Tuesday, 27 June 2017

A study: Oil on canvs 1970

Bohemian in her semi-nude pose,
Dunhill cigarette impatiently burns
Belying loves truth of white petal rose.

Art of capriciousness in amber eyes
Captures spirit like dancing fireflies,

Lying abandoned, Pucci’s Capri pants,
A chiffon scarf her modesty covered in scant.

Of course her playfulness be cast in part
Cold Excalibur, drawn, pricks crimson heart.

Poets scribe her in gilded lily prose.
Enigmatically the painter flourished
Blood red, on lips, thorn of Baccara rose.

Julian Clarke © 2017

I shall link to Poets United Sunday Pantry 


In the sanctity of the Minevra temple
Adorned with beautiful golden hair,
The alluring Medusa could be found
Her skin like porcelain pure and fair.

Enamored by her winsome charms
Awakened Neptune’s animal lust,
Medusa mistook his courting for love
Violating her with his body he thrust.

An enraged Athena cursed Medusa
Transmuting her beautiful features,
For shattering Minerva’s holy purity
She’s now a frightening creature.

Deep sea green eyes turned to black
Writhing snakes spitting venom for hair,
No more to gaze into soulful green eyes
To stone you’d turn by her dark stare.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Saturday, 24 June 2017


Something not quite so serious in a world that's so topsy turvy and angry. An extended limerick.


There was a man with a dangly so small
The size of two garden peas were his balls,
Now he really did fret
So he searched the Internet
For a machine to make his manhood stand tall.

The apparatus he laid on the table
The instructions said, to sit on something stable
He read, it won’t take too long
The suction is very strong
Soon you’ll be hung like a donkey and able.

His John Thomas he smothered in lube
From his balls hung the weight in the shape of a cube
When he fired up the pump
The poor bugger did jump
When his manhood disappeared down the tube.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

On The West Winds Return

Enough diets of bloody violence.
Flowers in tribute for those we behold
stolen from life, now sleeping in silence;
it beggars belief, some, not ten years old.

Eyes, weeping silver blue while sad hearts bled.
And while taking hold of a neighbour’s hand
respectfully, we all lowered our heads,
with compassion, and love as one we stand.

Finding that space, to contemplate, loss, love;
to understand souls free of their being.
One day, your heart will let go a white dove
to feel spirits dancing in hues of spring.

Now nature’s wheel must continue to turn.
You may meet again, on the west winds return.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Shall link to Poets United for the Sunday pantry.

Sunday, 21 May 2017

Here is the question

Conspiracy Theory:

a truth, in theory?
a practical lie?

a theory in truth?
a lie, in practice?

a mechanism to hide behind,
to apportion anonymous deceit?

Fake News or Conspiracy Theory?

Julian Clarke © 2017.