Poetry By Clive Atkins

I hope you enjoy this selection of my poetry; 

 

 

The English Rose With the Turned-up Nose

Can you dance at the Moulin Rouge?
With poise and elegance you cannot lose
Do you have the energy and grace?
To dance in-line and keep the pace
Will you be dynamic within a team?
Have you the passion to fulfil your dream
Are you prepared to bare your breast?
In a revealing sequined dress
Can you train to make the grade?
Will you study and learn your unique trade?
At the end when the curtain falls
And you take the curtain calls
Will you cry and shed a tear of joy?
And be the fantasy of every boy
When you hear the audience whistle and applaud
You will realise that you are adored
And you’ve finally trod the boards
As the Moulin Rouge opens up its doors
To the English Rose
With the turned-up nose



Memories of Britain

 

Memories of Britain they run in our blood

Leather on willow is heard with a thud

Misty spires that collide with the sky

Children with ice creams and a glint in their eye

 

A jaguar races down a country lane

And the smell of fresh rain water that runs down a drain

Sweeping autumn leaves into an orderly pile

Drinking home made scrumpy with a goggle-eyed smile

 

Hot cross buns at Easter with butter and jam

Newly born babies in collapsible prams

Picnics in summer on blankets of wool

Owls on high perches overlooking a pool

 

At the end of the day commuters travel home

To three bedroom houses with internet and phones

The black and white cows cross over motorway bridges

Their udders bulging with milk destined for our fridges

 

Sunday morning tucked up in our comfortable beds

The smell of crisply cooked bacon reaches our heads

Mushrooms and toast and tomatoes that pop

And a leisurely stroll for a paper to the shops

 

And then there are the relatives who always pop ‘round

The singing postman who delivers to the village and town

The friendly milkman whistling on his round

And the paperboy who delivers Sunday papers weighing a pound

 

British-ness is something we all share

Our European neighbours don’t understand, but then we don’t really care

Our community, reserved nature and eccentric behaviour

During our hour of need became our ultimate saviour

 

 

 

 

A Distant Drum

 

The distant beat of a hollow drum

The copse is still and serene

Ghostly footsteps vaguely can be heard

Marching in a synchronised formation

 

There is no one in sight

On this darkest of winter nights

The pale moon is large and full

And plays peek-a-boo with the grey cumulus nimbus

 

And yet, I feel a presence

I feel cold and expectant

A lone owl hoots and swoops for prey

I can see tracks in the snow that come from nowhere and lead nowhere

 

I tread carefully

I tread quietly

And peer through thicket to open ground

And I see the shadow of a cloaked horseman on the hill

 

And still I hear a faint distant drum

As the horseman disappears into the hill top mist

He is followed by a troop of roundhead soldiers

Who walk purposefully and look so surreal

 

I pinch my goose bump skin

I blink and rub my eyes

And when they clear

The apparitions have disappeared

 

I challenge my intellectual reasoning

And dismiss the practical advice my eyes have given me

I have been taught things like this do not exist

But, then I hear the sound of a distant drum beat

 

 

 

 

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