The Good Ole Days?

Time creeps up on us the older we grow

Bent and wizened like an ancient oak tree,

Grasping the future all those years ago

The golden ole days seem the place to be.

           

A song on the radio from yesteryear

Long summer days drenched in the sun,

Wistful memories and lives without fear

A night out with friends having so much fun.

            Now

What if the past was turned upside down

What if the future was flipped all around?

Would we still yearn for the good ole days

And not look back in a rose tinted haze.

            So

How would we welcome the oncoming past?

            With

Imminent conflicts, other people’s wars

A time long before the smart mobile phone,

No Wi Fi or texting so how would we cope

No long haul travel holidaying at home.

            And

The 1970’s a decade of strikes

Fuelling an era of dissent,

Skyward inflation with many price hikes

Bitter was the winter of discontent.

            But

What if we enjoyed the here and now?

What if looked on with a little less haste,

What if we’re more forgiving to others?

Live for the moment in a calmer place. 

© Copyright Julian Clarke 2016

Cover Girl

Whilst having coffee in a cafe I overheard a converstion between a couple of ladies which inspired the following.

Cover Girl

To pout like a sexy cover girl 
My age says I’m out of luck,
So I bought a course of Botox
I now have the lips of a duck.

To be slim like a cat walk model
Pert breasts, long legs and doe eyes,
My boobs and bum have gone south
That’s something I really despise.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Journal's Entry

Inside a café, from a worn torn place:

Balanced on upturned palm and held high one has to sigh in amazement that even in these anguished times you manage to glide like a ballerina ‘tween your chipped tile topped tables. Perhaps to an imaginary adagio where the tempos set and with lyricism your hips dip to your own metronomes click with not a drop spilt from the glasses full of illusion, using the term illusion lightly as by contrast in distrustful times can so often bring euphoric disillusion. 

To understand the hardship of life here is hard. And so to respectfully observe your selfless poetical grace, your smile and general bonne-amie of which you reserve for all to see; when deep within, like all in this nerve twisting place you must feel that tonight, tomorrow may never come. But to digress and to confess it’s easy to succumb to terrifying thoughts, however, this evening outside the café the sound of the guns have stopped, and since daybreak no bombs have dropped, for now, at least…here’s hoping tonight we can rest tired eyes, hopefully sleep in peace.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Young lady from Diss

A delightful young lady from Diss

A night on the town she did miss

Her boyfriend Jim Tucker

Who was my good mucker

Wanted more than a cuddle and kiss

This delightful young lady from Diss

Would only give Jim Tucker a kiss

Put his hand to her breast

Only to feel a hairy chest

He thought something’s gravely amiss

Jim Tucker was definitely not pleased

With what resembled a carrot and two peas

She said "I think I'm in luck"

Jim said "I don't think so my duck"

As she tried to give his thigh a good squeeze.

©Julian Clarke 2016
Linked to Monday writes
Linked to Poetry Pantry

Man in the moon

This is one that I'm re visiting from 2015, I thought it rather apt as today the moon is about 30,000 miles closer to earth than normal.

***************

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, 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 and took 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 only she could break the 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.

©Julian Clarke 2015


(to be continued with part 2 at a later date)

Flloyd

Tugging on a

memory of hope

living a lie smoking

too much dope

became paranoid

gave it a name

called it Flloyd.

Flloyd was alive

out to get me said he

worked for M.I. 5;

in my solitary cell

called it despair

no one comes

no one cares;

memories
 of hope

fade bit by bit

in a sneering way
I heard him say

Just get over it.

Hey Flloyd

I’m not letting

you out to play

but I roll a spliff

pull some tokes

Flloyd knocks on

the door of my mind

giggle and laugh right

in his face....yo, Flloyd

try and be nice today.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Samhain

To walk through summer’s final veil between the fractures of our worlds as shrouds of autumn mists escape the dawn; now is the time to tread lightly on dew soaked land to merry meet natures guardian hand for she will guide us to a gate, and by her Hazel portal I will wait in stillness of mind. Slowly, anticipation creeps deep within for to feel the door will soon ajar when once again I’ll pause in her tide as she brings your light to my side, to touch my soul… once again to be my guide.

