Originally written and posted ~ 08.02.2012 _ Re-posted 07.01.2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… … …



The Watchman

☤    ☤    ☤

A few and then many

The quiet night speaks

Peace to many plans

The watchman abroad at night

Serves his many chores

Revels in his patient duty

To trim the wick that light flickers

Burns to glow and beckon

☤   ☤   ☤

Can we prevail upon him so?

Who watches for our souls

Who prays and holds the night winds at bay

and faults the eastern snows not enter

Or speaks to birds of prey

While they converge to plunder?

☤   ☤   ☤

He wrestles the man of pain

and tests the spirits of the torn

and the tortured who leer

☤   ☤   ☤

In the hearth the embers amber

Are fanned and spawned

To love they are born and weaned

In hope they conceived innocent

Do crackle and breathe deeply

Of heavens richest, rarest air

This nightly scene shared with

The favoured and chosen

Whose journey is worn of care

Whose habit not course

Is yet taught by trial

Of dedication and purpose

☤    ☤    ☤

Oh watchman who sits by

Ever heartened by companions

Whose thoughts heard are words

Wolden and tinged crimson

With a heat and a light

So pure and blessed

The watchman of the night so sure

He is a worthy special sight!

☤    ☤    ☤


 ☤    ☤    ☤

Jessica Renea comments 07.03.2012 : ‘Feels so warm even in the cold of night. I always think of angels when I think of watchmen. Another epic!’

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation!

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Originally written and posted ~ 9th. March, 2012 – Re-posted ~ 7th. January, 2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… … …




  ☼   ☼ 

She was the youngest daughter of a Polynesian chieftain

Her soft flesh wore the colour of sun-blushed, dried cinnamon 

She could sway her hips like Guava trees in a high wind

Or pandanus which she loved and whose fruit she carried  

home to her father, those hairy, hard shells so heavy

☼   ☼   ☼

Hapoelle’s breasts hung like two mountain apples

All these island girls, capricious, still went semi-naked in 1845

The year Baladins boat came to rest on the coral sand dunes

and the ships crew put up, to take comfort in the local nation

Whose manners chipper – wore a plaited & flowered welcome garland!

☼   ☼   ☼

And Bellannea, Hapoelle’s friend with bosoms he likened to lilikoi

For they were round, ripe and generous, she slept with John Dray

For all the long while they encamped upon that sunny island

Dray drew pictures of her every day, with a stick of sketchers’ sanguine

He had bought for a penny in an artist’s shop near Kennington Oval in  London


Baladins’ fondness for the chieftains maiden served only

To leave him melancholic for a woman he had promised to, back home

She of fairer skin and lighter sympathy would not have dallied so

Or made almond eyes at an honest gentleman, half betroth to wife

He was caught now in a honey trap and only drank the hummingbirds sap

☼   ☼   ☼

He rolled with Hapoelle, his native lover and learned to speak of intimacy with her

While his deeper heart settled on a corner of Albion, where oak-lined villages wait

A gamble of ‘little lambs’ standing on the wide horizon in the heat of a July sun 

Children, watching masted, trawler boats return to this Britains shore to make her great

Baladin’s eyes heavy, his jaw firm set at the memory of the pinkest salmon in Britains rivers

☼   ☼   ☼

The masters of regret, caught this one failed mission in an ocean ranger’s eye

Those purple mists of time – ragged, bloody and faded, cannot rob the man that moment

Nor his sight, long in the maze of memory which causes him to smile and mimic sense

He, recalling the freshness of her breath, the lightness of her girth and quiver

The many gentle moments and pleasure she loaned him in that strangest summer

☼   ☼    

If summer she be, when settled on a Polynesian Island in the years when the whale,

Both giant and gentle, was still birthing a nation at the heart of the Western Isles

Those morbid midwives who sing wistful tales, arctic and northern narwhals

Not sperm or humpback that the soulful Baladin, his captain and his crew knew

Courted, chased and lauded with folk songs of wistful reason and lament

☼   ☼   ☼

Baladin has been riding these waves of histories choices for the years of one hundred and three

His dream has lived through longer than the pale afternoon of those sunnier days

When those sweetest companions of lust and beauty, soft sirens in warm, tropic seas

Were moist moments adorned with the heat of young and ardent pleasure

Yet still worn of a season of pride where captains of the past salute future’s ambassadors

☼   ☼   ☼



… …

#Authors Note ~ I think I have to acknowledge that this piece, owes much to fifties filmmaking which I grew up with and great literature like Gulliver’s Travels. It appears to reference especially epics like Moby Dick and Mutiny On The Bounty and other less well-known works of that time, many shown in black and white on our earliest tiny screens, where we are transported to a different culture from our own by tales of circumstance, adventure and derring-do.

