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

O’ CAROL .. .

o carol


(the 1st kiss)


Her name was Carol, of curly hair, a most happy disposition

I am sure I had kissed other girls, even before the age of seven

Gill who had a pony, my cousins, I a child lonely, it was only fun

but Carol soft, in my arms, her teenage charms became the one


I felt parts of me growing, her lips sweet as butterkist, soft cherries

she held me close, her breast against my chest, heart-beat racing

she lay her head on my shoulder, advances becoming bolder, her kiss

I crave for more, we nibble at each other, pulsing on the dance floor


We move together sweated, deejay strobing tunes in the dark lighting

we are joined, our clothes sexed wet, neither willing to let the other go

music fast, slow, we dance the same, excited by the slightest pressure

our kiss now lingering, exploring, still fresh, sweet-soft and teasing


The day beyond, my best friend tells me of his love for curly Carol

I contemplate life without her lips, her soft kiss, her joy-girl laughter

my loyalty seemed important at fifteen years, I surrender her to him

O’ Carol, I am but a fool, you became a moll, our kiss a sweet memory


.. . when boys could be boys .. . and the girls? . .. this poem is dedicated to all the young men of the 20-20’s


© edenbraytoday28.02.2021

Posted in edenbray MEMOIRS, edenbray POMES, THAT'S ME IN THE MIDDLE, TWENTY - TWENTY - ONE | Tagged , , | Leave a comment




A white stripe daubed across, broken up

from left eye to right

there is the cottage


The subject, a lemon cheesecake
with a loganberry three-corner hat


Like a coulé sauce running
all over its gable roof
square, bright the brush


Broccoli green, squeezing the saps stream
gamboge, quinacridone, the wild shrub


The homey cottage nestled in
deftly using an old nurdling filbert
the outhouse, dirty shit-brown umber


Ivory black backs for two rusty old crows,
cerulean grey for the wandering seagull


A sprawled naked muse
purple breasted hills, bushes
midriff distance betwixt rose d’or peaks


Crumbled flake white, azure skies
juxtaposition of light upon a glass window


Titanium for brush touch-ups
sense of light so sensual
a lemon cottage where art is made


© edenbraytoday 05.03.2021

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Catfish Leaping .. .


I was standing on the hillbilly side watching and wondering
How’d they get them black boys up, the sun was setting?
I wonder what they did or why they hanging so grotesque
Them trees, a black silhouette against an orange sky so fine


One of them boys wassa’ friend of mine we met while fishing
Now that silhouette won’t leave my mind, that flathead catfish
We reeled it in, cut it down the gut, carried it home for our teas
His to his and mine to mine that orange, blood red sky so fine

Now the fish don’t jump so high I have a nagging pain in my head
Since that silhouette, a pain I cain’ forget, the murmuring stream
It speaks to me, what could have been, not what my fool folks cain’ see
That vermillion sun, the black boys hanging, the catfish jumping

© edenbraytoday03.03.2021

Posted in edenbray POMES, JAZZ POETRY | Tagged | 1 Comment



dragons head


I woke one day in that awful season pulling wallpaper from the drabbest wall

I heard the cuckoo in my head, that sound I had come to dread and larks ascending

Descending, on an unmade bed where art lives for arts sake neath a poem of bard Blake


I woke in context of a bad dream where monsters cavort and roll pale green eyes

Beneath the wonder of clear, bluish skies, the wolds of March on a winters day

In a land of penicillium cheese and home grown ale where the dance to America set sail


There the rocks of nature, sandstone, limestone, granite mountains, plundering streams

Wordsworth said to Byron sell me one of your dreams for a sovereign and a ha’penny

Whoever shouts the loudest up on Bleaklow, carry sphagnum moss for the younger Bronte


Hardy quipped mid roseships O’Dorchestor, Grande now bows low to her Manchester

But the loss is not lost on all us holy, from Lindisfarne to St Michaels Mount and Gwent

Who wait in an orderly queue in tower block rain for a ticket that’s money well spent


As the wood chip paper falls from the wall, I dream of Deborah, the common people

Those spires and chimneys, Lowry men, street dogs, Cambridge punts and steeples

Its time to wake up now, dress the children, gather the wood, honour the good


I caught a circle in the sky, the RAF fly around here above the fens, marshland and the wild sea

Gannets patrol from Argentina, those pirate birds disgorge Arctic terns, geese winter from Siberia

We have seaside entertainers – standup Jimmy Carr, the Proclaimers who never need retainers.


