Tuesday, 12 September 2017

The Future is Imminent (acrostic)

The brass key turns tightening the spring
How the second hand races, chasing dates
Evenly stitching together the edges of time:

Facing its face, no smile, no frown
Unzipping the seconds into minutes
Tormenting, teasing, running late
Unperturbed silently setting the day;
Relentlessly sweeping round and round
Each hand turning towards the future:

If the clock work were to stop, no tick-tock
Suspended in time the hands would wait.

Ingeniously, somehow they will always turn
Magically pointing to impending events
Mocking us, they will never age . . .
In time zones across the lands these hands
Never stuffed in pockets in perpetual motion
Engraving the past and sealing the present.
Now the digits twist in time, one understands
The future is imminent . . . (it’s not in our hands)

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Tuesday Platform Imaginary Gardens

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

Angelique

The following piece is not autobiographical. However, I tried for a period of time spread over several days to imagine what it would feel like to be in love with someone for many years, someone whose love was given completely to another and blind to me. Perhaps, in hindsight, this is not a good thing to do as it left me feeling quite low for a while. 

Angelique

I shall tell you a tale of forbidden love.
Letters, you never wrote,
words, my eyes never read.
For two and twenty years I was blind to all others,
but your rainbow heart was in love with another.

Now I am a dreamer in a dark lonely night
caught in every catcher where shadows always fight.
I am but a dreamer looking out from within,
glazed in every mirror that will not let you in.

Time passed as shooting stars crossed a blue velvet sky.
Words, weighed on summers breath
that never kissed your neck.
Today, I wept as I swept autumn leaves from your grave
and touched the pot of gold where your heart now lays.

Julian Clarke © Sept' 2017

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Summer shapes (uncomplicated things)

I find the inspiration to write about sad or tragic events is becoming a regular process for me. And so I thought I'd try and write a short piece on less complicated times and things.

Summer Shapes (uncomplicated things)

Rectangular splashes of colour on sands,
a philatelist’s dream of patch work stamps
nestled behind blue and red canvas screens.

Hear the squeals of laughter as children run
to the rhythm of white lapping waves.

Paisley patterned kerchiefs knotted by four
and milk bottle tops and milk bottle legs,
some should cover up their wobbly shapes.

Triangular sails dance on the blue,
filled with a warm breeze out on a broad reach.
A round sun flames, then fizzles to the eve
to new sounds of sweethearts kissing the night.

© Julian Clarke Sept' 2017

Linked to Poets United Sunday Pantry

Sunday, 27 August 2017

Dilemma, in his / her own eye

Who knows where the gods went when the rains fell?
Who said that they have an all seeing eye?
Their scales weighted, unjustly, perhaps.
Rains fell on green lands, rivers run swollen.
Who knows where the gods went when droughts took hold?
Dried river beds, famine; bellies swollen.

Dancing for the rain,
praying for warmth of the sun.
Gods own dilemma?

Julian Clarke © Aug' 2017

Gillena's Prompt at Imaginary Gardens
To stretch your imagination; ponder a natural disaster, past or recent, and tell me, what role you think, the gods might be playing, resulting in that particular natural disaster.

Saturday, 19 August 2017

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


Saturday, 12 August 2017

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

Wednesday, 2 August 2017

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


Wednesday, 26 July 2017

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


Sunday, 23 July 2017

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


Sunday, 16 July 2017

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.




Thursday, 29 June 2017

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 allongĂ©
            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








Tuesday, 27 June 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 

Saturday, 24 June 2017

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

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.

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.