Dusk and Daylight

If I were a post, iron straight and upright,
If I were a post would you be my lamp?
You’d be my guide and light up the night
I would be your genie, your shining champ’.

If I were paper, a fine piece of parchment,
If I were parchment would you be my quill?
You’d write of love with a nib dipped in scent
I‘d be your wax seal of my own free will.

If I were a question, one question for you,
If I were your day, would you be my night?
You would ask me why I ask this of you. I’d
Reply, twice we’d meet, at dusk and daylight.

© Julian Clarke 2018

Linked to Poets United

A Summers Portrait

This year I entered five pieces into the Eisteddfod. I was thrilled for three of my entries to achieve certification, a first class and two merit certificates. Below is my poem which achieved the first class certificate. I must admit I was really pleased with my flash fiction story, Robyn Hood being awarded a certificate, I find this form of writing exceptionally challenging. All pieces can be found here on my blog should you wish to read them.

The Guernsey Eisteddfod is affiliated to the British Federation of Festivals of Music, Dance and Speech.

A summers portrait

Soft summer breeze in fluttering leaves,

Poem
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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 © 2018

Poem
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Flash Fiction
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Nature and poetry.

I don't have any new poems at present, and so I thought I would share with you the first days of spring, post equinox, in my country garden. 

This morning we had a visit from six beautiful Gold Finches with their striking red flashes, feeding on bibbits in the grass; our resident Robin perched on the chicken run keeping a beady eye as I did the first weeding of the season round the apple tree. Blue Tits busy harvesting tiny twigs to build their nest; and those cockerels with confused body clocks! how they crow down in the meadow.

Nature, our natural form of poetry is tempestuous, and then beautifully graceful with her turning seasons and cycles of fertility and death, wrapped in her own fragility.

Dark Horizons

How many will cry beneath darkened skies?

The zephyr’s warmth chills to a frosty blue

the fragility’s there for all to see;

war words in the game of diplomacy:

politicians talk for the populous

and now, escalation, incredulous!

And there, lost within a volley of words

hides a greying truth, a boil laced with lies

and the tears will fall under cloudy skies.

How many will die beneath darkened skies?

Julian Clarke © 2018

Linked to Poets United

I hear your song

Gone, gone: on the west wind I hear your song,

The breath of your soul sweeps through to my heart

As winter leaves danced and scattered, then settled,

Lay frozen, crystallised in pure white snow.

Your life had reasons laid out in a line

Many of them good ones bearing no lies.

Spring exudes beauty, only you compare

Like nature nurtures new life to the world,

And smiles, with sun flowers of summer;

Gone, gone: on the west wind I hear your song.

Notes:
How ever you decide to interpret my poem, it is not one of sadness, but full of wonderful memories of an exceptional person.

Julian Clarke © 2018

Linked to Sunday Pantry at Poets United

Dysfunction

And the guns of dysfunction still clatter

And the forked tongue of dysfunction still spurns,

And the minds of the sick are left mindless:

And the dysfunction of politicians

And the ignorance of consequence . . . no matter?

And the guns of dysfunction still shatter.

© Julian Clarke 2017

Why not take a visit to Poets United

Robyn Hood

            The lady pushed her hair behind her ears and then slipped the incriminating photos back into the envelope. She knew of, but did not agree with the back-handers Jason had taken over the years; it was his infidelity and devious lies that cut her right to her core.

    “Damn you,” she muttered, and sitting forward looked from keyboard to screen as she attached the scanned images to the E. mail. Momentarily her manicured finger hovered over the mouse; she paused, took a deep breath and clicked send.       

*

            Councillor Jason Hood placed his Audi keys on the glass topped desk and took the post-it his P.A had stuck to the monitor. Don’t forget Robyn’s wedding anniversary present, table’s booked at Pierre’s 7.30 pm.

            Coffee in one hand and mouse in the other Jason navigated the cursor to the E. mail with, URGENT, in the subject bar.