Baladin is once again the central character at yet another stage of his enormous life and who now memoirs the time he worked as a whaler, who found himself briefly and a bit like Fletcher Christian, catapulted into a world of tropical delights in a warm, welcoming, acceptance-culture where anything goes as long as it’s love-based. John Lennon would surely have approved.

The freedom of this imaginary setting allows for a mildly erotic, wistful and sensuous story to unfold in a Utopia where once again our moral compass and human values may be explored and challenged.

Baladin, like an earlier, more cultured Forest Gump steps through the pages of modern history and in this piece reminds us of the origins of much of America’s earliest wealth and more poetic times before global-warming and the excesses of our past have made it today our only central focus.

Despite both its ‘kiss-and-tell’ and ‘tale-to-tell’ notes – I think in today’s stressed-out maelstrom society – Hapoelle is basically a slice of harmless novelette, it’s a cracking tale, based on hard-edged facts and its also a bit of fun – hope you think so too!          ~ edenbraytoday


#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation!

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An Essay

Originally written and posted ~ 3rd, February, 2012 – Re-posted  7th January, 2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… … …


An Essay

… … …

I dunno if I am whistling in the damn wind, getting too old, barking up the wrong tree or just taking life too seriously but I am seeing something insidious wherever I go.

I used that word ‘insidious’ of a workmate in jest, not long ago. I use words like that occasionally. Words you have to spellcheck. Well she didn’t know what it meant and hey ‘insidious’ – that is a hard word to describe, especially when you are trying to make a funny gibe at someone. I’m still not sure she got the humour intended even after I had explained. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea? Maybe I didn’t explain the word too well? Anyway, she doesn’t talk to me as much as before but well it was just a joke and yes it sure is a good word!

There are some things that say it for me and you can’t tell it another way. It’s like a joke you have to explain can never really be funny, a cartoon that leaves you confused, just didn’t do it for you or whoever really loved a picture they were told was good.

As the guy in the cinema queue in Annie Hall the movie says, ‘Its gotta hit you on a gut level’ and like Woody Allen’s character Alvy Singer, rejoins later ‘Boy what I could do with a sock full of manure right now.’ This is because the guy in the queue keeps speaking his dogma and personal opinions within Alvy’s hearing.

‘Some things are better felt than telt’ … is a saying.

I love sayings, colloquialisms (boy, only one letter out on my spellcheck on that one!) and I love learning new colloquial expressions too … because even though I can only barely speak English, Scottish and Irish, plus a little Glaswegian and maybe a few other rare and special British dialects (#note: yes, there is a joke or ‘three’ in there .. see, being told the joke doesn’t work does it?!) I really do love language … Language is communication! .. Language is dynamite!

Listen to this for example …


Two weeks in a Virginia jail

For my lover, for my lover

Twenty thousand dollar bail

For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks

That I’m the fool

But they don’t get Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love

I’d climb a mountain if I had to

Risk my life so I could have you You, you, you…

Everyday I’m psychoanalysed

For my lover, for my lover

They dope me up and I tell them lies

For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks

That I’m the fool

But they don’t get Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love

I’d climb a mountain if I had to

Risk my life so I could have you You, you, you…

I follow my heart

And leave my head to ponder

Deep in this love No man can shake

I follow my heart And leave my mind to wonder

Is this love worth The sacrifices I make?

Two weeks in a Virginia jail

For my lover, for my lover

Twenty thousand dollar bail

For my lover, for my lover

Everyday I’m psychoanalysed

For my lover, for my lover

They dope me up and I tell them lies

For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks That I’m the fool

But they don’t get Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love

I’d climb a mountain if I had to

Risk my life so I could have you You, you, you..

