Rosy Cole

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Rosy Cole was born and educated in the Shires of England. Her writing career started in her teens. Four apprentice works eventually led to publication of two novels. Life intervened, but she returned to authorship in 2004. She has worked as a Press Officer and Publisher's Reader and is a member of the Society of Authors. Among widespread interests, she lists history, opera, musicals, jazz, the arts, drawing and painting, gemmology, homoeopathy and alternative therapies. Theology also is an abiding interest. As a singer, she's performed alongside many renowned musicians and has run a music agency which specialised in themed 'words-and-music' programmes, bringing her two greatest passions together. Rosy's first book of poetry, THE TWAIN, Poems of Earth and Ether, was published in April 2012, National Poetry Month, and two other collections are in preparation. As well as the First and Second Books in the Berkeley Series, she has written several other historical titles and one of literary fiction. She is currently working on the Third Book in the Berkeley Series. All her books are now published under the New Eve imprint. Rosy lives in West Sussex with her son, Chris, and her Springador, Jack, who keeps a firm paw on the work-and-walkies schedule!

Between Caesar And The Saint

 

 

 

 

Between the Ides of March and St Patrick's Day

the fracture split wide open

and all the glistening golden moments

tumbled helter-skelter into the ravine

split rock, split stream, spume

of shimmering rainbows

blessing the precarious flora

and the startled roosting birds

who took immediate flight

to seek sequestered ledges

where they might rear their young,

unruffled, and scan the gilded rocks

at sunset in grief and gladness

 

 

From realms of Icarus the cascade fell

chuckling into the fathomless embrace

of blue oceans, knowing the ebb and run

of tides in the magnetic undertow

a revelation of sun-splashed waves by day

and moons angling for treasure by dark

 

 

 

 

Copyright

© Rosy Cole 2016

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The Feminine Principle

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For true love is inexhaustible; the more you give, the more you have, and if you go to draw at the true fountainhead, the more water you draw, the more abundant is its flow.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
 
 
boundary breaker
ocean bites into the shore
like Eve the apple
cataclysm of ice-caps
old salt solution
 
rivers swell, banks break
tides roll and sweep, seethe and creep
deluging fissures
searching blind and blighted creeks
for enfranchisement
 
water sinuous
as serpent mythology
suggests oases
silently the silvered planes
mirror glass ceilings
 
virtual pome of
hardbitten technology
where's the salvation
in knowledge, remote control
of what was Eden?
 
winter follows Fall
frost exploits cracks in earth's crust
sun shifts latitude
earth and water, air and fire
reconfigure strife
 
civilisation
pales to liquidated text
rules of engagement
anticipate bottom lines
the Garden a maze
 
no visionary
stake in well-earned real estate
yielding fruit past the
sum of integral parts, still,
New Eve, New Adam
 

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Where Bluebirds Fly?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They have cut down the trees
on which I hung my thoughts
for rearrangement
into coherent patterns

The branches were arteries
that turned my inspiration
into textured leaf
evergreen, sturdy holm oaks

from the Mediterranean
whispering of sunflowers
rosemary, olives and lemons
in their natural element

sportsground of squirrels
schola cantorum of rooks
the wings of collared doves
sunspread upon the boughs

On windy days they rocked
with interior knowledge
of history and compound time
frail scions now remnants of hope

They have slaughtered my trees
in the full flush of being
for fear of litigation
and rumours of frenzied gales

Mankind destroys the planet
I said to the Lord. Why must it?
Behold the new perspective, he said,
I am giving you the skies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From The Twain, Poems of Earth and Ether

Upper image courtesy of sardinia-blue.com

Recent Comments
Ken Hartke
Living in a land without many trees, I have two dead trees (and one dying) that I contemplate cutting down. I haven't yet for the ... Read More
Saturday, 05 March 2016 06:43
Rosy Cole
Yes, I find it sad that there's unlikely to be long enough left to create another mature garden, but must plant for a future I sha... Read More
Monday, 07 March 2016 18:44
Katherine Gregor
A very wise poem Rosy, but nevertheless heartbreaking.
Saturday, 05 March 2016 20:49
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Once Upon Ash Wednesday...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Written in 2009

 

It was the same date as today

Ash Wednesday of that year

An opaque sky heralded

the bleak disciplines of Lent

Cremated palm leaves made soot

as fine as stoneground cornsilk

Echoes of long-past hosannas

Fading in the deadened air

 

Metanoia, said the purpled priest

Examine the inward heart

Don't stint a loving God who pours

out on his children all he has

Cherish not what must be left

behind. Toss in the season's pyre

security and vanity

And mercy will rain down

 

Was forfeiture of wine enough?

The giving of hard-earned alms?

Precious time bestowed upon the

forlorn and sick and exiled?

A rigorous schedule of

study, abstinence from all

forms of twentieth century

gluttony? And hymns of praise?

 

No! None of that would answer

A different sacrifice was due

My best-beloved of seven years -

bound in deep-forged chains I dare

not break - must be relinquished

Would God stoop low to pity me

as he had for Abraham

wanting no filial holocaust?

 

He did not spare the harrowing,

but gave me Grace to acquiesce

and view a bigger picture

Three corners is unstable

They buckle in turn and beg a fourth


Three demands death, two is viable

That Good Friday, my birthday,

swallowed my thenself in its grave

 

All's history today. And what

should I conclude? Some kernel of

evergreen truth was broadcast there

without a context of its own?

Wrong time! Wrong place! Wrong life! Wrong...!

But, now, its essence thrives for ever in

the Land of Resurrection where there's

no melding or giving in marriage



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carl Spitzweg - Ash Wednesday, The End of the Carnival

Copyright

© Rosy Cole 2009 - 2016

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Latest Comments

Stephen Evans Spark Plugs and Synonyms
10 December 2017
The book of John was certainly the most poetic of the gospels. :-)
Rosy Cole Spark Plugs and Synonyms
10 December 2017
Steve, in your inimitable way :-) you have come an unconventional route to the all-time, universal T...
Stephen Evans Spark Plugs and Synonyms
09 December 2017
I have just started reading Umberto Eco's Kant and the Platypus (great title ) and this basic proble...
Rosy Cole Spark Plugs and Synonyms
08 December 2017
John Betjeman likened poetry to journalism more than to poetic prose. It's a helpful comparison to b...
Stephen Evans Spark Plugs and Synonyms
07 December 2017
Neology is an under-rated science.

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