A Summers Portrait (Uncomplicated things)

Soft summer breeze in fluttering leaves,

homemade lemonade, strawberries and cream.

Dappled shade under fruiting apple trees.

Grandpa's, creaky, rickety rocking chair

where rests his moth eaten Panama hat.

Memories full of mouth-watering fare.

Squeals of laughter riding the garden gate,

dip in, dip out of a water sprinkler.

Fine innocence of a summers portrait.

Julian Clarke © Aug' 2017

Kerry's prompt, Uncomplicated things in ten lines or under at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads 

Shall also link this to the Sunday Pantry at Poets United

The Alley Cat

My latest poem is in the form of a, Terza Rima and to the prompt, Cat, for Guernsey Poets August open mic evening. Link to Guernsey Poets

The Alley Cat

I saw in a shop window’s reflection,

a jazz cat, cool and quite hunky-dory,

strutting with poetical perfection.

                                                          

With an air of superiority,

jaunty yet graceful, hooked tail held high.

By my side he glided confidently.

Mirrored in puddles he kept slinking by.

Yes, you’d be a fine catch, now that’s a fact,

I thought, as I purred a reflective sigh.

Argh! Delusions of grandeur spat the rat.

Whilst washing my whiskers I hissed, think on!

Me? Deluded; I turned my back and down I sat.

Mangy, no way, for I am the top alley cat.

Julian Clarke © Aug’ 2017

I shall link to Poets United, Sunday Pantry

Promises and lies

This is the darkest and most difficult piece I've written to date. One of which I did not enjoy writing. However, sometimes a reality kick in the stomach is not a bad thing to make us realise that most of us are not that badly done by. How one human can inflict such degrading pain upon another is beyond me.

Promises and Lies

Body tearing pain forced upon me with

vicious rapes and beatings. I’ve no tears left.

Mum paid her life savings to set me free,

backs of trucks lorries and boats. Sardines

contained inside this hard metal tomb.

It stinks, it’s hot, no water no toilet;

children clinging to their mothers crying,

old man in the corner, undignified . . dying.

A land of dreams, buy new things

You’ll have a job waiting on tables.

Promises, promises lie upon lies.

A cigarette hung from his lips

paid ten quid to ride on my hips,

only the pimps seem to get rich

now I’m just their dirty little bitch.

Today is my birthday and I’ll be 15, yet

I’ve witnessed a life time of such horror.

Promises, promises lie upon lies

all I have now, a life I despise.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Poets United Mid Week Motif, Human Trafficking

Sanctuary

The practice of meditation is a personal ongoing journey that takes me down a path to the reliance of my own awareness. Sometimes, however, I may feel that nothing has been achieved, apart from the art of the practice of just being in an inner place to reflect.

The sanctuary of stillness

when the feral world runs wild.
Inhale, accept, exhale, be free;
body still, body quiet:
take these precious moments

relax in the sanctuary of being.​

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Poets United Mid Week Motif

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.