Transparent Words - Poetry


5 poems by Tina Cole





The first finds a scrap
soon more are gathering;

squawking their self important tones,

swaggering the wheat yellow lawn

Speckling shadows, black, yellow,



Here are the ‘Jets’
sleek, shiny suited,
squabbling their short lived


One snatches the prize,

others follow in a vicious,

stabbing, feeding, frenzy,
back and forth the scene is played
rise and fall; rise and fall
repetitious delinquent behaviour
attack, grab, steal.


Above the skreaking

what is their language?
It is mine,







Step away from the rush stand at a distance,

go into the forest hush; there is no one to hear.

The year fades away each day drawn out

oh so slow, a slowing pace. Today sheets of sky

Brunel grey and the light tonight purple, bruised,

a vivid reminder of the folly in each year.


Close the gate on it.


The long tongue of the lock shifts its’ weight

and licks it final click into place. Seconds pass,

celebrate, as rain patterns on glass its’ ghostly

click clicking, the slowness deepens like a sauce






    Returning again, a dry whispering of cobweb

    frames the rusted door, foreign fingers

    penetrate cracked panes ravaging

    your precious world, its’ bottle green

    light now fractured by untamed fern and ivy.


    So many hours spent watering, cosseting,

    pacing the aisle like a small town preacher

    your heart set on everyday miracles; whistling

    to yourself, proud father to this cornucopia

    of colour; row upon row, geranium, begonia.


    Now amidst woodlice and mildew

    this miserable thing waits alone, desert dry;

    a contorted root writhing in its tomb; a mess

    of wizened stem and brittle leaf; its voice

    inaudibly whimpering.


    Emerging into the sunshine,

    the root plunged deep into water,

    I sensed a growing desire to laugh;

    to whoop






    There are days

    when even best feet

    are dangerously balancing

    the thin, taut, line

    arms frantically see-sawing

    at obtuse angles.

    On such days

    even the friendly clock

    is silent and befriends no-one              

    with its tick, tick, tocking.

    Instinct returns; that uneasy feeling

    like the smell of things kept too long,

    as you rush from plate to plate

    dislocated objects clattering to the  ground.

    until only broken pieces

    useless as used ticket stubs




    ASK MR. FRY – (A RANT).


    I blame Rothko

    he of the huge canvas

    in blood red blackness;

    after him the real madness began

    copulating neon signs fifty feet across

    sheep in formaldehyde,


    Awe and wonder touting originality;

    called it ‘theatre’;  yet still we applauded.


    ‘Poetry Submissions:- forefront thinking is what we want

    don’t send us worn out ideas’.


    We all want to be acknowledged

    five minutes of fame;

    to associate ourselves with


     ‘the innovative and the new’.


    We read the magazines

    boasting the successes

    of the already successful.


    Ever hopeful for an image to stop my breath

    I find myself searching iambic pentameter,

    writing without form.


    Who decides this is poetry or art,

    is it genius or connections?


    Ask Mr Fry.

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