☘︎ ☘︎ ☘︎

. . .

fragility …

What is a life among so many?

the iron wheels of Dalwinni                  

The cold currency of commerce

where there is no time for verse

only the sharp teeth of the crocodile – bared

exposed to the rank and file

caught like brown rabbits in a snare

with an occasional bloody hare


Amid the final dance of death

appeared through angels breath

The delicacy of natures fronds

serve well as angel wands

The wind blew, away they flew

the wind that made me strong

a soldier boy his tunic ruddy

furled his hopes and diamonds bloody



We ran to meet the fullest moon

To greet a morbid, sorbet sun

Sing the stars our saddest, acrid tune

attest the quarantine of mercy

Sincerity feeds upon the leanest souls

crows stand both alone and holy

The warmth that only others feel

 resting sound in fields of plenty



A tattered, outgrown, tainted gown

patched, matched Saint Crispin’s frown

Atrophy and disdain like parched earth

applaud the entrance of dew-drop mirth

Anthony salutes the birth, now worthy sleeps

while Dante’s soul inestimably weeps

The bridge of sighs so tender a culvert

salver for the evening’s pater noster


Bees collect their pollen in priestly vests

duty buttoned daily to their blackened chests

Faithful volunteers for an Oxfam-army

rent collectors for a parish swarmy

While cavaliers and roundheads storm the gates

exiles and immigrants both Lindisfarne holy

Assemble on the tarmac to learn their fates

soldiers of fortune, angels of mercy – all must wait


Once more for England, once more for Harold

Once more for Michael at the beryl gate

Candescent and lonely,

golden hooves shod for a Royale pony

We drank sailors rum, bit Samson’s loyal thumb

Lay down to a Dylan muse, till the words ran dry

Just the tune played on in our heads by the by

something sweet that made our mother cry!


O’ the colonials reduced in the sieve

blended from once where woad-men lived

Not pioneers, engineers, men of vision

not mix-raced, mixed persons, minds of decision

only guilty amalgams who tortured braves

evil persons who once profited from slaves

Better for them if they’d drowned in the waves

Stand up then and wave goodbye to England!




About edenbray

I am a writer ... a beat poet who began writing poetry way back in 1966 ... 'edenbray is born ugly, wet, covered in blood, mucous & bodily functions, the effluence of my short life' ... I recently published my 1st solo Anthology - the best of 60 years writing - previously I ran my own Art Supplies Store for 40 yrs before I became a full-time writer I am a Blogger who has posted 1,000 poems - available in 24 themed booklets ... please ask for details + leave a 'like' or a comment for my encouragement, thank you so much for listening - I truly value your opinion on my work ~ in fact I literally survive on your creative input ~ edenbray
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