    “What the …” he said, as he stared in disbelief at the images of himself and the wife of a prominent businessman in a compromising embrace, he read the text. Tomorrow, 7am usual routine, health suite, leave £10,000 in used notes in locker, swim, go to work, deviate from instructions your wife and newspapers will receive copies of images. Jason’s usual coolness of character left him as beads of cold sweat soaked his armpits. He felt sick to his stomach at the realisation that his rising political career was about to take a huge nose dive into oblivion if he did not act wisely. Robyn, well, he had to admit she still looked a charm on his arm, but he was starting to get quite bored of their marriage.

*

            Robyn put down her glass of Chablis and picked up her mobile from the table.

    “Jason?” Cheryl asked.

    “Yeah,” she said, then pressed reject.

Cheryl reached across and gave her friends hand a reassuring squeeze.

    “I’ll be fine, Cheryl, honestly”.

            Robyn sat back feeling relieved that she felt no guilt about the package containing ten thousand pounds she’d shoved through, ‘Night Shelter for the Homeless’ letter box earlier that morning.

            As they left the wine bar and crossed the road Cheryl heard her friend drop something, it hit the gutter with a clink before disappearing down the drain.

    “Robyn, you’ve just dropped something down the …”

    “Oh, it’s nothing, just a meaningless key I should have thrown out ages ago”.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Poets United

Guernsey

The passenger ship approaches Guernsey,

Picturesque Isle of Herm off the port side,

Old Castle Cornet full of history

The militia once defended with pride.

At anchor, a cruise liner in the bay

Ships tenders, like ants in comparison,

Bringing tourists ashore for the day, some

Will visit Fort George, the old garrison.

Standing to attention the stevedore cranes

Harbour walls embracing the yacht basin,

Fishing boats offload the catch of the day

To meet the ebbing tide they must hasten.

Locals having fun in their pleasure boats

Coming and going are the visiting yachts,

Diving cormorants hunt in the harbour

Flying high is the common guillemot.

A bump and a nudge the ferry makes fast,

Smiling passengers eagerly alight.

Off to the town with its cobbled high street

Flowers in bloom are a delightful sight.

One can feel the influence from France

Dan’s Le Pollet est le Petite Bistro,

Up from La Plaiderie a Sarnian dance

The accordionist swaying to and fro.

Narrow Cow Lane leads to the old harbour

Livestock once passed here for slaughter,

An arched entrance has long since gone

Once led to square riggers on the water.

Al fresco lunch at the Terrace Café

Amazing views to Herm, Jethou and Sark,

Local lobster’s the fresh catch of the day

Or a traditional dish of Guernsey Bean Jar.

Visit the museum of Victor Hugo

At Hauteville House his home in exile.

Poetic decorations, preserved, on show

Wonderful wall hangings of rich textiles.

The old quarter with its quaint narrow streets

Second hand wares and antiques on sale.

Alleyways twist and turn with steps so steep

Lamp light walks with many a ghostly tale.

© Julian Clarke 2017

Linked to Poetry Pantry

Your Gift

Celebrate

the space in your soul,

where love

 flows like a summers babbling brook;

where glistening stars

star in a warm velvet night.

The sprinkle of

 a sparkle of compassion,

absorbing the gift of the breath of peace.

And sharing a true love . . . most whole heartedly.

Julian Clarke © Dec' 17

Sunday Pantry at Poets United

Yellow Affairs

The weather here is quite ghastly, wind, rain and just pah! and so I thought I'd post a piece with a Summery feel.

***

The Provencal sun lights vibrant blooms golden saffron, 

a Van Gogh, a picture so perfect;

a buzzing bee follows the scent of the sunflowers’ nectar
wafting on a warm southern breeze.

Splodged on an artist’s palette amidst the whites and ochre's
a squeezed tube spews cadmium lemon,

light delicate brush strokes capture the bees’ colourful bands
in shades of blacks and deep yellow.

The beauties of nature’s distractions momentarily lure him,
a painted lady teasingly bathes in warm summer rays . . .

the artist sits back and ponders on where to paint next year,
they say Italy’s nice, but is Naples really yellow?

Julian Clarke © 2016

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