In Memory

Valour

Beautiful flowers laid in memory

for beautiful souls once vibrant,

folk like me and you, just ordinary.

Regimented wreaths laid for the valiant

brave men and women of land, sea and air,

you’re saluted with emotion, so ardent.

We thank you in silence, with a prayer.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Poets United, Sunday Pantry        Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

End of the line

For Brendans weekend challenge: Imagaine a Changing Earth. At 'Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads' and what a challenge this was.

Crystal meanderings on ochre bed

romancing of song from a babbling brook,

a willow weeps, not in sadness, but joy;

dragonflies, blue green, skitty in the sun.

Along its banks, lovers touch lips and kiss

free of the fever of life’s concessions.

Right here, love . . . is love, not a possession.

Woooosshhh------thhwack

Inter-city train,

argh! Rush, crush, sardines,

standing room.

Smelly armpits, yuk!

Calling at all stations:
Polluted oceans, carbon monoxide, greenhouse gas,
Now stoppin at De-forestation.

We’re all here for the ride

Glued to the fever

living concessions

possessive lovers

hugging possessions.

Trans-continentals final stop:

Depleted ozone, affectionately known as, Apocalyptic Dystopia … 

End of the line.

Julian Clarke © 2017.

Linked to Imaginary gardens for Brendans weekend challenge: Imagaine a Changing Earth.

Linked to Poets United, Sunday Pantry

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.

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.

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.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Poets United

Linked to Guernsey Poets

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

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