Sunday, 10 June 2018

Hello fellow poets and writers.
With the tennis season about to serve up some exciting sport; my thought, to capture just a little of those traditions that complement the event.


Center Court

Summer rain wild fruits
Sweet succulent Strawberries,
Wimbledon, Champagne.

© Julian Clarke 2018


I shall link to Poets United Sunday Pantry

Saturday, 2 June 2018

Beautiful box, full of temptation


With one thing and another I've not made a good enough effort to find time to write, what with going to London to see the Rolling Stones (they still rock, awesome) in concert the other weekend and the arrival of summer.
And on to my latest offering, loosely based on mythology. 


Beautiful Box, full of temptation

A butterfly child from blood of all gods
gathered a cursed figment from wild heathlands,
gently placed in a fine box, ignorant
to repercussions of times shifting sands.

Dryads, of virtue and innocence, safe
placed the box in forests of ancient oak;
here nature encompassed forthright and just,
secured in naivety from human folk.

The beautiful box with fine marquetry
uneasily balanced on every one’s mind.
Mysterious vipers, carved in relief,
tempted evil temptation from mankind.

Skies blustered nimbus obscuring the sun,
and the smiles distort as faces grimace;
all stars and all darkness combined as one.
Feeling the ark flounder in the rat race.

June 2018 © Julian Clarke


Sunday, 6 May 2018

The man in the moon


Sadly, I have not set by enough time for writing the last couple of weeks, therefore, I thought I would re-post one of my pieces from 2015. Hopefully, at some point I will get round to writing part two.

The man in the moon

The evil witch jealous of our love cursed you to a life on the moon. I caught a glimpse of you while you looked down in the light of its silvery halo. I wanted to hold you one more time and play with your soulful mind. And then you were gone as dark clouds of the night obscured my view of you.

Unshackling the chains of my earthly bonds I climbed the tallest tree. The lunar light back lit the cloud showing off its silvery lining. I heard you cry from way up high, a silvery thread has come lose you can catch it as the cloud sails by.

Nearer and nearer drifted the cloud as the thread unravelled to the ground. But to my dismay the dark witch of the night started sewing with all her might. A gust of wind blew the cloud away as the dark witch made her final stitch. I could see a tear in the corner of your eye as you slowly came back into view, I sat in the top of the old oak tree my heart aching, Oh what can I do.

From the bough of the old oak a deep voice spoke, you once saved me from the woodman’s axe. To you, my dues I shall pay now climb onto my broad green leaf. A little unsure I held on tight as the night sky kept changing hues. With a shiver of his trunk the old oak said, good luck and fare thee well.

How the wind blue and carried me away. Up and up, swirling around right up to the stars I flew. You reached out clasping my hand and pulled me into the white light of the silvery moon.

We skipped and danced upon the dusty ground, and then I looked and found I was alone. I crawled to the edge and saw you on the leaf floating all the way back down to home. To break the curse, you had to return to earth and seek the white witch who dwells in the Spring Lands. For she alone would cast her spell and send the evil curse down to the depths of hell.

But meanwhile on a bright night if you look to the skies in June, you may just see a rugged face. For now; I am the man in the moon.

April 2015

© Julian Clarke 2015

Linked to Poets United, Sunday Pantry




Sunday, 29 April 2018

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 © April 2018


Tuesday, 17 April 2018

The last laugh

I wonder, do we all get to a stage in life when the vocabulary of the self obsessed younger generation begins to sound ridiculous, as the lack of our comprehension and intolerance of this over empowered breed increases with our ageing days: or is it just me? 

For example: "I was like" is now used as part of their sentence construction and is, just so like out of context: the rant continues.

I was like, so angry. 
No, no, no, you were either angry or you were not angry.

Can I get a glass of wine? 
No, you can not get it, the bar tender is there to serve you.

OMG, I was so but, yeah.
What the bloody hell is that one about?


The Last Laugh

Reading a book in a trendy café
Hand wrapped around a steaming latte;
Mochas, Cappuccinos, whatever next,
Those trendy drinks can make me so vexed.

Huddled at 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 may be old but I can hold in a fart
And when I can’t, I’ll have the last laugh.

Julian Clarke © 2018

Sunday, 8 April 2018

Dusk and Daylight

If I were a post, iron straight and upright,
If I were a post would you be my lamp?
You’d be my guide and light up the night
I would be your genie, your shining champ’.

