Joe Cole

Joe Cole Nov 28

Jumbled words crawl across the page
I care not about the jumble because they are my words
I see clouds billowing, seething like some wild thing
Crawling across the sky
You see jumbled tumbling clouds
I look out of my window and see a fuchsia still flowering
Proud despite the time of year
Here I go again, words just tumbling cross the page
Words that only make sense to me

Joe Cole Aug 29

My South Country

For many long years I have wandered
And many long miles I have roamed
But a voice in my head is now calling
Calling me back to my south country home

I have walked in your tropical forests
Experienced the hot desert sun
Climbed the mountains snow capped peaks
In your lakes and blue sea I have swum

Now a voice in my head is calling me back
To the rolling green hills of my home
Back to the place where I was born
To walk again through the pine woods
Beneath the war summer sun

Many years ago I did leave her
I was a youth so fearless and bold
Now I hear my south country calling me back
To the place where I can grow gracefully old

I will never forget the friends that I made
As I wandered your far distant shores
And if ever you visit my south country
You will see a welcoming sign on my door

Joe Cole Aug 29

Just Words

I can't write the words like some of you can do
I can only write the words that in my mind come into view
I can't write words of devotion or never ending love
The inspiration for my words comes from somewhere up above
Yes words about the sea and the gently rolling hills
These are words I know and sometimes get to use
Words can be things of beauty but sometimes cruel and harsh
Some words can tell of sadness while others make you laugh
Some words of fellow poets here cover every point of view
My words are plain and simple but I share my words with you

Joe Cole Aug 29

Jumbled Thoughts

I know many of you sit for hours
Pen and paper to hand
Making sure that every word is perfect
To write the perfect line
Now me well I just can't do that
Words jumbled up inside
I just type the words from my scrambled mind
And yes, occasionally they rhyme
You see words are just our written thoughts
Jumbled thoughts laid out to read
Just take the words from in your head
so that everyone can see

Joe Cole Aug 29

Just Me

Here you can write of many things
Of happiness or sad
Or like me write of creaking bones
And the good times that I've had
Our poetry speaks of many things
Some good and some so bad
Of deep emotions held inside
Some things that make you sad
You see your words will cross a thousand miles
Some distant person will understand
So take up the pen and write the words
And become a better man.

You see Just Me poetry can become a release of emotions, better here than on some therapists couch. Here we come from all walks of life, here some person 10 thousand miles away will always understand....Joe

Joe Cole Aug 29

Now Just A Broken Man

I sit and write because my hands still work and my mind still sharp
My brain and legs no longer communicate, my cane my new best friend
You see at age 22 you think you're bullet proof and don't think about tomorrows
You climb mountains with a hundred pounds on your back and your legs
do run for miles
Do I feel sorry for myself? No because I always remember the good times
I had and don't think about tomorrows
I sit here now a broken man, no more walking my dogs for me
My pain meds always close at hand taken with a cup of tea
I've lived a long life, longer than some and can still smile through the pain
There's many a lot worse of than me
So I say to all you young people who might read this don't think about tomorrow
No, think about 20 years or maybe 30, think of your body as a car engine
Abuse it now then next week maybe next year or even 30 years,
Like a badly serviced car engine something is going to break
I leave you with these few words, Live for today but live sensibly,
Abuse your body and for some tomorrow will never come

Broken in body but not in spirit

Joe Cole Mar 18

A Crystal Stream

I had a dream about a crystal stream
Where poets once wrote and young lovers dreamed
About the beautiful years to come

Now the crystal stream is a fetid place
Or sewage and industrial waste
The hedgerows long ripped out and gone
Once green fields now ripped and torn
And the beautiful years have gone

But still the poets sit and dream
And write about what might have been
They sit and write about the crystal stream
About how young lovers held hands and dreamed
About the beautiful years to come
But I no longer sit and dream
Because the beautiful years have gone

This is a re write of something I posted many years ago but now almost daily I read about how a beautiful Southern chalk streams are being poisoned by raw sewage and chemicals being washed off of farmland. Where have the beautiful years of my childhood gone?