A Ballet: Forbidden Love

Act 2, scenes 1 and 2

Epoch 1872: mid-summers 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 © 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, Capri pants,
With 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 

Manhood

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

Manhood

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

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.