OUTTAKES – NOT AN OUTTAKE -THE JOLLY GREEN GIANT

Posted on October 29, 2020 by edenbray

THE JOLLY GREEN GIANT

. . .

~ ~ ~

A green giant of a steamroller

All shiny green-grey metal, painted, polished

Made to work, to last, made well

Turning slowly its huge hardened drums

The thunder of which rumbles and snorts

A huge but friendly monster

         effortlessly crushing its charge

         smoothing everything into one smooth plane

The passage of time, the purpose of nature

Not lost on us all

As we struggle and purpose giving our best

The great iron wheels bloodied by sweat

Glisten, welcoming in the mid-morning light

Rolling on as waves of tide-turned sea

Turqoise green and thinned by waters edge

Lapping, lifting, rushed by moon-tide and

        drawn by tropic-sun and arctic-glare

Here before us as these islands draw close

These gentle oasis’, our consolation and ease

Here, the fond memories of youth softened

         like yellow leaves in September showers

         still ripe and dewy, the fruits thorn

         has lost its sharpened edge

         by want of feeling not of sense

Here in the midst of our busyness

         we find time to ponder for a minute and then again,

         the welcome friend, the sobre roll of timpani

         and we are again absorbed by this

         orchestrated overture, this ball of kitten wool

And when I’m drained and my struggle is over

When I hear nothing but the dense, fetal boom

         of wheels whirring and am secure

         that once embraced by such cold-hardened form

         the blacksmith’s forge could not heat

The rainbow scalded and branded in me

Glowing with an energy incandescant

When I’m crushed and utterly complete

It will be no more eyes-sight-smell-sound

It will be total!

Me and this jolly, green giant

This happy, welcome memory

Again, my nearest friend

I too will play on his machinery

I will marvel at his precision, his purpose

I will laugh as never young man did

I will taste wine as rich as mead

         drawn from the centre of the earth

I will be eternal and the mystery will fade

         and no longer shall word and thought

         stick like crushed pepper in the throat

I will rise and fly as a sea osprey

         or lift and flutter as a flight of sparrow

I will dream nothing but warmth and love

I will speak not word that is spoken

I will grow, I will shrink and not ounce of sweat

         will grease palm of hand or brow

Only joy will enchant me

         not hyena laugh, nor monkey chatter

I am pure, I am innocent

All because of this relentless pursuer

This noble steed draped in coloured cloth

         and mounted by silken gladiator

Whose face shines deeply with light

         and whose beauty merges both male and girl

His eyes blue, her cheeks ruddy

His hair golden, her neck long and slender

And if the mute colours of this torrid steed

         in soft pearl, berry pink and iced cobalt

Whose livery laced with silver studs,

         buckles and straps, glistens, enchanting

         as the white-gold of bridle and bit

         fire in the mouth and his grace stirs the senses

         like some deep surge of wonder

If all this beckons we, what need I fear

         the splash and fizzle of steam

         the gentle and insistent drone

         like a myriad army of honey-bees

The crushing ache of limbs caught

         in the vice of his attention

I am filled with admiration

I am enthused by tradition and heritage

         so regally before me

Me, this petit enfant

         this dreamer of dreams

         this explorer, voyeur

Me, this terrible romantic

I am no longer overwhelmed

I am at peace

I turn to meet this mystery

         hidden from my eyes

They blink and falter

Willingly they close

My arms open,

My mouth soft, smiles

I meet the cold hard wall

I give to it’s extended front

         and roll effortlessly

Under, over, under, over

Till I hear from singing in my ears

A haunting strain, a choir building

Like some holy opera

And when I stopped

         and told them I had met death

Their faces ashen-white

        were alarmed and they

        as re-run sportsmen

        began to rush, to them with speed

        to me like leaden-footed soldiers

        forward runners for the great, clad grinder

..

edenbraytoday

             07.06.86

…

dedicated to a good friend – Jessica Phiri 05.10.2011

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HE DID NOT KNOW HE HAD A BEAUTIFUL MIND TILL THE CROWS HAD GATHERED ROUND HIM

Posted on October 25, 2020 by edenbray

HE DID NOT KNOWN HE HAD A BEAUTIFUL MIND

TILL THE CROWS HAD GATHERED ROUND HIM

. . .

