The Amateurs


Two sportsmen were approaching, followed by a three, a five, a six

This band of amateurs coming after me to carry me home
on sweat-soaked shoulders, shirts cotton, buttoned down

Hooped, green-yellow; striped red-white, fearsome sight
On cold community playing-fields, under glaring floodlights
Brothers a-rated, know their strengths, ready for the fight

Ruck, reverse ball, thrown past his bloodied head
full back takes ball, drives on, punts, to make it fly
line out, jumps high, catches wet, the ball of lead
knock-on, scrum, put-in, then winger scores a try



                                       © edenbraytoday17.04.2021

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Boxer, can you see through bloodied vision?
this conflict born from all of Adam’s sons
subterfuge meets necessity in life’s arena

He stands alone who thinks alone homeless
who battles indecision and oppression
or who stands for his own valour

In the clearing where all men may fail,
fearless David feigned his madness
only fighters know full share of sadness

Here carrow poets gather to boggle die
itinerants in verse they gamble words
authors of the sounds of silence

Renown inflamed can be an awkward ally
these two as brothers sworn opined
to consider well their theory, write it down

Notes, chorus set to theme as Scorcose’s
who imagined another story re. boxer glory
their song ignites the page, it lights a stage

Duo-artists, single spot, plaintiff, almost holy
Just a poor boy, a story seldom told,
a pocketful of mumbles, railway station cold

This tragedy of ecstasy it hits emotions hard
A song, a raging bull of Marciano harshness
Our boxer boy beds down in ragged darkness

He, just looking for an honest workman’s wage
as these lyrical masters, harmonies so sweet
who surely knew the lonely times they declare

Song, the Boxer stands on mountainous terrain
in verdant, lonesome valleys, a homeless refrain
it stands me up, unifies courage, confirms our pain

Lie la lie, lie la lie la lie la lie
Lie la lie, lie la lie la lie la lie, la la lie la lie



                                                                      © edenbraytoday11.04.2021

glossary; a carrow is an Irish word (I am part Irish) it means
– an itinerant gambler

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A View By The Sea


littlehampton 2


The dead die young Ernest Albert Bett
your concrete grave is a trough
with no pigs yet in it
just convolvulus and ivy

I stepped across your withered torso
the silence of the dogs I walk
death in spades around me
shadows of oak walk past me

Gravelled path tidied by perspective
runs a silent brook so ghostly
wrought open the iron gate
kept after school, the bony lonely

Ernest Albert Ball where would you live?
by limestone cliffs and fulmar nests
moonlit waves that cannot sleep
my mother’s grey ashes cascaded

© edenbraytoday09.04, 2021




#Authors note – my brother and I decided not to bury our dear mothers ashes beside a sad memorial stone but to scatter them on the cliffs, by her favourite view – my mothers free spirit now flies with the gulls and the fulmar petrels .. .

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The Amateur .. .


.. .

The amateur who carries a nickel flask

      stumbles cold around up on prospector hill

always less dangerous than the fanatic

     who stands manacled to his redoubted past


He careers around, concealed mines beneath ground

     brave intuition, branded precondition

fails, though people pointed the right direction

    in tattoo heaven he chooses ‘tradition’


Executioners sad preoccupation

     form and numbers while inspiration slumbers

marks things down with espionage precision

    written out by skulls with brains but no muscle


Journeyed inside of a dark abattoir once

      returned with arms drenched in intestinal blood

vegan crunch becomes preferred meal-deal at lunch

     however infinitesimal it may seem


Lets just say serendipity plays its part

    amateurs, professional many things gifted

If the boy can sing/dance give him centre-stage

    amateurs not afraid, entertain or kill!


Off-stage in dark shadow or sat in the stalls

     accuser waits to pounce with his solution

beside producer, buck-eyed financier

     task themselves to eradicate naiveté


They confound incredulity and passion

     confront inexperience, his wanton joy

In art that escapes the bottle-stopper whore

     deflates the rising tide of his allusion


Amateurs go to war, now feign confusion

     fight thou spectre of personal inner fear

do as I do, say as i say, conscript son

     raise your hand in salute, to block out the fun


The blunder is the wonder, childs learning feet

     accidents that happen can be indiscreet

amateurs they took the valley, raised a flag

     that flag flies for ever on memory hill


© edenbraytoday07.04.2021





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giant haystack tone

I have a pile of hats

in the corner of our room


I lie alone in the muddy field

I lie upon my back


On my back I watch the sky

The birds, the planes, the clouds bring rain


I wear a hat to shield my eyes

I cannot take much more surprise


Come round the back of the straw haystack

And lie down flat upon you back


The sun is shining in my eyes

Today my fear of dying dies


Exhaustion, absolution and confusion

The angels revolve around the sun


The hat I choose is a brand new one

Marsupials in baggies, the origin of species


Where’s C.D. when you need him?

and where’s my old double barrelled gun?


