Julian Day

@julianday.bsky.social

2876 Followers 2843 Following

Published by Blackbough Poetry, The Storms Journal, FolkHeart Press. Featured writer in Patricia's Pen, and on A Thousand Shades Of Green podcast and a regular guest reader on Eat The Storms podcast. Best of The Net nominated.

A top-down, front cover of the striking maroon SPRING 2026 ISSUE of POETRY LONDON.
SONGS OF THE BRAVE (c) JULIAN DAY 2025 The ghosts of trees rise from the ashes of the banned Degenerate Books. Slowly at first before mixing wind, stone, grit, leaf and gnawed down bones to make faces bare with rage. And how the Oaks, Cedars, Pine, and Silver Birch raged in those hours, days, and months of greedily billowing smoke. And let them continue to be our witnesses to that foolishness and pride of mostly white bread men sat in their halls housing dismally washed out slate grey suits. Their tongues ballooning clowns from terrible metal and there real text remains written underground in the blood-line songs of the brave.
BERYL-THE-PERIL BLUEBELL Tell blue, you flower: tell a querulus of best blue to the flat white meadow stuck in picture-book reverie. Stalk joy with your stem and your airy, fairy bell. Stick your pistils out and, in that shot-silk thimble, ring like hell.
A photograph of fluffy white clouds and small patches of light blue sky poking through. On the bottom left and right-hand corners of the picture are silhouettes of trees, and in the bottom middle section, there is a slanted view of a neighbour's roof & window(s).
Ready To Summer Like it's the Late 70's, whatever that exactly means in space-time flicker frame, roll-over you're sandcastles, I'm already soaked through by the newsprint fingers of 1976 - The summer time will never forget, until it, too, goes senile, brimming with a cat's salt & pepper whiskers. In a year's time from then, or now, my feet will bellow blue murder in silent howls of sun-spoilt Rivera infectives. Sweet & Sour swear words I don't quite know how to write correctly, or even pronounce with the right inflexion until I'm ancient at twelve, without causing a family wide hubbaloo. Call it a blue murder, something drawn from Agatha Christie late Sunday scheduling holdover, a counterclockwise movement / in time, as I find myself trussed up in an altogether funny business after watching It's A Hard Day's Night, in a Torquay hotel, somewhere within walking distance of dodgy sheer cliff face.
A painting of the writer Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe.
PORTRAIT OF MY LOVER WITH A WATER BEETLE The more you keep the more warm ponds there are for me to whizz around in like a water-beetle glinting meanly like a hot bazaar.
DEAD SICK ART Pummelled back down to earth, we're in storm-season. Eowyn's left this wind-raked, buried / past its neck-in-the-sand head to fester, almost all alone. Call it a sad article of passing, undignified as far / as a black headed gull - white winter feather / suit scuffed to hell - can go. Who can say how long it took before / this gull succumbed to the greater / forces of nature; when was it exactly that / the fight left its scrappy body, to become / a writing prompt for poets, a sore / sight for the tragic-comic set for photographers / on this choppy County Clare beach? One orange carrot beak opens by itself, as if to once again taste the floral and salty tang of its coastal elements. Tuffy and flayed feathers, now formed into a gritty business mohawk. An empty sack of an eye, still peering lazily out from peroxide blonde dunes.
Top down view of the front cover of issue 102 of The Rialto poetry magazine. The letters of the magazines title appear in large green, jigsaw puzzle like pieces, which hang off each other asymmetrically.
Selfie or self-portrait of a white skin guy with black rimmed glasses smiling, wearing a deep forest green scarf, wrapped around a navy cord bomber jacket, against an autumnal lighted tree, bush, cloudy blue sky and chimney background.
PRAYERS IN STARLIGHT Beyond hungry ghosts who pray for better days. Beyond smoking cities riddled with shock and awe. Beyond all obvious hope. Beyond all we know and don't know yet. May we all be sheltered, as long as summer days hold heat. Rest under this cooling canopy of green leaf shadow. Away from all the stinging, unhinged things.
Screenshot from Twitter / X showing Black Bough Poetry's post with a list of six nominated poets, all published by them this year.
A front facing view of a young male deer captured earlier this afternoon, in this photo, happily munching on some tasty green leaves whilst sitting on a patch of green garden grass.