Transparent Words - Poetry
5 poems by Tina Cole
The first finds a scrap
squawking their self important tones,
swaggering the wheat yellow lawn
Speckling shadows, black, yellow,
Here are the ‘Jets’
others follow in a vicious,
Above the skreaking
what is their language?
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
Emerging into the sunshine,
the root plunged deep into water,
I sensed a growing desire to laugh;
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.