I layed here on my back for seventeen hours

Through wind and sun and icy-cold showers


There’s nothing to be done nowhere I can go

Only petals for my ears, white pills for my fears


My hats are none the greater, or sooner or the later

I can see a Jacob escalator climbing up to heaven

© edenbraytoday 05.04.2021

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great spotted


And I upon my knees
advancing stealthily
having miles to travel
backward in my mind
or then forward
among those signposts
that become gravestones
I glance across
my shoulder
wonder am I doing it ?
a priests way
the correct way
the way that he would want
if he had lived
or gave a care
on my knees
the fabric worn
I have not tried
or shedding tears
on the blue mountain
that sad old bird
in the hollow tree
learns regret
while mourning

                                            © edenbraytoday 04.03.2021

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Guilt O’ guilty ~ here take my hands, my teeth, my voice! …

In Memory of Jesse Washington (1897 – 1916)

I am crawling on my knees
rolling in the dust and the cinder ashes
of this tragedy, coals to my feet

Spittle hanging from my chin
my eyes swelling in their shrinking sockets
of angers flames consuming me

Thoughts spinning in my head
my heart exploding in my barrelled chest
of the torture mankind can render

Reason running with these blackened legs
my integrity, is it skulking in green bushes
of the questions only conscience guesses?

Jesse Washington, seventeen, is burning
my senses revolting at such torrid history
of racism, the shared pain of human shame

I am questioning in my tortured brain
my teeth grinding in my silent mouth
of hatred, the true price for each of Jesse’s teeth

I am standing on these burnished feet
my courage feins returning as a ‘Glory’ soldier
of writing new stories, black ink, whitened paper

                                        © edenbraytoday 02.04.2021
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O’ CAROL .. .

o carol


(the 1st kiss)


Her name was Carol, of curly hair, a most happy disposition

I am sure I had kissed other girls, even before the age of seven

Gill who had a pony, my cousins, I a child lonely, it was only fun

but Carol soft, in my arms, her teenage charms became the one


I felt parts of me growing, her lips sweet as butterkist, soft cherries

she held me close, her breast against my chest, heart-beat racing

she lay her head on my shoulder, advances becoming bolder, her kiss

I crave for more, we nibble at each other, pulsing on the dance floor


We move together sweated, deejay strobing tunes in the dark lighting

we are joined, our clothes sexed wet, neither willing to let the other go

music fast, slow, we dance the same, excited by the slightest pressure

our kiss now lingering, exploring, still fresh, sweet-soft and teasing


The day beyond, my best friend tells me of his love for curly Carol

I contemplate life without her lips, her soft kiss, her joy-girl laughter

my loyalty seemed important at fifteen years, I surrender her to him

O’ Carol, I am but a fool, you became a moll, our kiss a sweet memory


.. . when boys could be boys .. . and the girls? . .. this poem is dedicated to all the young men of the 20-20’s


© edenbraytoday28.02.2021

Posted in edenbray MEMOIRS, edenbray POMES, THAT'S ME IN THE MIDDLE, TWENTY - TWENTY - ONE | Tagged , , | Leave a comment




A white stripe daubed across, broken up

from left eye to right

there is the cottage


The subject, a lemon cheesecake
with a loganberry three-corner hat


Like a coulé sauce running
all over its gable roof
square, bright the brush


Broccoli green, squeezing the saps stream
gamboge, quinacridone, the wild shrub


The homey cottage nestled in
deftly using an old nurdling filbert
the outhouse, dirty shit-brown umber


Ivory black backs for two rusty old crows,
cerulean grey for the wandering seagull


A sprawled naked muse
purple breasted hills, bushes
midriff distance betwixt rose d’or peaks


Crumbled flake white, azure skies
juxtaposition of light upon a glass window


Titanium for brush touch-ups
sense of light so sensual
a lemon cottage where art is made


© edenbraytoday 05.03.2021

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Catfish Leaping .. .


I was standing on the hillbilly side watching and wondering
How’d they get them black boys up, the sun was setting?
I wonder what they did or why they hanging so grotesque
Them trees, a black silhouette against an orange sky so fine


One of them boys wassa’ friend of mine we met while fishing
Now that silhouette won’t leave my mind, that flathead catfish
We reeled it in, cut it down the gut, carried it home for our teas
His to his and mine to mine that orange, blood red sky so fine

Now the fish don’t jump so high I have a nagging pain in my head
Since that silhouette, a pain I cain’ forget, the murmuring stream
It speaks to me, what could have been, not what my fool folks cain’ see
That vermillion sun, the black boys hanging, the catfish jumping

© edenbraytoday03.03.2021

Posted in edenbray POMES, JAZZ POETRY | Tagged | 1 Comment