If I were paper, a fine piece of parchment,
If I were parchment would you be my quill?
You’d write of love with a nib dipped in scent
I‘d be your wax seal of my own free will.

If I were a question, one question for you,
If I were your day, would you be my night?
You would ask me why I ask this of you. I’d
Reply, twice we’d meet, at dusk and daylight.

© Julian Clarke 2018

Linked to Poets United

Friday, 30 March 2018

A Summers Portrait

This year I entered five pieces into the Eisteddfod. I was thrilled for three of my entries to achieve certification, a first class and two merit certificates. Below is my poem which achieved the first class certificate. I must admit I was really pleased with my flash fiction story, Robyn Hood being awarded a certificate, I find this form of writing exceptionally challenging. All pieces can be found here on my blog should you wish to read them.
The Guernsey Eisteddfod is affiliated to the British Federation of Festivals of Music, Dance and Speech.

A summers portrait

Soft summer breeze in fluttering leaves,
Poem
click image to enlarge
homemade lemonade, strawberries and cream.
Dappled shade under fruiting apple trees.

Grandpa's, creaky, rickety rocking chair
where rests his moth eaten Panama hat.
Memories full of mouth-watering fare.

Squeals of laughter riding the garden gate,
dip in, dip out of a water sprinkler.
Fine innocence of a summers portrait.

Julian Clarke © 2018


Poem
click image to enlarge
Flash Fiction
click image to enlarge

Sunday, 25 March 2018

Nature and poetry.

I don't have any new poems at present, and so I thought I would share with you the first days of spring, post equinox, in my country garden. 

This morning we had a visit from six beautiful Gold Finches with their striking red flashes, feeding on bibbits in the grass; our resident Robin perched on the chicken run keeping a beady eye as I did the first weeding of the season round the apple tree. Blue Tits busy harvesting tiny twigs to build their nest; and those cockerels with confused body clocks! how they crow down in the meadow.

Nature, our natural form of poetry is tempestuous, and then beautifully graceful with her turning seasons and cycles of fertility and death, wrapped in her own fragility.

Sunday, 18 March 2018

Dark Horizons

How many will cry beneath darkened skies?
The zephyr’s warmth chills to a frosty blue
the fragility’s there for all to see;
war words in the game of diplomacy:

politicians talk for the populous
and now, escalation, incredulous!

And there, lost within a volley of words
hides a greying truth, a boil laced with lies
and the tears will fall under cloudy skies.
How many will die beneath darkened skies?

Julian Clarke © 2018




Sunday, 11 March 2018

I hear your song

Gone, gone: on the west wind I hear your song,
The breath of your soul sweeps through to my heart
As winter leaves danced and scattered, then settled,
Lay frozen, crystallised in pure white snow.

Your life had reasons laid out in a line
Many of them good ones bearing no lies.

Spring exudes beauty, only you compare
Like nature nurtures new life to the world,
And smiles, with sun flowers of summer;
Gone, gone: on the west wind I hear your song.

Notes:
How ever you decide to interpret my poem, it is not one of sadness, but full of wonderful memories of an exceptional person.

Julian Clarke © 2018


Linked to Sunday Pantry at Poets United


Sunday, 18 February 2018

Dysfunction


And the guns of dysfunction still clatter
And the forked tongue of dysfunction still spurns,
And the minds of the sick are left mindless:
And the dysfunction of politicians
And the ignorance of consequence . . . no matter?
And the guns of dysfunction still shatter.