*Tide as in period of time / season.

©Julian Clarke 2016

Emotional Insanity

Incarcerated by limitations of one’s own ideas, tormented the composer flapped the manuscript about as though swatting lazy summer flies; candle wax dripped as shadows cast danced upon the ceiling. It was not the symphonic sound as notes fell from stave to ground the music maker wished to hear; a crotchet, in fear, lay amidst the quavers, and the rests, of course semibreves heaved a sigh and discordant silence fell across the room, quiet, still . . . the old composer climbed upon the wooden second floor window sill.

Not the fall from bed to floor that woke me, but the shout of Eureka! outside my bedroom window, and there prancing like the devil himself the composer skipped in circles waving the manuscript as though fanning imaginary flames. Eyes agog I watched him reel as he fell to kneel and kissed the dirt with exclaims, I’ve taken by the girth the birth of an idea in celebration of our mother earth, to compose a piece encapsulating the beauty of her four season. I looked to my unfinished painting of vibrant yellow flowers, oh the insanity of that damn fool composer I thought whilst seeking my reflection in the vanity glass; lightly I touched the bloodied image of my right ear, soon the pain will pass.

© Julian Clarke 2016

October

I have been suffering with writers block these past couple of weeks, and so here's one I wrote from 2014.

The dew soaked grass feels soft as silk
Shrouding the valley floats a ghostly mist,
Just for a breath the sun rests on tree tops
Climbing slowly for a new autumn day.

Golden brown leaves fall from the trees
Dancing in a frenzy swirling around
Foreboding clouds sail on blustery winds
A watery sun hides behind one, it rains.

© Julian Clarke 2014

Guiding Light

Woe was the bleakness in my darkest time
Heart leaden grey in gravity of mourn;
The light in your soul a haven of love
T’was your grace, for I found none from above.

Thou sowed my soul in the garden of hope
Whilst balancing our lives in tenderness,
Lavenders bouquet scents warm summer air
Reminding always of true love thou share.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Silken Scarf

Only words
bind us together

emotive, powerful yet destructive
hate you, adore you, you’re so Aargh!

just a sound, shapes scribbled down

intangible, yes, but still

scratch hearts with sadness:

only words I throw at you

not fists nor china cups of

cracked mouldy blue:

words are the weave

that wove our love...

to lose myself in you

to be a silken scarf

to warm your throat

whence words flow true;

oh to close my eyes and

touch a memory held so tight,

let words fall in the shape of a kiss

onto my longing lips this winter’s night.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Yellow Rose

I saw a yellow rose just now
It made me think of you,
Even though the day was grey
Its colour warmed the blue.

I felt the prick of blackthorn tree
As I recalled our crossed words,
And then a Skylark sang so sweet
No longer did it hurt.

I once fell down a rainbow
Searching for a pot of gold
A clattering and a tumbling
Now it's you I want to hold.

I saw a yellow rose just now
So radiant in its hue
I pursed my lips and blew a kiss
For it made me think of you.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

The Ballad of Eva and Jack Marella

This is an experimental piece written in the form of a ballad. The inspiration is sourced from, in this case, Germanic folklore; Nixie also appears in Scandinavian, Celtic, Nordic and other mythology's by other names.
The actual story told in the ballad of Eva and Jack Marella is from my imagination.

Note to Poem

Nixie, in Germanic ancient folklore is a shape-shifting water fairy and is infamous for singing enchanted songs to lure human prey to watery deaths. The Nixie is usually a malicious female mermaid, and the Nix is her male counterpart. 

The Ballad of Eva and Jack Meralla

Soft lilting songs from the depths of

yellow and orange sun glazed waters,

Jack’s fishing boat now becalmed

Enchanted by Nixie’s belying charm;

And then the runes were cast so fast

As Nixie sang Eva downed her glass

Eva Marella knows not of sobriety

A raconteur of fables in gaiety.

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de doo

Oh Fiddle de diddle de fiddle de dowe.

Now Jack Marella sings a shanty

Tied to the mast in a bottle of glass

Never again will he hold his soul

Till Nixie’s paid in doubloons of gold;

Mrs Marella head under her arm

Around her feet they swirled

Eva Marella sways to shanty

In drunkenness on gin and brandy.

