BOOMER’S STORY – THREE SCORE YEARS and TEN – an Odyssey

Boomer’s Story

Fancy Colours ©WARWICK J.EEDE 2021

Three score years and ten …  an odyssey

Above the tempest and the squall
I cannot remember the first time
I heard a train approaching
travelling down the stone-laid track 
the purple smoke, the rhythmic panting
the rush of a woman birthing
lying on her back 
the birth I never knew
those coal black engines greased and shining
thundered through my home town
on the Southern Region

We played football
we broke windows
watched the smoke curl from the chimney
on sunny days drifting
sights that last forever 
in the quiet of suburbia
or earlier where the summer brush grows
my dimpled rubber wheels and spokes
ran over snaking, antique roots
rode steep mud tracks 
beneath some ancient trees
cowhorn handlebars
my canvas paper-sack
enterprise and commerce 
thus began my salad days

Childhood, a softest pillow 
despite the constant wheezing
my asthma curse
a needle in the ass 
from old Doctor Williams
Christmas eve with emphysema scrooge
pictures of my understanding mother
jocund brother, blond, beguiling
and father it seems always emerging
from out of platform three 
from the smoke, the smog, the empathy
of post-war Britain and Billy B 
his redcoat land-trains, taking trips
round seaside towns
Filey, Bognor, Pwhelli

and Grandad’s knees 
were they ever knobbly 
or were we ever Dutch
Grandma’s hair, ginger and so curly
she had that Irish touch 
twas’ not taters brought her over
to our very English sod
only British valour
and the war to end all wars
our personal Abaddon 
when we stepped out of one past into another
a Jackson Pollack splash of adolescence 
Charlie Drake fell through the window
it made you laugh out loud
normal service will be resumed
on our black and white telly
we watch the death of Kennedy

Life moves faster when you’re seventeen
reggae, reggae, reggae
pushing the world’s soapbox cart along
also learning to be strong
write words of verse about your condition
the sedition of the political few
before Bob Marley started really sing-ging!
the fab four turned on
dropped out, then in again 
on psychedelic acid 
and you like Alice 
and her big white rabbit
come tumbling after 
in search of a lost dream
or joyous laughter

True answers always just out of reach
blowing in your avalanche of reason
heroes, urban and cultish
for that small season 
give way to personal freedom
suddenly God is not dead but much alive
he is a docker called Ron from Peckham
who met death alone
founded a band called Resurrection
took a look inside the church
it still remains a sadness 
that Auntie Pat was sectioned
taken from the family home
with her troubled thoughts
she was left alone

Seven years phenomena
extends to fourteen 
a rash more than an itch
and twenty one announces 
that you are fully grown
experiences with women
love and lust
the essence of musk
when wedding vows still make our day
without a dowry 
beneath the canopy
my fountain pen is always ready
we find each other 
and because of love
we sign upon the dotted line 
though I will write letters seven feet tall
with our loves children on the beach 
at places with names like Anderby Creek

Workaday years
a blurred collection of motifs
picture cards, memories like logos
we catch the stars in moments sifted
we say and do some things we choose
much of out truest selves we lose
with my pen I lie, late at night
examining my conscience
searching for my beginning and my end
caring for our mother
we loved our children well
earned a living, bought a house
ran a car, the usual things
did not travel far

The train it never stops running
across the yellowed pages
crisp like dried straw on the heath
the hills of hope, mauve and feminine
we search for visions mother
I paint, I draw, 
engage the brain on heavens shore
O’ feeling, you are my bitch
and you are my blood-soaked brother
I clutch your war-stained head
raise you, gasping air
to search for life inside your eyes
is this only my imagination
or my God-given spirits incantation
the poet in me leaves this question
by your nakedness 

O’ beauty of the written sonnet
Shakespearian, ruche or honest
I’ve scribbled in my cardboard notebook
tampered, played with words
fought the great wars
wrestled with deception
my greatest fears
I, the honest poet
wrapped a beat
laid my heart at my ladies feet
consideration, revolution
I’ve challenged you O’ mighty contradiction
to find a meaningful solution
I’ve fallen spent upon my knees 
a broken Job’s comforter
but made it through 
the psalmist as my tutor
the days of our years are three score years and ten
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years
yet is their strength labour and sorrow
for it is soon cut off and we fly away.

                                                                      ©edenbraytoday28.07.2021

About edenbray

I'm a writer ... I write .. . I’m not sure why I ever stopped, was it 9/11? .. . edenbray is born ugly, wet and covered in blood, mucous and bodily functions ~ the effluence of my short life .. . I am a Writer and Artist since 1966 - I'm an avid Blogger ~ I write lots of poems, written essays, articles, reviews, opinion + comment .. . I have had many poems selected for Anthologies of verse and recently have published many of my poems in 24+ themed booklets ... please ask for details - join the shebang by leaving me a marker with a 'like' or a comment for my ego and encouragement and thanks for listening - I really value your interest ~ edenbray
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