Multiples .. .

ink bottle

i met a boy once fresh of face
  he was of a chubby stock and curled hair
    not affected by drugs or any rock n’roll rhythm

who ran naked to the sea for his mother’s florin
  who grew to be a loyal lover aye ‘a wimaway
    in the mighty jungle where the lion sleeps

while few weep long of his memory
  his august lips buried deep of many rosehips
    the thorns he bore a’plenty in his hands and feet

who wore his mother’s cross
  a gold that held no chagrin
    but earnest tears upon his surplus

he was a gentle child, a gentle man
  who took his place at altar with a determined stare
    who was a priest born out of time

a gentle heart he shared
  for all those born who would even listen
    so much love to share of the little he were given

a mother’s share, another august rhyme
  of God’s love he was stricken
    to fall down on his knees to find his place

clouds of mercy arrived one by one
  multiples in the valley of decision
    multiples the patient’s stare

burden of the beast that society moulds
  his heart was broken as the oxen
    to grind the corn as Samson who grew such hair

stepped out and in the London basin
  the thunder and the lightning
    the elders can be frightening who held no love

multiples who still emerge
  he blanched not to wear a cardigan 
    his soul born beside the o’ so grubby river

soldiers of experience, D’Artagnan and his brothers
  he drifts on like wood on water
    birthing two sons, two daughters

painting his soul in colours of anguish
  where people live and memories die
    struck out across the parameters

a city man who started again and again
  multiples, a long line of trials before
    now standing watching life go up in smoke

it is time to put on a shirt
  shelve the tie-dye tie more multiples adding up
    till the illusion is overblown and shattered
who empathises caution within politician’s lies
  their deceit is nigh complete
    but why do children and love always suffer?

multiples stutter, and another
  and another, golden boy
    with his golden balls and his rusted shovel

the boy in him has curly hair again
  the image of his eternal mother
    he’ll doff the serpents skin forever

rise like phoenix with God’s own ashes
  set this world of shame to rights
    Jonah and his Samsonite brothers

multiples, I’ve met multiples so many
  on the dark side of the prairie so few
    where the coyote slinks

where he hides to pounce as always 
  a bottle buried in the ground
    with a message hidden, written in black ink


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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