lovers who will whisper or will roar!
Lovers who tease, but not bore,
lovers neither shy nor raw
but above all lovers, 
those who love!
And here I am in this imperfect room
with bed and cleansing broom.
Docile colours and dark drape.
Lulled by melancholy wine grape
and books and words, light and corrupted air,
fair setting for lovers not there.
Mocking a sullen bed lamp hushes the atmosphere
a door to lock when love is near,
and walls so thick no wonder no one should care?
A secret place where alone, crushed I cry,
and yet from outside lost lovers spy.
Awaking from a dream
No lovers arrive.
It is so cold.  

Terry Lee


A Journey Through Seasons

Autumn (contemplation)

It is the Autumn, of leaves gold and brown,
It is the season of Natureís mighty crown!
It is the taunting of Winter with colour,
Knowing that in time Spring will recover.

It is the awakening to a refreshing dayís renew,
An early morning fog and a carpet of dew.
It is of a fading Sun that lingers on,
And a singing of birds in symphonic song.

It is of breezes that blow in soaking rains,
And a final exuberance of golden plains.
It is a chance to fill reservoirs and lakes,
Brought dry by a Summerís bake.

It is a delicate display of warming beauty,
Before Winter is compelled to do her duty.
It is when days and nights become colder,
And the desire to linger in the light, bolder.

Winter (preparation)

It is Winter, of branches stripped and bare,
Of a season that Nature chills to snare.
Of days surrendered to rain and cold,
And a memory of an Autumn long since gold.

It is the weary rise to a darkly morning,
And the tired calls of a sunrise yawning.
It is the burning of crackling warm fires,
And a longing of springtime desires.

It is of cold winds that grow and blow,
And columns of soft falling snow.
It is the melodic sound of steady rain,
Beating forth a fogged windowpane.

It is the season in which Nature pauses,
Devoting her time to other causes.
It is a time of rest and grey gloom,
Before the dormant beauty bursts beyond June.

Spring (exhilaration)

It is the Spring, of trees covered in green,
Of the realization of a Winterís dream.
It is the magnificent burst beyond the June,
Of a happy and riotous tune!

It is of love, being in its season,
Of renewal and of irreverent reason.
Of flowers growing boundless and rife,
Of loving kisses, of children, of life.

It is a time where days invade the night,
As the Sun reasserts her brilliant might.
It is of snow melting and flowing waters,
Of the nurturing of life in all her quarters.

It is the season of hustle and of bustle,
Removed from Winterís terse rustle.
It is of Nature renewing her ways,
Before the heat of Summer days.

Summer (celebration)

It is the Summer, of trees thirsty and dry,
Of lazy warm nights that just pass by.
It is the heat of Sun drenched days,
Making a fiery memory of Winter ways.

It is the season of Christmas cheer,
And the seeing in of a New Year.
It is of holidays and of fun,
And of days under an endless Sun.

It is a time of drought and discriminate fire,
Of difficult days and passionate desire.
Of hot winds that blow and blow,
Of fiery pastel sunsets that glow and grow.

It is a time in which hearts beat sweet,
Content in love, a beautiful treat!
It is a time in which the season lasts,
Before the temper of Autumn casts.

Terry Lee



Come on letís go upstairs and fuck
Iím as horny as hell, she said.
I need a fuck and I know you want to!

Holding her hands,
A soft silkiness that stirred -
And her hair, draped carelessly across her bared shoulders
The heart tempered
By a liberal plying of cheap wine
And laughter, did not leap

Letís go fuck, she purred again
A choice for warmth
To kiss, to embrace to feel the touch of a woman
Fingers exploring, tongues
Hands were they should be
I imagined her wetness
Astride me
Thrusting to come, to please
Laughing in bed, post coital rapture
To sleep, after the exhaustion of ecstasy
In a smoldering pyre -
Two bodies sculpted together
Not to wake up alone

I want to fuck too

The evening had been a dream
Surrounded by fine friends
Great food, unihibiting wine
Challenging conversation, sincerity

I know you need too
I can see it in your eyes, she continued.
Placing her hand on my lap -

Itís not so easy for a bloke to hide his horniness

Dragging away on yet another cigarette
Mixed with her erotic perfume
And eyes smoked by burning red gum timbers -
I kissed her, soft.
Fuck yes, love making she did not mention.

Sunday dawned
All was quiet.
The sunlight pierced the room, but it did not warm
I awoke alone.
Thereís no fucking without lovemaking.

By Terry Lee

Terry Lee is a 43 year old poet,  hailing from Sunshine,
 a suburb of Melbourne, Australia. He loves the  bush
and hikes as often as possible in the Dandenong Ranges 
near Melbourne. He flies, does landscape photography, and
bikes as his other favorite pastimes, experiencing close brushes with death a number of times. He says he 'tends
to be the reporter of the dark and happy side of the
emotions and wrestles with the issues of faith and grace'
He loves the South Island of New Zealand and hopes to
live there someday. Describing  himself as shy, he says 
this is one reason he loves traveling into  the bush.

Music: Illusion

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