Hello Every one. Having seen that Poets United is now archived I followed the link to Poets and Story Tellers United. I admit to writing this in 2018 and thought it may sit within the requested theme. Apologies though, if it's not quite within the requested theme. It is nice to see some familiar poets / writers.

A Ballet

A Ballet:
Forbidden Love
Act 2, scenes 1 and 2

Epoch 1872: mid summer’s eve
Setting:  glade in ancient woodland
Principals: Ballerino with Prima Ballerina

Scn.1
And now, the Stradivarius begins.
With such graceful fluidity you glide;
I slide forward, in awe of your beauty.
Oh, ballerina, the dance lives for you.

Heavy hearted, and with arms open I’m
seduced by your arabesque, arms allongé
reaching for clouds that scurry across a
true love on this warm celestial night.

Scn.2
A symphonic cacophony, then hush . . .
The violin leads your adagio.
My heart falters, ragged in peasant clothes.
Sadly, I ask, ‘is this to be your swan song?’

Coquettishly, you tilt your head, listen,
the piccolos tune frees you from the trance;         
and the Stradivarius plays with gusto.
“Dear Ballerino, forever we shall dance.”

End.
Curtain call

Julian Clarke © 2025

Linked to. Poets and Story tellers United

To Spend A Day

To spend a day,

a day that’s real

without the need

where I can feel,

no want, no greed.

Without the greed

there will be time

to breathe the air

with scents of thyme,

and time to share.

With time to share

I’ll hold your hand

we’ll touch the sky

and make a stand,

to love, then sigh.

To spend a day

to love and sigh

the only need,

just you and I,

no want, no greed.

© Julian Clarke 2019

Dilemma

Redundancy hit hard. Everything gone, being a somebody, the cars, the golfing trips to Spain. But Carol walking out with the kids, now that hurt. Could life get any worse?

“You have a good day” the warden at the shelter for the homeless said.

“Yeah whatever” I muttered.

The wheelie bins stank of waste food, vomit and piss, but the old adage one man’s trash is another’s treasure. The first two rubbish bags did not live up to that, but the third, “Jeepers” I said as I closed the canvas bag and briskly walked away. And then the dilemma started, the internal conflict. Hand it into the police, or not.

           

The weeks passed and despondency had set in. “Tony Johns?” I looked up from my cold mug of tea.

“Yeah” I said “What now?”

“If you would come with us please” the policeman said.

     

The detective inspector looked me in the eyes and said “The stolen property and jewellery is very valuable, and also of great sentimentality too”

“So what has that got to do with me?”

“Actually quite a lot” said the detective inspector,

I could not believe I was hearing this “You’ve got to be joking”

The woman in the azure suit walked over from the window and smiled “No Tony he is not joking, and yes it’s of great sentimental value.” I was starting to feel the winds of change when she said “My family can’t thank you enough for handing in our property and we would like you to accept this reward by way of thanks.”

The reward enabled me to turn my life full circle, but I had no desire to be top dog with a flash car. And so here I am just trying to give something back.

“Be lucky” I said locking the door behind the last person to leave the shelter for the day.

Word count 312.

Notes
A wheelie bin would be a dumpster in the USA

© Julian Clarke 2019
Linked to Poets United

What if

What if the journey's

the destination

now did you arrive

before you got there?

What if you told me you loved me;

what if I said, I don't love you.

What if your journey

is the place to be,

then why didn't you halt

at the fork in the road?

What if your loves an apparition

what of the fool you made of me!

© Julian Clarke 2019

Linked to Poets United

The last laugh

Hello my poetry friends, first post for quite a while and a re-post at that, however I hope you enjoy it 2nd time around.

Reading a book in a trendy café

Hand wrapped around a steaming latte,

Mochas, Cappuccinos, whatever next!

Those trendy drinks can get me so vexed.

Huddled round a table some youngsters sat,

And then she said, how cool is that,

Oh my god, is that the latest smart phone

It’s so like, can I get one of my own.

To me it often makes no sense at all,

English is becoming quite farcical,

I try to keep up with the latest fads,

When did I turn into my dear old dad?

I'm getting old, but I can hold in a fart;

And when I can’t, I’ll have the last laugh.

Julian Clarke © 2019

Linked to Poetry Pantry

1977. Bus number 8

 As the nineteen sixties smoked itself into oblivion, and the last petal fell off the flower power daze, new times of exciting self expression was evolving. Being a teenager in the 1970's were certainly fun times, especially with the changes in fashion, and musical genres. The following poem was inspired by my memories of those final bus rides home from school.

Number 8 Bus

Man with a stick climbed on board
the bloke in a cap committed fraud
girl with Mohican spikey red hair
smug flat cap he dodged the fare;

the dole delinquent single mum
mohican red hair chews on gum
the dirty old stick admired her tits
noisy school kids the little gits:

on number eights smoky top deck
teenagers smoke and swear like feck
a lamenting moan of a grubby drunk
back seats reserved for safety pin punks;

the drivers driving smoking his fags
the punks are punking anarchic gags
a spot ridden face full of hate
home from school, on bus number 8.

© Julian Clarke 2019

Linked to Poets United Sunday Pantry.

Yule

Merry meet, with peace, and harmony to all at this yule time.
For those who may have fallen on desperate times, may a warm breeze brush their soul's with hope, love and happiness.

©Julian Clarke 2018

A Ballet

A Ballet:
Forbidden Love
Act 2, scenes 1 and 2

Epoch 1872: mid summer’s eve
Setting:  glade in ancient woodland
Principals: Ballerino with Prima Ballerina

Scn.1
And now, the Stradivarius begins.
With such graceful fluidity you glide;
I slide forward, in awe of your beauty.
Oh, ballerina, the dance lives for you.

Heavy hearted, and with arms open I’m
seduced by your arabesque, arms allongé
reaching for clouds that scurry across a
true love on this warm celestial night.

Scn.2
A symphonic cacophony, then hush . . .
The violin leads your adagio.
My heart falters, ragged in peasant clothes.
Sadly, I ask, ‘is this to be your swan song?’

Coquettishly, you tilt your head, listen,
the piccolos tune frees you from the trance;         
and the Stradivarius plays with gusto.
“Dear Ballerino, forever we shall dance.”

End.
Curtain call

Julian Clarke © 2018

Linked to Poets United

Poem for autumn

Hues of golden brown fall from trees

Dancing in a frenzy swirling around.

Foreboding clouds sail on blustery winds,

A watery sun slides behind one, it rains.

The dew soaked grass feels soft as silk

Shrouding the valley, a ghostly grey mist.

Just for a breath the sun rests on tree tops

Climbing slowly for a new autumn day.

© Julian Clarke 2018

Linked to Poets United

Where's that damn rabbit

It’s quite insane down here, she thought . . .
The round rabbit hole was not the problem
The rabbit hole was the solution,
The problem was the enticing jam tarts,
An eccentric chap in a tall black hat explained.
My, how mad he looked in his black top hat, she thought.

From his waist coat pocket he pulled out a round time piece.
Oh dear, oh dear, the rabbit said as he pocketed his fob watch.
Oh! you mustn’t cry, my dear, said the Knave, with a creepy sneer.
If you play your cards right, 
The cat in the corner gave a mischievous grin, for he knew the Knaves sin.
And the Knave went on, You can be my Queen of Hearts . . . if you like.

Oh, fuck off, said Alice.

© Julian Clarke. 2018