History is a Book of Kells, a Magna Carta, a Road to Wigan Pier, the Order of the Garter

Questions on a unique quiz for a Bamber Gascoigne starter and we all saw Gazza cry

Shankley, Stein, Busby had other fish to fry on a Friday night in Bootle with Richard Starkey


Such malarkey, tis not a limerick Edward Lear to bring good cheer to people dressed in khaki

Over the sea in a pea green boat rivals not Dante, yet Comedy if that is what you want then

Pull up a chair for Will Hay an’ Georgie Formby, you havin’ a giraffe, your sides will split in two


For we own a solid culture out under the stars – Olivier, Rutherford, Sirs Alec Guinness, Richard Burton

of early-day saints, the goons, the salt of the earth, shopkeepers, flat caps, Scots and Irish Dragoons

William Shakespeare on the Village Green, Kinks take banter from Noel and Liam Galacher, Damien’s Blurr


Listen O’ “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art” were I to begin again in any other hallowed tone

were I to feast on luncheon vouchers inspired by the Earl of Sandwich, of cucumber, buttered bread and cricket

The ambiguity of reason attested to in season by the likes of Keats, Wordsworth, Benjamin Zephaniah


O Britain roll your blood-red carpets down and welcome a history of Queens, Kings and Royal Swans

The history of commerce and monetary exchange, Fleet Street, Bank and Shaftesbury Lane, corgis,

the Hilman Minx and Hawker Hurricane Planes all legends that show disdain for our current inaptitude


Stand round Stonehenge or from whence those stones were hued, multitudes Whitman, Pollock imbued

Who left us in the lurch, America bright America born of a virgin bride, taken from Great Britains side

Like the rib of Adams sleep, where pioneers and pilgrims still weep, the pagan circle now complete


Barter not the charter of the Mayflower, sweet English rose must once again send her roots down deep

Stand alone in her own sea, build her castles strong as Lancaster and Stirling, Carrickfergus, Caernarfon

We have no more the duty of regret, no one has taken more blame for our Colonial shame disperged of Christian blood


Same blood we left in Flanders field or spilt in building civilisations honest moments, we for long enough

Tied to Moses burning bush, laid bare on Isaacs altar, we attest to the democratic oath often more than most

So, this Britain shake your mane, shout your roar, this dragons at the door give him no quarter fight now for son, die for daughter


© edenbraytoday01.03.2021

Posted in edenbray COMMENT, edenbray POMES, LIFE AFTER LOCKDOWN | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment


jenny in heels 1

.   .   .


.   .   .

She trips by me
a hazel gem
finity of beauty
among good things
that dwell, softly, gently

Dark pupil, brown eye
a fawn pebble
tiny in her sincerity
deft is her dexterity
on stilts, as heels

Hers is speed
endeavour golden
bronzed ambition
rushing water
and mountain spray

Sweet notes
are heard of her
her construction
her legs design
tis’ sheer perfection

She pretty as
a summer sketch
eyes as crystal water
natures dancing elf
sweet Jenny Wren

                                                                                     © edenbraytoday26.02,2021

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Epiphany with Carl Jung and a mere Rabbit

…  …   …

I sat beside that old and weary cherry tree

Gnarled and leaning like a drunken man

Put my sorry life into some sort of perspective

There is no gain in self condemnation only revival


I have rubbed my hands in the course dirt so long

I had learned to sense flowers buried in the shit

The crap, where horses do leap and look poetic

Like a women’s breast is charming, her skin so soft


I walked for miles without learning much at all

The only thing we learn is the best way to stay silent

I catch myself sometimes when I’m saying too much

The goddam illusion is broken and the rabbits out


I have to say things though just to stay alive

Otherwise might as well be dead in the dust

Cain’t all be Carl Jung, I know, I do pick on that fellar

And he does have a contented look, like pink salt


Therapy, if I could even afford it might be the answer

Or maybe just to get down on my sore, sorry knees

Say a prayer to God, whoever he or she may be

Wonder what he’d say about that? – Carl Jung!



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