… … …

Lyrics to the song ‘For My Lover’

by Tracy Chapman


beautiful ! …

There are other things you shouldn’t touch but do not mess with language … or take words out … or re-write words come to that! … Are you listening America?… Yes, you can add words and maybe some words might be simplified but only if there is good and valid reason.

‘Just because you can, doesn’t mean you oughta …’

Well this insidious deregulation is affecting everything now. Even the sacred cow is suddenly fair game, even though she has always lived out on the street in open view. Who knew that eventually visitors to countries where there is a custom, might challenge her right to even be there, should that particular sacred cow be a country’s flag on a pole, a long-standing, local or ethnic practice, habitude or the chosen national religion. It doesn’t matter that some care less for their own customs than they should. Even true ‘sacred cows’ wander the streets of India uncared for, unloved, and feed on local refuse which you might say is not what a sacred cow should have to do.

I think maybe respect is what I am alluring to here, although even that particular word might need some redefinement from the deregulators curse. Respect does not mean a feigned honour, just because it is old, but an appropriation, an appreciation and a recognition of a things true merits, based not only on its current status but also its particular historical relevance and I may add ‘reverence’ at the risk of any implied alliteration. Now that is a whole bunch of look-up words for some people and I don’t mean to sound patronising one bit.

I see that hand at the back and yes I knew someone would make that comment. What happened to the ‘it’s got to hit me on a gut level’ remark?’ I hear you say and ‘I thought you were against people telling us what ‘is good’ and therefore worthy of our respect?’….

No, what I am saying is this – We do not have to enjoy something ourself to recognise its value or its place in history. This is, after all, why we have National Exhibitions, Art Galleries, Opera Houses and National Theatres, to preserve and honour our National identity, history and culture.

The deregulation I object to, that insidious thing this piece came in on, is the one that is affecting not only a few abbreviated words and Americanisms that may have crept in on the back of our Microsoft and Apple Software ~ Why does my spellchecker continue to give me a dotted line under words like ~ honour?!  

No, this insidious thing I am talking of is moving into the realm of our popular culture and can affect things that aren’t 50, 40, 30 or even 20 years old. These things have it seems, not even earned a mundane – ‘O well it is pretty old’ kind of respect. They are unfancied bull calves, game for slaughter, processing, recycling, even vivisection of the vulgarest order

If its not brok’ why fix it?…

Why do advertisers process ‘favourite tunes’ for their advertisements and re-record classic pop tunes with bland vocals and homogenized, even soulless soundtracks? Why do they even take just the melodies from memorable chart songs and make different versions, that are vaguely recognisable for background themes. Why do tv programme planners take classic or historic novels, even recent successful drama series  and fit them with modern sub-plots, current speech, terminology and up-dated story lines. Is nothing sacred? No, it seems it is not and this for me is the insidious heart of the problem, for history is being aborted at birth, like unwanted leverets or kittens were once bagged and drowned. The culture of today suffers no pretence of leaving a legacy for tomorrow. It is an existential nightmare which suggests a lack of value for the way we live and the art we produce and unless I am the only one dreaming, it speaks of a soulless mentality that  says that we who are alive today have nothing more to bring to the table of culture and artistic accomplishment, nothing of any real value that is

. ♨ .

Hey hey Woody Guthrie I wrote you a song

About a funny old world that’s coming along

Seems sick and it’s hungry, it’s tired and it’s torn

It looks like it’s dying and it’s hardly been born.

lyrics ~ Bob Dylan – 1962 .                                       

. ♨ .

‘Don’t re-write what I have written’

While writers, screenwriters, film directors and ghost-writers turn into revisionists and have fun ‘deregulating’ by rewriting the greatest of books and movies, not just changing a few words but whole characters, situations and basic story-lines to suit a new generation I sit back and wail, thinking that one day people will be denied a history of anything at all. It is hard and sad enough that the revisionists of today like a swarm of locusts or computer worms are set to eat out any politically sensitive material they can find, are conversely quite comfortable to introduce amoral, often hedonistic and if not atheistic then certainly religiously agnostic standpoints into stories which originally reflected morality as it was perceived at the time it was written and not as it is today.

