Sunday, 28 August 2016


Friday night crossed the day and
By dawn, sadly, you’ll be gone.
Mist, translucent in hue drift
To minstrel’s tune in auburn air.

I lay feeling your warmth upon
my spirit. Slowly the change
from young to old complete.

Swimming up through rivers of
Time, not drowning and still
Without one single goodbye
You leave the branching hang
From bough and I watch you rise
Through ragged light as day slides
From the night; majestically, gone.

©Julian Clarke 2016

Wednesday, 24 August 2016


Tis a
to know ones
own limitations;
for may we then show 
due tolerance towards
Others shortcomings.

Sunday, 14 August 2016

Summers Dream

You came to me on a sweet summers dream
Passing through worlds of magic and men,
A dragon fly guarded the gate between
You’d sing and dance in this beautiful glen.

Now most of us find it hard to conceive
Of the parallel world of our ancient way,
Listen so hard and you must believe
Open your eyes let your mind run away.

Do not be fooled by her beauty and charm
Her pretty little nose and delicate wings,
Her mystical magic may well do you harm
If you don’t respect all of nature s things.

You came to me on a sweet summers dream
Passing through worlds of magic and men,
I wonder if you will come here again,
To sing and dance in this beautiful glen.

© Julian Clarke

Tuesday, 9 August 2016

The Legend of Cherokee Rose

My poem is after these photos and short write up.

I took these photos whilst holidaying in North Carolina. Above is the entrance to the Indian reservation in the Great Smokey Mountains in North Carolina, life is shown as it was before the Indian removal act was signed into law by President Andrew Jackson on May 28, 1830.

Below is one of the rivers flowing through the mountains.

White Cherokee Rose found on the trail of tears, 
this image is from the internet,

The following poem was inspired by the persecution of the Cherokee Nation by the white settlers. They were displaced from their own lands and had to walk approximately 2200 miles from here, and neighbouring areas such as Georgia, to Oklahoma. This became known as the trail of tears where many died.

The Legend of Cherokee Rose

In the year of eighteen thirty,
White settlers wanted more land
Congress passed “the Indian removal act”
And so their displacement began.

From Georgia to Oklahoma
Lies “the trail where they cried”
The weather grew bad disease took hold,
Thousands of Cherokee Indians died.

Children perished along the way,
Mother hearts filled with grief,
Prayers for a sign to lift their spirits
Offered up by the five Indian chiefs.

Their prayers had been answered
To help lift the women folk soles,
For where a tear fell to the ground,
A beautiful rose did grow.

Five petals, for the five major clans,
A yellow centre for the unmined gold;
And so a legend was born,
The legend of Cherokee rose. 

© Julian Clarke 2016

Below shows the view looking down onto the morning mists floating over the mountain valley.

Sunday, 7 August 2016


Shocking to think in our advanced world that this is allowed to continue.

women trudge
earthenware pots
balanced on heads
fetching water
not fit for
many dying of
Violent conflicts
guns rat tat tattle
follow the red dot
see where it stops
eye sight  down
the rifle barrel,
a young girl
takes aim,
with blood,
her hands
are stained.

© Julian Clarke 2016

Thursday, 4 August 2016

Vieil Amour (Old Love)

Note to poem:
Reflecting on years gone by when young hearts experimented with romance. I remember in a hazy daze of pulling white petals from a daisy, saying with each petal,

* she loves me?….. she loves me not….. she loves me?
    elle m’aime? …  elle m’aime ne pas… elle m’aime?

* oui, elle a chanté  je t’aime, je t’aime.
   Yes, she sang, I love you, I love you

And then I got to thinking, why should only the young enjoy these pleasures?
Why not those who have shared long lives together?

Vieil Amour

*Elle m’aime? softly to his wife of thirty years wed
From gnarled fingers slipped a petal of soft rose red
And so serenely floating down to gently rest
On semi naked skin of crinkled velvet breast,
Her young beauty still lay within, on silken bed.

Elle m’aime ne pas, he whispered full of tenderness
Knowing each intimate want with confident caress
Soft music and fine wine with his charm she’s entranced
Oh to the song of his moist lips her nipple danced;
Elle m’aime? he said his voice full of romantic stress.

Elle m’aime? . . . Elle m’aime ne pas, . . . Elle m’aime?
Bathed in sunlight, petals of red and virgin white
*Oohh la la oui, elle a chanté  je t’aime, je t’aime.

Posted for Poets United mid week motif, the song of a single word