Transparent Words - Poetry

5 poems by Tina Cole
 

 

 

LANGUAGE

 

The first finds a scrap
soon more are gathering;

squawking their self important tones,

swaggering the wheat yellow lawn

Speckling shadows, black, yellow,

black.

 

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

territories,

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,

                   mine,

                             MINE.

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

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

thickening.

 

 

ROOT BOUND

 

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

 

 

 

TIGHTROPE DAYS

 

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

remain.

 

 

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.