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de doo

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de dowe.

Nixie why’d you to steal Jack’s soul

You green eyed siren of the deep

Eva she cried, “Oh sing to me”

With all your mystical beauty;

Mrs Marella she danced with Nixie

Never to gaze into her deep green eyes,

Under clear skies that night in June

Vowed she’d win him back none too soon.

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de doo

fiddle de diddle de fiddle de dowe.

Not brandy, nore gin had been her sin

Since she vowed to win Jack back

For pieces of gold she told old fables

In the tavern round cider soaked tables;

As Eva Marella stowed the boats oars

Over the gunwale went the doubloons;

She woke next morning in marital bed

To Mr Marella kissing her forehead.

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de doo

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de dowe

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de doo

Oh fiddle de diddle de fiddle de dowe.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Posted for and linked Poets United

Raven

Friday night crossed the day and
By dawn, sadly, you’ll be gone.
Mist, translucent in hue drift
To minstrel’s tune in auburn air.

I lay feeling your warmth upon
my spirit. Slowly the change
from young to old complete.

Swimming up through rivers of
Time, not drowning and still
Without one single goodbye
You leave the branching hang
From bough and I watch you rise
Through ragged light as day slides
From the night; majestically, gone.

©Julian Clarke 2016

Blessings

Tis a

blessing

to know ones

own limitations;

for may we then show 

due tolerance towards

Others shortcomings.

Summers Dream

You came to me on a sweet summers dream

Passing through worlds of magic and men,

A dragon fly guarded the gate between

You’d sing and dance in this beautiful glen.

Now most of us find it hard to conceive

Of the parallel world of our ancient way,

Listen so hard and you must believe

Open your eyes let your mind run away.

Do not be fooled by her beauty and charm

Her pretty little nose and delicate wings,

Her mystical magic may well do you harm

If you don’t respect all of nature s things.

You came to me on a sweet summers dream

Passing through worlds of magic and men,

I wonder if you will come here again,

To sing and dance in this beautiful glen.

© Julian Clarke

The Legend of Cherokee Rose

My poem is after these photos and short write up.

I took these photos whilst holidaying in North Carolina. Above is the entrance to the Indian reservation in the Great Smokey Mountains in North Carolina, life is shown as it was before the Indian removal act was signed into law by President Andrew Jackson on May 28, 1830.

Below is one of the rivers flowing through the mountains.

White Cherokee Rose found on the trail of tears, 

this image is from the internet,

The following poem was inspired by the persecution of the Cherokee Nation by the white settlers. They were displaced from their own lands and had to walk approximately 2200 miles from here, and neighbouring areas such as Georgia, to Oklahoma. This became known as the trail of tears where many died.

The Legend of Cherokee Rose

In the year of eighteen thirty,

White settlers wanted more land

Congress passed “the Indian removal act”

And so their displacement began.

From Georgia to Oklahoma

Lies “the trail where they cried”

The weather grew bad disease took hold,

Thousands of Cherokee Indians died.

Children perished along the way,

Mother hearts filled with grief,

Prayers for a sign to lift their spirits

Offered up by the five Indian chiefs.

Their prayers had been answered

To help lift the women folk soles,

For where a tear fell to the ground,

A beautiful rose did grow.

Five petals, for the five major clans,

A yellow centre for the unmined gold;

And so a legend was born,

The legend of Cherokee rose. 

© Julian Clarke 2016

Below shows the view looking down onto the morning mists floating over the mountain valley.

Crises

Shocking to think in our advanced world that this is allowed to continue.

In 

abject

 poverty

women trudge

earthenware pots

balanced on heads

fetching water

not fit for

consumption

many dying of

starvation.

Violent conflicts

guns rat tat tattle

follow the red dot

see where it stops

eye sight  down

the rifle barrel,

a young girl

takes aim,

with blood,

her hands

are stained.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Vieil Amour (Old Love)

Note to poem:
Reflecting on years gone by when young hearts experimented with romance. I remember in a hazy daze of pulling white petals from a daisy, saying with each petal,

* she loves me?….. she loves me not….. she loves me?
    elle m’aime? …  elle m’aime ne pas… elle m’aime?

