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Best Poems Written by Edwardj Clark

Below are the all-time best Edwardj Clark poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Senior Moments

Senior moments are but a reflection of one's youth.

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My English Rose

My English Rose is delicately balanced
Between life and death.
My English Rose, so finely fragranced,
Sweet scented breath.

Once rich in blossom, vigorous fellow;
Beguiling antiquity.
Gentle to the touch, soft as pillow.
Un-defiling  purity.

Evelyn's beauty an array of splendid
Peach, and apricot cream.
Summer's Song betrothed to Mid-
Summers Night Dream.

And Young Lycidas, Milton's Edward,
King of all roses he
Bequeathed to memory, to seas shard.
His remains a mystery.

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Blowing In the Wind

Wind blow where you will,
Find your strength and rush.
Howl and whistle through hill,
Send your epistle and crush.
For yet am I standing still,
Not battered or broken frush.

Tempest storm of life, oh!
Cruelest waves of pain
Most eagerly do you show.
The days I rue our gain
I wish I didn't know.
And ne'er shall we twain.

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Riots of London

Liberty Hall

The halls are packed with Liberty,
She cries FREEDOM on the streets.
The halls are packed with Liberty,
The children forgo their sweets.

Let's have a Ball

Smash and grab, fire asunder
Take what you can, who cares!
Come on people, lets' plunder,
Don't worry about the stares.

It's your Call

Hey coppers, we're over here,
What are you going to do in blue?
Like Goliath you have the spear
But we have our stones too.


England's Fall

Forever England, forever scarred,
A scared community up in arms,
Houses burnt, vehicles charred,
Come citizens, sound the alarm.

Murdered All

Standing up for justice,
Protecting innocent blood,
"That's when the motorist
Ran them over m'lud".

England's Rise

To arms people of England
And bring your brooms to sweep
Up those in the gutter and
Take them off to the Keep

It's Our Call

We'll clear our streets of chard
Of glass and wash away the blood.
We know that recession hits you hard
And poverty's doors opened the flood.

The PM's Call

To those of you who caused this pain
I say to you again and again;
"We shall seek you out, bang on your door
To prison you'll go and join the score."

The Rioters Ball.

To the party the hoodies went
Headline news and infamy gained,
Lusted and busted, their energy spent
Their futures ordained and chained.

Whitehall

The doors of power convened in suit
And Judgement Day sprang to life.
Murmurings and guffaws of repute
Resonated like Churchillian days of rife.

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The Piano

Ebony and ivory, noted for sound,
Digital playback, sleight of hand.
Songsters echo, vibrant pound,
Upright, organ, cottage, grand.

Strings attached, taut with suspense,
The Master Key hammers home
Letters of note; chords of tense,
Past and present; timed metronome.

Naturally played with flat and sharp
Sweeping the board. Ayre of nonchalance.
Orchestral manoeuvres performed with harp
Brass and wind; counter balance.

Peddled depression, ayer lingers on 
Distant wave; caressed...pianissimo.
Emotive conductor, under the baton
Chorused voice harks, keyed to the piano.

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To Those We Left Behind

Happy we pals of battalions from villages born of love
And sweet tender mercies, unlike here entrenched 
With the foe. Grey mists on the horizon, silhouetted hove
Of sallow composition; subdued and drenched.

Between us, in 'no man's land' a barren waste
Of limbs stacked high, orchestrating the way
Of death, foreshadowing yet even still the taste
To come, and soon; at the break of day.

Our friends, fathers, uncles and brothers
In arms; cleaving the ground of crimson red
Left on the battle scarred plains, with their mother's
Voices ringing out, as bells that toll the dead.

Then slowly faint whispers are heard amidst the grave
Of brown and grey. "Is that you John!Bill! Fred?"
"Is that you Hans!Jurgen!Emil!"? You the brave
Who fell, still living amongst the dead.

The shroud of death that covers distempered cries
Now lifting as both find their heroes of cause.
And naked transgression remains; signature of lies
And deceit; like whores showing no remorse.

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London Town

In London Town he was born and bred,
A ramshackle abode down Popham St.
In Queens' Cottages hunger was he fed,
In London Town he was left for dead.

The landings above the square surveyed
Bins big enough where children played.
Ancient of Times neighboured in a row,
Remnants of war; jaundiced and sallow.

Maggies the sweet shop across the road,
Sixpenny Cream Soda; a wonderful fizz,
Wacky backy, newspapers re echoed
Churchillian rancour of London's blitz.

Air sirens sung their seductive torment,
Chaos ensued to escape the maelstrom
To Underground haven of fear spent,
To avoid the carpet of whistling bomb.

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
And smile, smile, smile.England's ablaze;
A fiery inferno and Johnnies lit up a fag.
Let's play dodge the bomb. What a craze.

The landings where we played, had our
Fun, the dungeons where we slept and
Cried. Our war because we were poor
Was at our door. Cor! Listen to the band!

The heat of battle, the shrill of curse
Swear words bombing our souls of womb.
The days we were born, our lives a hearse
To carry us to our graveyard tomb.

We survived the war and lived to tell,
What injustices we suffered and bore.
At times it felt like we were in hell
Now those times are but of folklore.

Sung: The beginning of a WW1 English song.

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
And smile, smile, smile.

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The Dawn

The wind blew gently, rustling the leaves of oak
Skylark flitting from bough to twig
Dawn breaking from its evening cloak
Silence surrendering to new life's jig.

Fenland life awakening, yawning to the rise
Of sun's warming beauty, filling oe'r Earths skies.
The moon fades with gradual ease of time
Its evening shadows eclipsed by suns' rising prime.

Streams of ribbon meander, gentle dreams
Wander by the birch of forest glen.
Glistening, sparkling reflections of sun's beams
Filtering heavenward; raiment of soft sheen.

Cock crows his hour, robin sings his song,
Buckish hare leaps, birds of game play
Hide and seek with shooters throng;
Beaten up, open sighted, birds of prey.

Floral quilted hues upon carpet woven green,
Nectar guided insects hover on the wing.
Gold, incense, myrrh gifted to their Queen,
Warbled sonnets echo thus, this beautiful wonderous thing.

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The Works Canteen

Across by the window, reading her magazine
There she sat.
Eating her breakfast in the works canteen,
Drinking latte

Coffee, eating toast and marmalade, her mind
Deep in thought
So it seemed to me. Yes, you would often find
Her there if sought.

Her hair fair and long, her lips rouge and pert,
Wearing a short skirt
And so many men teased by her smile, hurt
By this sensual flirt,

Because such beauty was rare, not often seen
In the works canteen.
And with every other lass she stole the scene
This irresistible colleen.

Then he entered and her eyes lit as she sipped
Her latte coffee
And gently fondled her cup topped with whipped
Cream as he

Sat down opposite her and smiled. Her emerald
Eyes and seductive pose
Enticed him so, for he had heard tales of old told
Of this lipstick rose.

But like most men in the canteen he couldn't resist
This young colleen
So he too surrendered to her beauty and this tryst
In the works canteen.

And across by the window, reading her magazine
There she sat,
Eating lunch in the works canteen.
Drinking latte

Coffee, eating pasta and rice, her mind
Deep in thought
So it seemed to me. Yes, you would often find
Her there if sought.

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In Fields of Corn

The poppies grow in fields of corn
Lamenting days gone by.
Once they were soldiers 
Sounding their battle cry;
Now distant memories lie stillborn.

Each poppy a memorial between a
Sea of proud husks bray,
And each corn of scorn 
Ordains the soldiers day;
Once aromatic flowering placenta.

And the generals did it in for them.