I bought Bukowski

I bought Bukowski .. .


I bought Bukowski
I bought White Stripes
seven deaths on Lincolnshire roads
where I live
the rain still falling
on the window ledge outside
sexy as suck

I bought into Bukowski
I bought into Seamus Heaney too
my boots not made of leather, ardent
ardent just as you
I compare thee to a shoe
which fits around me, a fenny glove

I bought into the Charles Bukowski thing
and Shostakovich, Frederick Delius too
culture bomb
internecine implosion
the creative mind set free
laid out on vermillion pantyles
dappled, a splattered roof
not blind except
by reason of conformity
when owls and savants meet
another Lincolnshire Posy

Cultured Frederick D.
met the Aussie Percy Grainger
near Brigg Fair
in pre-war-one sun
before the world turned
in full circles since 1903
I travel across the East Fen
on a bicycle with spokes
that roads so full of cheese
of Stilton, of Maasdammer
upon this reclaimed land
so damn holey moley
the Dutch masters taught us
to stick fingers into holes
O’ my forefathers in clogs

I bought White Stripes
and Death of a Naturalist
to add to my august road
going nowhere
Dmitri S. walked a matted path
to prove he were a Russian
befriended Jewish folksongs
turns out he had much to lose
his friends were shot
family members murdered
creative minds analysed then herded
announced he was a communist
announced it far too late
I announced it in 1972
I wouldn’t have had I known
about Stalin’s ‘creative’ list

I bought Bukowski
and I bought Miles Davis too
a Touch of Blue
I’d bought into things before
I will again
my creative brain
both my pleasure and my pain
I bought into Miles Davis
Alicia Garza, Rosa Parks
Ralph Ellison
Langston Hughes
heroes every one
I bought into Charlie Bukowski


                          © edenbraytoday08.05.2021

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Copyright and Comedy .. .



I, a radiohead
hear voices
I hear peoples screams

live peoples nightmares
water board cruelty
splints under nails

humanity is not holy
it has no compassion
who can own a feeling?

I am a charlatan
making crazy rules
stealing what should not matter

who sells emotion at the door
artists freedoms
rhymes, schemes, seasons?

I am an oasis
in the crumbling desert
a pack of well-thumbed cards

water collected in a butt
a crystal stream
on a craggy mountain top

I am caravan
hired out cheap for the day
shared with my lover

where the crows now gather
on the rivet roof
we are fully woke up

I am rolling stone
always moving on
the name I use already chosen

names cannot be swallowed
no credits given
Pubilius Syrus was here in 1023

I, the pumpkin smashed
lies empty on the floor
the festival was here long before

everything it seems is fake
nothing is what it seems
who would pay a bent cent for their own dreams?

                                © edenbraytoday29.04.2021

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Britain Has Its Biscuits .. .



Alongside the apothecary of jars and potions
the baker’s biscuit designed to aid digestion
was accepted by the nation not bicarbonate
but by skill in appropriating diffused libations

In this regard it waits in line behind Rich Tea
as of the absorbent qualities of les bis-cuit
each regional recipe, an axiom of alchemy                                         
that augments the modernism of our history

The character of style and taste preferred by
members of the ruling class, the Tea Biscuit
stirred in 17th century, t’was a York-shire treat
biscuit tale unwrapped t’was far from complete

Cornwall like a British daughter back in1886
began exporting its famous ‘fairings’ to order
wi’ added spice, an eastern sparkle they would travel far
across the globe, ‘gingernuts’ became a biscuit star

To celebrate the exploits of a revolutionary leader   
we baked a ‘garibaldi’ – ‘dead fly’ sandwich, modelled
loosely on the eccles cake as seven years before
Guissepe visited our broken-biscuit isle in 1854

Early in the 20th century came custard creams and
bourbons, a touch of baroque with a chocolatto cloak
to steer us to Biscuitato Heaven with butter cream,
vanilla or cocoa powder, Victoriana met Mr Bojangle

This Island of Brittish Biscuit Makers creaks
many biscuits here wish to speak, have their say
double-baked and famous in their traditional way
the likes of Jaffa Cakes and Jammie Dodgers queue

They wait for their moment, a sight they are to see
lined up with purpose beside a nice cup of tea
O Britain roll your banner beat your drum, dip your t.bag
your moment for deciding is later than you think

At the behest of yon’ apothecary the nations roots
were laid amidst fair sweet potions for our potentate
like Kellogs flakes and Pepsi Cola the digestive biscuit
was created to sit on shelf twixt honey and molasses

Behind the highest spires of Britains pomp and fire
there stands a humble biscuit to whom we may retire
for while the people murmur and complain of much to do
there is loyal hobnob, sweet digestive to dunk in our brew


© edenbraytoday23.04, 2021

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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
Posted in edenbray POMES, POEMS FOR CHANGE - | 1 Comment