* oui, elle a chanté  je t’aime, je t’aime.
   Yes, she sang, I love you, I love you

And then I got to thinking, why should only the young enjoy these pleasures?
Why not those who have shared long lives together?


Vieil Amour

*Elle m’aime? softly to his wife of thirty years wed
From gnarled fingers slipped a petal of soft rose red
And so serenely floating down to gently rest
On semi naked skin of crinkled velvet breast,
Her young beauty still lay within, on silken bed.

Elle m’aime ne pas, he whispered full of tenderness
Knowing each intimate want with confident caress
Soft music and fine wine with his charm she’s entranced
Oh to the song of his moist lips her nipple danced;
Elle m’aime? he said his voice full of romantic stress.

Elle m’aime? . . . Elle m’aime ne pas, . . . Elle m’aime?
Bathed in sunlight, petals of red and virgin white
*Oohh la la oui, elle a chanté  je t’aime, je t’aime.

Posted for Poets United mid week motif, the song of a single word

Dreams

I took this photo this morning at 8.30 am, the blue sky through the beauty of the tree captured my inspiration; but what was really stunning were the two birds of prey riding the thermals above.

Dreams

I saw you in my dreams last night

I reached out to touch your face,

My hand went through your skin

And then your image dissipates.

Like a reflection in the water

That’s broken by a pebble

The ripples go on forever

Like warm memories

Of lost lovers.

The morning

Chased my dream

Away and there you

Were still sleeping, I lent

Over to kiss your face, and 

You smiled as you were waking.

The alarms shrilling ring-ring-ring

Was I really still dreaming; slowly,

Eyes opening; you were softly sleeping.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Acceptance

Sssshh, listen to the sound of songbirds calling
Vivid hues and melodious tones of vibrancy,
Whirlpools in your eyes, oh my love’s cascading;

So catch me in your truth and trust,
Fine elegance in fun and lust:

Gracefully, you share your soul with no pretence
In simplicity, and unconditional love,
Our hearts entwined and vowed in true acceptance.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Posted for Poets United mid-week motif, Acceptance

For a special lady

Spirits, free, dancing amidst Willow leaves,
Loved ones reach out in hope they will listen,
Bashfull, dainty, for those who know, believe;
As virgin dawns lay soft while dews glisten.

Such beauty of dappling sunlight, warming,
Warmth to the touch of the stone where you lay;
Your naked truth on warm west winds, riding
Free of old chains that bound you to today.

But the destiny of time still takes hold;
Childlike you worry at a loose silk thread
While mumbling on memories now so old,
Lifes tapestry rests, worn, against bedhead.

For your soul to be free amidst the trees,
No more indignity . . . but still you wait
For gentil westing winds to ride with ease,
To rest far beyond the summer lands gate.

©Julian Clarke 2016

Exercise your right

Voiceless, and

bound by chains of society,

no suffrage for women of the day

suffragettes bound in chains

advocating there right to a say;

political, militant, activists

a debt owed to courageous ladies

the free life you have, belief and hope

don’t complain when you don’t exercise your vote.

© Julian Clarke 2016

July 21st. Posted for

Poets United mid week Motiff, Suffrage the right to vote

Lost Childhood

How some children manage to do these daily chores before school, in war torn, or disease ridden conditions that one can not imagine. 

School, well that's if they are lucky enough to be able to go to one. 

Lost Childhood

Sun

scorched

before school,

water drips like a tear drop,

mesmerised by the unfairness, I stop;

your head bows to your reflection

cupped hands break the tension;

and daily,

tear drop, by tear drop

water trickles through fingers… it seeps;

sleight ebony shoulders weigh so heavy,

laden, the vessel’s half the size of,

no matter whether girl, or boy;

now

look from the image on your t.v screen

your youngster plays with a new toy:

and still

tear drop, by tear drop

water trickles through fingers… it seeps;

sleight ebony shoulders weigh so heavy,

laden, the vessel’s half the size of,

no matter, girl, or boy;

my heart weeps;

step by step

they go 

bare

feet.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Happy Days

Granparents have a natural flair for creating family gatherings that become beautiful memories to reflect upon years later.

