The Soothsayer

I’m a gypsy roaming turquoise sunsets
Fixing pots and pans with artisan hands,
A troubadours quill with poems to scribe
Wandering psychedelic mystic lands:

I way laid a silver haired soothsayer
On the eve of an emerald green day
I bid her to fore-say of what may come . . .
For eight long days she’d not a word to say.

Ferrous wheels turned the hues in her eyes
Subtle indigo blues, violets and red:
As rainbow butterfly’s filled yellow skies
And on the ninth day of the week she said.

See in my globe set in gold filigree
Dark clouds coming from a kings white tower
Libra must set her scales of justice
Play her trump card and balance the power.

Then diamond shapes fell across her bronze face
Her filligree globe she covered in lace.

© Julian Clarke 2017

I shall link this poem to  Poets United for Sunday's panty. 

#taglabels

The interminable writers block has struck again, and so the following is something completely left wing for me that perhaps should be consigned to the waste paper basket.

Colour race creed diversity
introvert extrovert opposites
superior inferior, (that’s complex)
genders, male female
categorisation
straight
gay
bisexual
other (exclamation mark).
Do not delete cannot delete,
genetically encoded  D.N.A
programmed to label we’re
classified chromosome X or Y.
Cyber café, searching, found profiles # tag X
blind date (question mark) bio’ # tag Y... send . . .

© 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?