In the generally underrated film ‘Reds’, directed by and starring Warren Beatty as John Reed the American and Communist sympathiser and activist, there is an awesome scene where Reid protests to the Bolshevik leaders who have been censoring his material and using selective editing, ‘Don’t re-write what I have written !’

Communist and Marxist politics have always supported the idea of changing a Countries ideological and cultural history by rewriting swathes of history and literature. Consider the Cultural Revolution which took place at the behest of Chairman Mau in China. Yet, we in the west are seeing only a similar Governmental initiative and trend perpetuated before our very eyes or perhaps a little beneath our very eyes, as if we cannot think for ourselves, censor what we read and use the good and evil of the past to formulate a proud history of our own.

The Watergate scandal of the 70’s spawned a million Conspiracy theories and helped develop a general mistrust of governments either east or west, while today we have inherited a pervading sense that things today do not need to be even so hush-hush as those cloke and dagger, dark days of cold-war spies and propaganda were.

Governments today seem to achieve similar results far more openly and all under the necessary ‘banner of freedom of information’. There seems no need to hide what the ‘spin doctors’ create and the ‘tail that wags the dog’ has become just another colloquialism that although born of deceit is now accepted as the very collateral of political machinations in this 21st century? Of course there will always be another million conspiracy stories circulating and a lot should be filed under ‘Hoax’ but if I’ve called this right ‘my gut feeling’ tells me that all that this current cultural malaise reveals is that Governmental weakness has spread far and wide to the common people, an epidemic with a ‘trojan horse’ that carries a certain lack of respect for our own national identity and popular culture itself.

Of course one would require greater evidence than a few low-grade telly ads and a couple of shallow tv series to support my thesis but the failings of the many lie in the details of the few and we may only read the symptoms as best as we can.

The fact remains that art and culture, rank as low as I have known them in my time and that is a worrying symptom enough.


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Originally written and posted ~ 7th February, 1991 – Re-posted ~ 6th January, 2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective.

… … …

the iraqi child

… … …


The Iraqi Child

Sometimes I travel deeply into myself

As though obsessed I am aware of the danger

I find things hidden in the soft folds of flesh

As though hiding from the freshness of light

and as I encounter these strange, deep feelings

I meet not only myself

but someone stricken through with all the

Raw emotion and pain

Common surely to people all over

I meet the Iraqi child

O God, the Iraqi child, have mercy!

At times I wish only to be bright

One who skips and bounds on the surface

One who laughs with a childhood glee

but then, Oh the Iraqi child

Oh God, the Iraqi child, have mercy

… … …




#Authors Note – Hopefully this piece is self explanatory – a sincerely personal heartfelt piece ~ a prayer! – Where children are involved, surely the rules of life, domestic and national politics, civil discord and unrest or war are challenged – Oh God the Iraqi child.      edenbraytoday

… …

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation!

… … …

jimmy carter

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Originally written and posted ~ 18, March, 2012 – Re-posted ~ 6, January, 2020 as part of an Edenbray retrospective.

… … …

The “Ba-rai-zuin”

… …


₮  ₮  ₮  ₮

He fought the Ba-rai-zuin when the snow was thick n’ chillin’

He journeyed a’top the western slopes, his husky pack a’skewin’

He bought a musket from a store where th’whusky wasa’ brewin

“He Slew the Bah-rai-Zuin”

₮  ₮  ₮  ₮

Nor many months his honey chile had been gently ‘picininnis’ grewin’

So he took him a jug, 1/2 a pig-hog and a length of beef jerky fa’ chewin’

The ole smokestack was noe’ cold from the biddy and the engine slewin’

“DemBala, he slew the Bah-rai-Zuin”

₮  ₮  ₮  ₮

He panned for gold by the River Shore where dem’ grey fish die a’ queue-in’

Yet these tales he told to the worn an’ bold did not go real well with tha’ tellin’

Till he told them all of his miraculous fall, wi’ Jud, dn’ the jag’d falls of E’rin

“They kinda’ knew, he slew the Bah-rai-Zuin”

₮  ₮  ₮  ₮

‘Manitok – is Rugged’ she bore him tha’ child he loved, his virgin bride her eyes so wide

Two weeks later down in the northern range his ‘Creedmor’ and two bearskins by his side

A fren’ brought news of ‘Manirik’ – his sweet-soft ‘panik’ an’ Baladin he broke down and cried

“Who slew the Bah-rai-zuin?”