Happy Days

Summers breeze in lush fluttering leaves,

homemade lemonade, strawberry ice cream;

dappled shade under fruiting cherry trees:

still there, your old rickety rocking chair

and that aged, month eaten straw boater hat,

memories spill of mouth watering fare:

squeals of laughter riding the garden gate 

dip in, dip out of a cold lawn sprinkler;
fine innocence of a summer's portrait.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Should you have a minute to spare you are more than welcome to have a look around, maybe leave a comment, or want to get in touch please feel free to do so.

Princess

This months open mic prompt for July was decided upon;             

click here for open mic details

prompt 

Media,or The Media.

the tradgic emotive events of
 that parisian night in 1997

 inspired this short poem.

I feel the hard jerkyness of this 

piece is needed to help convey

the speed of a violent tradgedy.

Princess

Pap’s
and hacks
hot pursuit
paris night;
shutters whir
lenses blink
cameras flash;
fast she fled
under pass
head on crash;
turbid truth
final breath
final sigh:
early dawn
cascading
flowers
english
rose.

Breath

The best gift ever, for everyone; for without it where would we be.

Breath

Breath is our being, being is beautiful,

being with you is as beautiful

as breath itself;

take nothing for granted

appreciate the love our breath gives.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Beautiful Moments

Being in love with you fills me with pride
Delicate butterflies fluttering inside,
Anticipating your sweet tasting kiss
Feels like I’m in heaven; wonderful bliss.

Breast on chest lips to lips
Physical tension, a heartbeat skips,
Lying entwined in your loving arms
Tranquil moments of peaceful calm.

Ebbing Away

David, what is that ring ringing?

it’s your phone Gran,

oh . . . hello, hello . . . no one there,

no Gran, that’s the t.v control;

yes my fetch my coat it’s rather cold,

Gran, I said, it’s  . . .

my dear now please don’t interrupt,

and what is that incessant ringing?

*

Aggressive,

no matron, I don’t understand

she’s always so caring and kind

with such a sharp and witty mind.

*

Hello Gran, how are you today?

do I know you?

oh Gran, it’s me, come on, you know; 

you run along and get my tea.

it’s me, David;

I want some of those nice biscuits too;

Stupid boy, David is long dead.

Now sad despair etched his heart with dread.

My Sweetheart

I had no idea from the start
You’d give me the key to your heart,
You turn my darkness into light
And make my day feel so right.

As the autumn leaves start to fall
I can hear you softly call,
Now let’s get the home fires burning
Draw the curtains come sit with me.

I had no idea from the start
You would give me the key to you heart,
A sweet kiss from your sensual lips
A perfect way to end my day.

I’ll give all of my heart to you
I’ll spend all of my days with you
I will always be true to you
My Sweet heart.

Stillness

Just a thought for the day as the crazyness carries on around us in a world full of delusion.

Stillness

Why chase the stillness
when the feral mind runs wild;
inhale, accept, exhale, be free
body still, body quiet:

take these precious moments
for they're yours
for you alone,
relax in the stillness of being.
​

1977 Number 8

Being a teenager in the 1970's were certainly fun times, especially with the huge change of musical genres. As the sixties smoked itself into oblivion and the last petal fell off the flower power daze a new epoch of self expression was evolving.



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
down the pub on bus number 8.

Dilemma

        Redundancy hit hard, really 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 urine, 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. 

Julian Clarke © 2017

Superstition

He was just an average bloke

Yearned for wealth and fame,

Fed up with being lonely and broke

He played the lottery game.

Superstitions were piffle to him,

But a lucky charm he had

Bony and hairy, really quite grim,

He said it wasn’t that bad;

He held it tight that Saturday eve’

The lottery had just begun

The balls popped out his numbers came up

A million pounds he won.

He met her on that winning night

Said her name was Kim,

His friend said she wasn’t quite right

Tho’ she said she loved him

Kim told him don’t walk under the ladder,

An unlucky way to behave

And then she nudged him off the pavement

That bus was the death of poor Dave.

The rabbit’s foot she had thrown away

She knew it was a lucky charm

If he’d had it with him that fateful day,

Would he have come to harm?