Tuesday, 9 April 2019

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

Sunday, 3 February 2019

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.

Monday, 24 December 2018

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

Saturday, 8 December 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

Sunday, 14 October 2018

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

Thursday, 11 October 2018

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 crymy 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

Sunday, 29 July 2018

Breath


Few a few months now I've not had any inspiration to write, and so, here is a re post of a piece I wrote in 2015. However, as the melancholy feeling of the anniversary of a loved one draws forever nearer, maybe this will create a spark of inspirational light; for as we know, poets, story tellers and artists are quite an emotional breed, and we tend to feed of deep rooted feelings.


Breath
is our being.
Being is beautiful, and
being with you is as beautiful
as the breath itself.
Take nothing for granted,
appreciate the love
our breath
gives.

Julian Clarke © 2015 / 2018

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.