₮  ₮  ₮  ₮

Ole’ Porcupine has ice that makes a’cut in Yukon terri-tory as summer bees are clustrin’

They fight to keep ‘us’ warm, not freeze, yet starve beyon’ tha blu’ Mackenzie Mount’n

Where Baladin has wrestled cold and spied the Alligator’s ash, one-part the ‘Ring of Fire’

‘and quenched the Bah-rai-zuin, his blood desire’

₮  ₮  ₮  ₮

Who’s howl awakened death, brought tha’ wind to heel, where blood runs to cold in night-light?

For pirates of the Klondyke, this creature wore their match and sent many home to town

 DemBala the wolf-master, he tamed the pack by stealth for only he knew a killing grasp

“He who slew the Bah-rai-zuin” – stone dead!

₮  ₮  ₮  ₮


… … …

” ‘Manitok – is Rugged’ she bore him tha’ child he loved,”


” Manirik, his sweet-soft ‘panik’ ”

‘ a smooth piece of ice’

glossary of terms – esk – picininni – baby : panik – esk – a daughter : River Porcupine and Mackenzie Mountain are both in the Yukon territory of NW Canada, as is the Alligator, a volcanic geezer, one of five known collectively as the ‘Ring of Fire’. Other stuff is down to poetic interpretation … the idea is – you sing the last line of each verse …

#Authors note ~ The LEGEND of Baladin continues apace with this descriptive piece describing the time he spent in the Yukon Valley which is a writers paradise for literature and the famous Klondyke tales. This is Part VII of the Omnibus that is Baladin. The Chapters or Parts are not recorded, posted or written in chronological order! . It also then becomes a kind of homage to Jack London and his snowy tales that I so loved as a child. It also speaks of Manitok, Baladins Eskimo bride who bore Baladin his children – or so continues the myth and adds to the story as it goes!                                    edenbraytoday

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation!



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Originally written and posted ~ 08/29.04.2012 – Re-posted – 04.01.2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… …


… …

… …

he waited for her on the corner

                                                  on the corner of a black cloud

where he caught sight of her            

                 talking with friends         

                                                     walking with friends

from the factory in a grey blue tunic

                       they wear to protect their clothes

                                                   his love precluded, his temerity excluded

he walked on alone … and lonely

       to where the maidens gather

                                            the maidens gentle who chitter chatter

                      in his head and in his mind

and thoughts expressed, so full, so kind

                               and the love that makes you blind 

A cold wind blew that night

                                 in Rempala Mews when he saw the girl

the girl with the straight black hair

                      a heart of gold … a heart of treasure

                 who stole his own without a care

and when he told her the time of day

                               she laughed and made him smile

                                      as though he cried,

               as though his soul near died

with the plaster on the wall crumbling

                            and he just one more day troubled

                                        without the girl he loved

                     his stomach doubled

                  for that girl for whom he cared

that midnight tale, this august hail

                                 it whips and whistles across a warmer wind

and sleights the meaning

         of our honest feelings

  the night his soul he bared

and stepped from fear, the cage

          to confront the ghosts of deceit

and treachery and betrayal and rage

there where on the corner 

                             on the corner of the street

               a morbid dog with skulking ways

and knotted fur in the street light shining

where streaks the rain

         describing only a cowed lovers pain

free now to run away a drain pipe drain

                    I’d wait for thee upon this palest corner

I’d be thee a friend till hell has frozen over

                     and all I have for thee is promise golden

                             with not a single treachery or lies

                     no sad surprise

my sweet lady factory worker

… … …





jessica phiri says:

O my God this is beautiful.


#Authors note ~ I wrote this as an attempt to get inside ‘feeling’. A lot of my work around this time centred on unrequited, jilted, unfulfilled love. A love that cannot be, may still be alive?

