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
Saturday, 24 June 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.
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?
or,
a practical lie?
a theory in truth?
or,
a lie, in practice?
a mechanism to hide behind,
to apportion anonymous deceit?
Fake News or Conspiracy Theory?
Julian Clarke © 2017.
a truth, in theory?
or,
a practical lie?
a theory in truth?
or,
a lie, in practice?
a mechanism to hide behind,
to apportion anonymous deceit?
Fake News or Conspiracy Theory?
Julian Clarke © 2017.
Sunday, 14 May 2017
Breath
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.
Sunday, 30 April 2017
Urban Arteries
Spice scented air, colours, sounds.
Urban markets are vibrant with life.
*
Droning birds carry deadly intent,
fuelled by cataclysmic opinions.
A loved city, bombed and broken,
screams ricochet off shattered lives.
Refugees flee to the edge of insane,
shadows of home facing their backs.
*
Many lost, souls rise in dust laden air.
Urban arteries are running with blood.
Julian Clarke © 2017
Sunday, 9 April 2017
Song for you
Before you go I’ll write a song,
A love song for you;
With endless skies infinity blue
And a summer breeze to weigh our love;
I’ll write of a loving sweet friend so true.
I’ll star you in beautiful lines
With melodies for smiling eyes,
White birds of truth flying high
We’ll sing of happy days gone by.
Before you go I’ll write a song,
A love song for you;
With starlit nights deep velvet blue
And a soft west wind to weigh our love;
I’ll write of a loving sweet friend so true.
© Julian Clarke 2017.
I shall link to Poets United for the Sunday pantry
A love song for you;
With endless skies infinity blue
And a summer breeze to weigh our love;
I’ll write of a loving sweet friend so true.
I’ll star you in beautiful lines
With melodies for smiling eyes,
White birds of truth flying high
We’ll sing of happy days gone by.
Before you go I’ll write a song,
A love song for you;
With starlit nights deep velvet blue
And a soft west wind to weigh our love;
I’ll write of a loving sweet friend so true.
© Julian Clarke 2017.
I shall link to Poets United for the Sunday pantry
Tuesday, 21 March 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, 12 March 2017
Old Rope
My following poem is just a bit of a light hearted nonsense. Hope you enjoy it.
What if we had a length of old rope
What if we each had hold of an end
We both have an end so where does it start
It’s not in the middle that is plain to see.
The length of old rope has no beginning
As you have an end and so do I,
If there’s only two ends and therefore no start
It goes without saying it starts at the end.
Julian Clarke © 2017
What if we had a length of old rope
What if we each had hold of an end
We both have an end so where does it start
It’s not in the middle that is plain to see.
The length of old rope has no beginning
As you have an end and so do I,
If there’s only two ends and therefore no start
It goes without saying it starts at the end.
Julian Clarke © 2017
Friday, 17 February 2017
The Follower ( flash fiction)
The Follower (flash fiction)
Sally’s heart raced as her quickening footsteps echoed off the graffiti covered walls of the pedestrian underpass. She almost fell as she changed direction to avoid discarded condoms and syringes lying on the ground. Sally could hear the heavy sound of footsteps a little way behind and caught a glimpse of a blue jacket with a flash of red as she glanced over her shoulder. And then she was out . . . out of the underpass and into the grey afternoon; but it felt like sunshine after her ordeal. Sally slowed to her normal pace and after catching her breath she said “Thank God” as she entered the High Street. It was full of Saturday shoppers and groups of teenagers milling around. Flustered and still a little panicky Sally said “Excuse me” to an elderly couple on one of the many benches. “Ok if I sit here?”
“Hello dear” the old lady replied, “Of course you can.” She said, putting her bag on her lap and shuffling along the seat.
And then Sally saw him again. There was no mistake. “Oh shite” she said, under her breath as she recognised the blue quilted puffer jacket and red scarf the man two benches down was wearing. She fumbled in her bag and found her mobile “Where’s my purse?” she said “No, where the hell is it.” In quite a state Sally started to text her boyfriend and all the while she discreetly kept looking over at the man as he took the Guardian newspaper from a plastic carrier bag. “Oh my God” Sally muttered to herself when she saw the black patch over his left eye partially covering an angry scar. He adjusted his hat to sit at an angle; it reminded her of how hitmen wore them in prohibition movies. He opened his newspaper and Sally grimaced, argh that’s gross she thought as she saw the deformity where his left hand little finger should have been. She glanced down at her mobile - I'm being followed - send. Sally pulled her coat tight about herself as she clutched her phone in one hand and folded her arms tightly across her chest as the man reached down into his plastic bag; he stood up and started to walk towards……
Sally’s heart raced as her quickening footsteps echoed off the graffiti covered walls of the pedestrian underpass. She almost fell as she changed direction to avoid discarded condoms and syringes lying on the ground. Sally could hear the heavy sound of footsteps a little way behind and caught a glimpse of a blue jacket with a flash of red as she glanced over her shoulder. And then she was out . . . out of the underpass and into the grey afternoon; but it felt like sunshine after her ordeal. Sally slowed to her normal pace and after catching her breath she said “Thank God” as she entered the High Street. It was full of Saturday shoppers and groups of teenagers milling around. Flustered and still a little panicky Sally said “Excuse me” to an elderly couple on one of the many benches. “Ok if I sit here?”
“Hello dear” the old lady replied, “Of course you can.” She said, putting her bag on her lap and shuffling along the seat.
And then Sally saw him again. There was no mistake. “Oh shite” she said, under her breath as she recognised the blue quilted puffer jacket and red scarf the man two benches down was wearing. She fumbled in her bag and found her mobile “Where’s my purse?” she said “No, where the hell is it.” In quite a state Sally started to text her boyfriend and all the while she discreetly kept looking over at the man as he took the Guardian newspaper from a plastic carrier bag. “Oh my God” Sally muttered to herself when she saw the black patch over his left eye partially covering an angry scar. He adjusted his hat to sit at an angle; it reminded her of how hitmen wore them in prohibition movies. He opened his newspaper and Sally grimaced, argh that’s gross she thought as she saw the deformity where his left hand little finger should have been. She glanced down at her mobile - I'm being followed - send. Sally pulled her coat tight about herself as she clutched her phone in one hand and folded her arms tightly across her chest as the man reached down into his plastic bag; he stood up and started to walk towards……
© Julian Clarke 2017
Sunday, 12 February 2017
Three facts one fiction
Three facts one fiction
The Provencal sun was streaming through the dining room window when I came down to breakfast. I felt refreshed after a good night's sleep as I always felt at home in this part of France. But I could not understand why a deathly hush hung over the busy dining room. I was certainly not prepared for what I saw next.
© Julian Clarke 2017
The Provencal sun was streaming through the dining room window when I came down to breakfast. I felt refreshed after a good night's sleep as I always felt at home in this part of France. But I could not understand why a deathly hush hung over the busy dining room. I was certainly not prepared for what I saw next.
© Julian Clarke 2017
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