What if

What if the journey's

the destination

now did you arrive

before you got there?

What if you told me you loved me;

what if I said, I don't love you.

What if your journey

is the place to be,

then why didn't you halt

at the fork in the road?

What if your loves an apparition

what of the fool you made of me!

© Julian Clarke 2019

Linked to Poets United

The last laugh

Hello my poetry friends, first post for quite a while and a re-post at that, however I hope you enjoy it 2nd time around.

Reading a book in a trendy café

Hand wrapped around a steaming latte,

Mochas, Cappuccinos, whatever next!

Those trendy drinks can get me so vexed.

Huddled round a table some youngsters sat,

And then she said, how cool is that,

Oh my god, is that the latest smart phone

It’s so like, can I get one of my own.

To me it often makes no sense at all,

English is becoming quite farcical,

I try to keep up with the latest fads,

When did I turn into my dear old dad?

I'm getting old, but I can hold in a fart;

And when I can’t, I’ll have the last laugh.

Julian Clarke © 2019

Linked to Poetry Pantry

1977. Bus number 8

 As the nineteen sixties smoked itself into oblivion, and the last petal fell off the flower power daze, new times of exciting self expression was evolving. Being a teenager in the 1970's were certainly fun times, especially with the changes in fashion, and musical genres. The following poem was inspired by my memories of those final bus rides home from school.

Number 8 Bus

Man with a stick climbed on board
the bloke in a cap committed fraud
girl with Mohican spikey red hair
smug flat cap he dodged the fare;

the dole delinquent single mum
mohican red hair chews on gum
the dirty old stick admired her tits
noisy school kids the little gits:

on number eights smoky top deck
teenagers smoke and swear like feck
a lamenting moan of a grubby drunk
back seats reserved for safety pin punks;

the drivers driving smoking his fags
the punks are punking anarchic gags
a spot ridden face full of hate
home from school, on bus number 8.

© Julian Clarke 2019

Linked to Poets United Sunday Pantry.

Yule

Merry meet, with peace, and harmony to all at this yule time.
For those who may have fallen on desperate times, may a warm breeze brush their soul's with hope, love and happiness.

©Julian Clarke 2018

A Ballet

A Ballet:
Forbidden Love
Act 2, scenes 1 and 2

Epoch 1872: mid summer’s 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 © 2018

Linked to Poets United

Poem for autumn

Hues of golden brown fall from trees

Dancing in a frenzy swirling around.

Foreboding clouds sail on blustery winds,

A watery sun slides behind one, it rains.

The dew soaked grass feels soft as silk

Shrouding the valley, a ghostly grey mist.

Just for a breath the sun rests on tree tops

Climbing slowly for a new autumn day.

© Julian Clarke 2018

Linked to Poets United

Where's that damn rabbit

It’s quite insane down here, she thought . . .
The round rabbit hole was not the problem
The rabbit hole was the solution,
The problem was the enticing jam tarts,
An eccentric chap in a tall black hat explained.
My, how mad he looked in his black top hat, she thought.

From his waist coat pocket he pulled out a round time piece.
Oh dear, oh dear, the rabbit said as he pocketed his fob watch.
Oh! you mustn’t cry, my dear, said the Knave, with a creepy sneer.
If you play your cards right, 
The cat in the corner gave a mischievous grin, for he knew the Knaves sin.
And the Knave went on, You can be my Queen of Hearts . . . if you like.

Oh, fuck off, said Alice.

© Julian Clarke. 2018

Breath

Few a few months now I've not had any inspiration to write, and so, here is a re post of a piece I wrote in 2015. However, as the melancholy feeling of the anniversary of a loved one draws forever nearer, maybe this will create a spark of inspirational light; for as we know, poets, story tellers and artists are quite an emotional breed, and we tend to feed of deep rooted feelings.

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 © 2015 / 2018

Hello fellow poets and writers.

With the tennis season about to serve up some exciting sport; my thought, to capture just a little of those traditions that complement the event.

Center Court

Summer rain wild fruits
Sweet succulent Strawberries,
Wimbledon, Champagne.

© Julian Clarke 2018

I shall link to Poets United Sunday Pantry

Beautiful box, full of temptation

With one thing and another I've not made a good enough effort to find time to write, what with going to London to see the Rolling Stones (they still rock, awesome) in concert the other weekend and the arrival of summer.

And on to my latest offering, loosely based on mythology. 

Beautiful Box, full of temptation

A butterfly child from blood of all gods

gathered a cursed figment from wild heathlands,

gently placed in a fine box, ignorant

to repercussions of times shifting sands.

Dryads, of virtue and innocence, safe

placed the box in forests of ancient oak;

here nature encompassed forthright and just,

secured in naivety from human folk.

The beautiful box with fine marquetry

uneasily balanced on every one’s mind.

Mysterious vipers, carved in relief,

tempted evil temptation from mankind.

Skies blustered nimbus obscuring the sun,

and the smiles distort as faces grimace;

all stars and all darkness combined as one.

Feeling the ark flounder in the rat race.

June 2018 © Julian Clarke

Linked to Poets Sunday Pantry