Here is a story written in my own fairly unique and developed ‘jazz’ -style that I had attempted and experimented with before – By using a different kind of prose spacing and very little punctuation it allows a staccato, raw, stripped-down kind of analysis in words, an attempt to un-hinge the reader and make themselves seem more like an innocent bystander and not a voyeur.

There is a vague feeling engendered in the piece to indicate maybe there is a dog involved or maybe just a star-crossed lover, both, or maybe they are one and the same who wait patiently at the corner of Rempala Mews just hoping to catch a sight of the object of their infatuation and love as she returns home weary and dirty from her factory occupation. Not sure she would welcome his advances right now but under the right conditions you just never know ?? ~ … … …     edenbray today

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation!

Posted in edenbray POMES, edenbray RETROSPECTIVE, JAZZ POETRY, PROG-PROSE | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment



Originally written in July, 1991 and posted 14 February, 2012 ~ Re-posted 03 January 2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… …





☩ ☩ ☩

Merciless was the sea that sent spray

As fine as angel’s breath into the mist

Sea-skuas danced, twisting and planing

In search of bloodless prey

Waves, deep and cavernous as mountain rocks

Gripped and threw the small boat fiercely

Its bulwarks heaved, creaked, moaned,

The dark night a blanket of anxious dreams

Which swept on, as shoreline lights

Sparked on the horizon

A fond memory of shore nights, warm sheets

and comforts embrace

Flickering but faintly, whilst the gallant seamen

Wrestled the evil night

Baladin was delivered the tide

In soft mornings broken peace

He lay wrapped with discarded blankets

Shivering and thankful as a child

Returning from weekend excursions

This tale, his sad eyes lit with the farmhouse lantern

and told in memory of his sweet friend Mar

Who was carried from the beach by the village men

Who found Baladin so uncertain and dazed

The morning after that awful storm broke

So malevolent and merciless

☩ ☩ ☩



☩ ☩ ☩ ☩ ☩


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Originally written circa. ~ 1992 as a frontispiece for an Edenbray Art Exhibition of Paintings of Workhorses and Lincolnshire Landscapes – Poem was Posted ~ 16 February, 2012 – Re-posted ~ 2 January, 2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… …

The Workhorse

Hold hard the workhorse as I trial and sweat

Hold hard his image whose head held proud

I hear the sound of chain and leather

and the hoof which treads heavy

✴  ✴  ✴

The mauve and grey sky does bite

Left hard and nicely cruel

To cut winters sod and crumble

To the edge of steel forged white

✴  ✴  ✴

I am trained to this and others for to teach

As bound to brothers, sisters

We do tramp the earths border

To send the harrow deep

✴  ✴  ✴

The girth glistens in pale sun

Caught with the fury and the snort

Of steam and rough energy

The buckles and straps glisten and shine

✴  ✴  ✴

The rough ‘scrape’ and dust that settles on my brow

And dries the throat so coarsely

In clouds my blinkered eyes peer thru’

To see the hope of man’s invention

✴  ✴  ✴

Hold hard the workhorse whose step and sway

Measured by the ploughman’s eye 

Fettered by his guiding rope, bonded by his patient care

Is given reign to ply his honest trade

✴  ✴  ✴



Dedicated to Jessica my best and most discerning critic ~ who works herself into the ground.

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Originally written ~ July 27, 1991 – 1st posted ~ February 8, 2012 – Re-posted January 1, 2020 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… …




