Biography of Rob Clarke
To quote John Lennon: 'I'm just a guy.'
In this case, a guy who plays The Blues.
And though I haven't the foggiest 'why'
It's seems today I wear poet's shoes.
Born and raised on the East Coast of Canada some 50 very odd years ago. Divorced, Two great kids, bothin post grad studies. Playing in a very promising blues 5 piece called BLUEZFERYOUZ. Harp, rythmn and slide guitar and lead vocals. Gotta great woman and, except for very uncooperative knees, pretty good health.
Got a cat - Matt The Blues Cat - he's my baby!
Been writing poetry since I could write anything at all but the last 10 years or so have seen me writing lyrics not poetry. Stumbled on this site whilst looking for the words to Nature by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Great Xmas poem) and I do believe I'll stay.
Rob Clarke Poems
Sioux Warrior's Last Buffalo Hunt
Ho! Buffalo brother How sad and sorry we must look To these few folk gathered here. See them push and jostle for a glimpse
Marbles (A Child's Cadence)
Pharaoh's children played with these (Roll 'em this way, roll 'em that.) Down upon sand dusted knees. (Roll 'em this way, roll 'em that.)
Cat pounce! Bird scream! Daughter comes runnin', Cries 'Daddy, Daddy
The Death Of Willis
sun sets, pouring crimson adoration over the nova scotian snow. homeward to margaret he goes - willis, on his homemade wooden sledge,
Heat hovers above the road,
Poet To Poet Version 1
Father, father! Tell me, what must I do? What must I say to be compared with you?
No Quid Pro Quo
I'm sitting here with me while She's lying. There with him, The healer who won't be healed Becomes, instead, a martyr and
A vulgar April moon leers down as They stand necking carelessly in The darkened, deserted schoolyard; Enticing to the universal voyeur
Antomimes (A Child's Poem)
when ants put on their small white faces and prance around in picnic places they utter not a single word for antomimes should not be heard.
These Days I Wake Up
These days I wake up To the sound of sirens and Mr. Wu screaming at his wife. When I was young I woke up
In Her Mouth She Held The Moon
In her mouth she held the moon. it shone there,
Mercurial is my love for you; Shape shifting apparition blithe. In state of flux and never still I dance with step unceasing lithe
Geese (A Child's Poem)
Geese are weird but losely-useful. They wibble-wobble as they go Around the barnyard, gracely-gooseful. Watch them waddle to-and-fro.
The Bully Cried
The storm blew in with maritime fury, Drifting a long, white, frozen wave The length of our farm's laneway. The mailman slewed his VW to a stop
A vulgar April moon leers down as
They stand necking carelessly in
The darkened, deserted schoolyard;
Enticing to the universal voyeur
And exposed to those so inclined.
Tongues wriggle greedily in and out
Of each other's desperate throats as
The zipper capitulates and the hand
Hurries down, seeking forbidden moisture.