5. Frank Colley
Once a boy soldier and teenage poet, still a glam rocker at heart.
Frank Colley lives in South Yorkshire and has been writing poetry since his teens. He has performed his poems at various venues, including CAST in Doncaster. Frank has published two pamphlets, Nantcol Waterfalls (nine Sonnets about a week camping in Wales) and The Story of Soldier A (a semi-autobiographical account of a young boy joining the Army and its aftermath). In 2023 he read at the Ripon Poetry Festival and had his poem Searching for Sanctuary highly commended and featured in the festival anthology. His poetry has also been highly commended in the King Lear Prize competition. Franks own also writes his own substack.
Poems
Searching for Sanctuary
They had walked all day and camped overnight. For as long as she remembers they walked. Sleeping in ditches or under hedgerows constantly looking for sanctuary. The heavy grey cloud following, never catching them up, a menacing presence. The leader spots a wood and the column halts. She sends two scouts on horseback ahead to see if it’s a safe place for the night. They report back that there is a hollow at its Centre, enough for everyone. The column moves slowly towards the wood. The cloud moves as if attached and settles above the treetops waiting for movement. A young boy runs from the edge of the wood he is never seen or heard of again. The women no longer cry for his loss. Too many tears have been shed on this trek Security is heightened and patrols are sent out to the edges of the wood. The column huddles together in fear. Food is shared equally and then they rest. There is silence but for a single Owl. The night passes slow, without incident. The morning as dull as all the mornings since they left the devastated city. The dark cloud had lifted slightly, for once. Following them as the set of once more. It became angry shouting and shooting bolts of fire scattering the shocked column. Yet, there was a pattern to its target. It seemed to be sending them towards the wood. Maybe they had found sanctuary. They returned to the hollow and settled the cloud then slowly disintegrated letting the sunshine through, warming the earth. <<<
A Hull Sonnet
A band of poets, park themselves and make a stand. Where Larkins ivory tower remains fringed in shrubbery overgrown, overlooking the common, dark and eerie. They trawled for stories at the edge of town. Verse echoed from the bandstand throughout the park. They walked in the footsteps of poets, and drank in the same pubs. Found the road to the city well-travelled, straight, and long. Waited for you on Terry Street, but you never showed, sweet Minerva called, so they left transitory buildings once immortalised in word by city poets who, like its ships, have faded into the mist as kings scuppered in the mud constantly moving, ever-shifting forward, like time that rushes from a sun-bronzed Whitsun station to sea-spur rhyme with splendid friends on vacation <<<
Aberfan
It was there in black and white all the rain of the previous night. Brought the slag heap crushing down smothering the children in the nearby town. A school day just like mine, though I return to my home. To flickering pictures in monochrome They dug with their fingers through tears of distress under arc lights and spotlights supplied by the press. White lines streaked down their coal-black faces. Finding schoolbooks, pencils and shoes without laces. The queen paid a visit and read her speech an elegy for children that no one would teach. To mothers and fathers with no tears left just a hole, in a valley, a valley bereft. <<<
Six Word Poem
Glass, Ice Lemon, Vodka Drink, Ahhhhhh. <<<
Yet Another Monday Morning
Yet another Monday morning this one started with The Doors. Strange Days moved on to Deep Blue Something, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Who’s Next, Behind Blue Eyes, but I Won’t Get Fooled Again. There were some Rumours, Dreams a Songbird and Oh Daddy I tried To Set The Night On Fire, due to Riders on The Storm and this is, finally, The End: <<<
Gypsy Lane
Yes, this is where it all ended, Glam Rock. Gypsy Lane, an insignificant by-road in Barnes. A foxy mini left the road, bringing instant death. A local woman saw me there, couldn’t understand the teardrop on my cheek, which was upsetting. Offered me tea, I declined, what did she know? A rare butterfly flitted and then landed nearby, a message to tell the story, his story, my story. The story of the king of Glam Rock and how it all ended here, on that fateful morning. All those years ago, all those years ago. <<<