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

The man in the moon

Sadly, I have not set by enough time for writing the last couple of weeks, therefore, I thought I would re-post one of my pieces from 2015. Hopefully, at some point I will get round to writing part two.

The man in the moon

The evil witch jealous of our love cursed you to a life on the moon. I caught a glimpse of you while you looked down in the light of its silvery halo. I wanted to hold you one more time and play with your soulful mind. And then you were gone as dark clouds of the night obscured my view of you.

Unshackling the chains of my earthly bonds I climbed the tallest tree. The lunar light back lit the cloud showing off its silvery lining. I heard you cry from way up high, a silvery thread has come lose you can catch it as the cloud sails by.

Nearer and nearer drifted the cloud as the thread unravelled to the ground. But to my dismay the dark witch of the night started sewing with all her might. A gust of wind blew the cloud away as the dark witch made her final stitch. I could see a tear in the corner of your eye as you slowly came back into view, I sat in the top of the old oak tree my heart aching, Oh what can I do.

From the bough of the old oak a deep voice spoke, you once saved me from the woodman’s axe. To you, my dues I shall pay now climb onto my broad green leaf. A little unsure I held on tight as the night sky kept changing hues. With a shiver of his trunk the old oak said, good luck and fare thee well.

How the wind blue and carried me away. Up and up, swirling around right up to the stars I flew. You reached out clasping my hand and pulled me into the white light of the silvery moon.

We skipped and danced upon the dusty ground, and then I looked and found I was alone. I crawled to the edge and saw you on the leaf floating all the way back down to home. To break the curse, you had to return to earth and seek the white witch who dwells in the Spring Lands. For she alone would cast her spell and send the evil curse down to the depths of hell.

But meanwhile on a bright night if you look to the skies in June, you may just see a rugged face. For now; I am the man in the moon.

April 2015

© Julian Clarke 2015

Linked to Poets United, Sunday Pantry

To Spend A Day

To spend a day,

a day that’s real

without the need

where I can feel

no want, no greed.

Without the greed

there will be time

to breathe the air

with scents of thyme,

and time to share.

With time to share

I’ll hold your hand

we’ll touch the sky

and make a stand,

to love, then sigh.

To spend a day

to love and sigh

the only need,

just you and I,

no want, no greed.

Julian Clarke © April 2018

Linked to Sunday's Poets United pantry.

The last laugh

I wonder, do we all get to a stage in life when the vocabulary of the self obsessed younger generation begins to sound ridiculous, as the lack of our comprehension and intolerance of this over empowered breed increases with our ageing days: or is it just me? 

For example: "I was like" is now used as part of their sentence construction and is, just so like out of context: the rant continues.

I was like, so angry. 

No, no, no, you were either angry or you were not angry.

Can I get a glass of wine? 

No, you can not get it, the bar tender is there to serve you.

OMG, I was so but, yeah.

What the bloody hell is that one about?

The Last Laugh

Reading a book in a trendy café

Hand wrapped around a steaming latte;

Mochas, Cappuccinos, whatever next,

Those trendy drinks can make me so vexed.

Huddled at 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 may be old but I can hold in a fart

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

Julian Clarke © 2018

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
click image to enlarge

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
click image to enlarge

Flash Fiction
click image to enlarge

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