☨ ☨ ☨

A stream of prosaic adventures

like clouded marble glass

lit within by holy fire

illumined and permeated by

citrus light that grows outward

☨ ☨ ☨  

Journeys made in smooth streams

timeless travel on limitless purpose

the gold-crowned clouds of bird-blue skies

a wild and spattered foundation

for the unimaginable imagined

☨ ☨ ☨

Clean, rushing water

bronze, round pebbles

and rainbow clusters hidden

Baladin’s dream abounds

unrestrained, the danger point passed

his mind rushing on into the

green garden of summer delights

☨ ☨ ☨

Freedom personified and only music in his ears

sometimes light as shepherd flutes and gypsy fiddles

others grandiose and building

but always triumphant and bronze-gold

☨ ☨ ☨

Baladin has seen many muddied summers

soured moments caught as struggling 

flies held by indescribable murk

☨ ☨ ☨

He has felt cold winds that dry and burn

and has lain parched, unwanted,

in deserts fading fire

☨ ☨ ☨

He has for a time known the dull blank blindness

of a night which has no end

and seen bloody pain

☨ ☨ ☨

Held the hand of tortured flesh

sat beside the spirits of the abused

and also known the rush of blood

the fire of unholy passion, ugly greed

☨ ☨ ☨

He, for a time was a victim of grey forces

whose stench and tireless intrigue

had led him naked and fettered

sightless and without cause

☨ ☨ ☨

Baladin was now an old man

his hair long and greyed, hanging loosely

his wisdom now only made him

forget the ugly tales he might tell

of recollections and reflections the old are

prone to and feel deserved of

☨ ☨ ☨

Baladin sat with his mother-wife who had

known so much of him and yet so little

Love as blind as new-born leverets

had knit them as a well-worn rug

and they two could ponder

on the wonder of a blushed red sun 

as it lay in the twilight

grey-blue streamers coiled around

and running through it

the form of two naked lovers held forever

☨ ☨ ☨

Baladin’s mind and spirit left now to wonder

looked out and beyond into the bright morning

he travelled the skua-skies

journeys wondrous birds make twice a year

and dreamed a dream so beautiful …

( to be continued …)

☨ ☨ ☨

.. ..



#Authors note ~ Baladin, my ageless yet ancient companion, my friend and advisor, my confidant, my alter-ego. He is a Leonardo cartoon, an unfinished Hemingway, a lesser-known album by Radiohead, a Heaney scribbled verse, a Picasso drawing that one Carlos Garcia found in a box in a Madrid attic, He is a Turner watercolour sketch that I stole in one mad moment from the Clore Gallery Archive at the Tate*. He is a fine bottle of Barolo or Montepulciano. Baladin is a priest, he is a sensuous lover, a good husband, a pioneer, a hunter, an explorer, a visionary. ~ He is someone you might trust and retire to on a dark night when you were anxious, troubled or afraid. Baladin has always kind of been … …

He is a poet, a prophet, a soothsayer, a dreamer of dreams, Baladin is dangerously wise. Baladin has seen it all and more. More than most anyway and yet he still emerges into the sunlight, out of the blizzard or into the rain. He still steps up and steps forward for yet more of this tortured, human experience.                                             ~ edenbray ~ today


#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation!



More of Baladin?




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Originally written around 2009 and posted ~ shortly after – Re-posted ~ 31.12.2019 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… …

Red ♼ flower

☸  ☸  ☸  ☸  ☸  ☸

 I  cannot say how she came to me,

the surprise that took my breath.

The laugh, the smile, the younger style

of her fragrant heart.

Like a real daughter and not a son,

her name spells fun and makes me young

and we were friends it seemed as old as time,

no guilt, questions or lust,  just angel dust.

And she the angel who walks so cute

and me the old brute in wisdom’s suit.

We talked and made our chat

 as we rode the waves of this and that,

Of work, experience, the past.

of plans and hopes and dreams that last.

When suddenly a secret bird caused me to fear

death drew near and I heard its sound

it almost took me to the ground.

And listening to the sound of doves,

I knew this bird was born of love.

A love I knew could never be,

in spite of me, in spite of you.

A pain now gripped me deep inside

until my prayers caused me to see,

That love may live as pure as any dove

or birds that circle round our heads,

may still fly free above this place,

where now might only flowers grow,

while reaching high or stooping low.


Flower red, I hold you free

as flowers  always, ought to be

☸  ☸  




#Authors note ~ I think I read somewhere that every man will fall in love at least twice in a lifetime – No one may truly choose who they fall for in matters of love or know the reasons, the whys and the wherefores or answer the why-nots and that is most certainly true!

All one can say is that love happens and I suppose how you deal with it, will either make for more or less happiness or sadness in some measure or circumstance to those involved – Love unrequited will bear its own regret and ask its own questions but at least we may draw round our hearts a few well-chosen words – these scribbles are mine and they will always belong to me!🌺

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