© Julian Clarke 2017

Why not take a visit to Poets United



Sunday, 28 January 2018

Robyn Hood

            The lady pushed her hair behind her ears and then slipped the incriminating photos back into the envelope. She knew of, but did not agree with the back-handers Jason had taken over the years; it was his infidelity and devious lies that cut her right to her core.
    “Damn you,” she muttered, and sitting forward looked from keyboard to screen as she attached the scanned images to the E. mail. Momentarily her manicured finger hovered over the mouse; she paused, took a deep breath and clicked send.       
*
            Councillor Jason Hood placed his Audi keys on the glass topped desk and took the post-it his P.A had stuck to the monitor. Don’t forget Robyn’s wedding anniversary present, table’s booked at Pierre’s 7.30 pm.
            Coffee in one hand and mouse in the other Jason navigated the cursor to the E. mail with, URGENT, in the subject bar.
    “What the …” he said, as he stared in disbelief at the images of himself and the wife of a prominent businessman in a compromising embrace, he read the text. Tomorrow, 7am usual routine, health suite, leave £10,000 in used notes in locker, swim, go to work, deviate from instructions your wife and newspapers will receive copies of images. Jason’s usual coolness of character left him as beads of cold sweat soaked his armpits. He felt sick to his stomach at the realisation that his rising political career was about to take a huge nose dive into oblivion if he did not act wisely. Robyn, well, he had to admit she still looked a charm on his arm, but he was starting to get quite bored of their marriage.
*
            Robyn put down her glass of Chablis and picked up her mobile from the table.
    “Jason?” Cheryl asked.
    “Yeah,” she said, then pressed reject.
Cheryl reached across and gave her friends hand a reassuring squeeze.
    “I’ll be fine, Cheryl, honestly”.
            Robyn sat back feeling relieved that she felt no guilt about the package containing ten thousand pounds she’d shoved through, ‘Night Shelter for the Homeless’ letter box earlier that morning.
            As they left the wine bar and crossed the road Cheryl heard her friend drop something, it hit the gutter with a clink before disappearing down the drain.
    “Robyn, you’ve just dropped something down the …”
    “Oh, it’s nothing, just a meaningless key I should have thrown out ages ago”.

Julian Clarke © 2017


Sunday, 21 January 2018

Guernsey

The passenger ship approaches Guernsey,
Picturesque Isle of Herm off the port side,
Old Castle Cornet full of history
The militia once defended with pride.

At anchor, a cruise liner in the bay
Ships tenders, like ants in comparison,
Bringing tourists ashore for the day, some
Will visit Fort George, the old garrison.

Standing to attention the stevedore cranes
Harbour walls embracing the yacht basin,
Fishing boats offload the catch of the day
To meet the ebbing tide they must hasten.

Locals having fun in their pleasure boats
Coming and going are the visiting yachts,
Diving cormorants hunt in the harbour
Flying high is the common guillemot.

A bump and a nudge the ferry makes fast,
Smiling passengers eagerly alight.
Off to the town with its cobbled high street
Flowers in bloom are a delightful sight.

One can feel the influence from France
Dan’s Le Pollet est le Petite Bistro,
Up from La Plaiderie a Sarnian dance
The accordionist swaying to and fro.

Narrow Cow Lane leads to the old harbour
Livestock once passed here for slaughter,
An arched entrance has long since gone
Once led to square riggers on the water.

Al fresco lunch at the Terrace Café
Amazing views to Herm, Jethou and Sark,
Local lobster’s the fresh catch of the day
Or a traditional dish of Guernsey Bean Jar.

Visit the museum of Victor Hugo
At Hauteville House his home in exile.
Poetic decorations, preserved, on show
Wonderful wall hangings of rich textiles.

The old quarter with its quaint narrow streets
Second hand wares and antiques on sale.
Alleyways twist and turn with steps so steep
Lamp light walks with many a ghostly tale.

© Julian Clarke 2017

Linked to Poetry Pantry



Sunday, 17 December 2017

Your Gift

Celebrate
the space in your soul,
where love
 flows like a summers babbling brook;
where glistening stars
star in a warm velvet night.
The sprinkle of
 a sparkle of compassion,
absorbing the gift of the breath of peace.
And sharing a true love . . . most whole heartedly.

Julian Clarke © Dec' 17



Sunday, 10 December 2017

Yellow Affairs

The weather here is quite ghastly, wind, rain and just pah! and so I thought I'd post a piece with a Summery feel.

***
The Provencal sun lights vibrant blooms golden saffron, 
a Van Gogh, a picture so perfect;

a buzzing bee follows the scent of the sunflowers’ nectar
wafting on a warm southern breeze.

Splodged on an artist’s palette amidst the whites and ochre's
a squeezed tube spews cadmium lemon,

light delicate brush strokes capture the bees’ colourful bands
in shades of blacks and deep yellow.

The beauties of nature’s distractions momentarily lure him,
a painted lady teasingly bathes in warm summer rays . . .

the artist sits back and ponders on where to paint next year,
they say Italy’s nice, but is Naples really yellow?

Julian Clarke © 2016

Linked to Poets United  and  Real Toads