He did not know he had a beautiful mind

until the crows began to gather round

Did not feel the wind of change or hear the rain begin to pour

did not hear the men of pain were knocking at his door

His friends departing left him not a soured note

or helped him fill the emptied mote

The walls were falling, angels calling, he had given up his all

Maybe not in coloured notes, or silver coin

His heart still wretched beneath the throne

of light and glory, there the masters tragic story

And all his dreams of blood and gory pain, 

a tattooed stain and he the never free of fear

He felt the dark night drawing near

the sound of tears, a kind of ringing in his ears

Behemoth had arrived and he no cavalcade to greet him

Or any hope that he might beat him, into the bloodied earth

His sword now vacant from his belted girth

Just words of love upon his tongue lolling

O’ Behemoth deny your torture, return my mirth

My joy of life, my heart of faith with which I may

Destroy this wraith, then fall upon my gourd, recite

my Lamentations midst protestations to thy nations

Blesséd Michael hath now arrived,

he whom witnessed the saviours Cup

He of whom a finer mind as strong as lions

is leader of the Angel kind, blind to human greed

and all the passions upon which fall mans seed

are born to thee, sweet breath of praise

Once more this virtue is a golden vase

by which we find new ways to order all our days

He had not known these thoughts so kind

came from out his own sweet mind

Till behind the summer clouds he saw

not raven, nor the purple-headed jack-a-daw

Not wrook, nor bird of prey sweeping low

in gatherings of night, a crowd of hooded crow

 

edenbraytoday

25.10.2020

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RESOLUTION

Posted on October 19, 2020 by edenbray

RESOLUTION

Deck-of-Cards-629x413

…

It was always easier when the burnt sun dried the perspiration on your neck

The old boy shuffled the cards of the deck, fingered, worn, creased, greased, flecked

It seemed with traces of blood but it was just the pattern on the back, those red specks

..

He wore grey, seemed like flannel slacks, they must have cost a pretty penny

When they was new, probably had a jacket to match, the old boys name was Lenny

It reminded me of a Steinbeck tale about a smart guy and a retard, I read it back in 70

..

If I kick anymore stones Mr Jones my shoes will gape and I won’t be able to work at all

Or pay back the old man who collects his winnings in an old can he leaves by the wall

I got tired of being behind, that bottle of glass empty, my winning hand buried, I call 

..

The old man he just smiles conceited, he sees I’m struggling in the game, life’s a drain

He’s seen that gnawing pain behind the eyes before, that’s his cue to increase the strain

When the ice flow cracks, your enemy attacks and you turn again to the barley grain

..

Which burns fiercely in your soul, it burns a hole right through, creating an intense light

To see you through another night, and the old guy sits shuffling his cards, sat on a crate

Shoes never looked so down, consorting with the dusty ground, you want to clear the slate

..

But sleep denied is a victim you meet in the morning, old fella he’s taken now to yawning

If he gave you a sign or a warning, old bugger’s been dealing cards since day’s dawning

So drink up, hand another dollar over that’s another fond thought later you’ll be pawning

..

O misery, I drink to thee, you wear my smile upon your heavy, hard and wrinkled skin

That old geezer with his stack has contrived to convince us all that what we do, it isn’t sin

And the cards now coming good, I got 3 jacks and an ace, perhaps today is the day I win!

..

edenbraytoday

Ref.22102020

 

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RUTH

Posted on October 15, 2020 by edenbray

🌾

Ruth

ruth-gleaning-1919_u-l-q1f2t3a0

…

a poem of love

 

…

It was never so easy, memories collected  

are never postage stamps set in an album

Recognition is the open door by which 

we become the amalgam   

The means we apply to access one another, 

play different games, embrace many names

…

Fondness is a name I learned from the autumn sun 

and our favourite haunts

The first time we met, was another jaunt 

but your face was still familiar

A rush of something similar, I caught, 

sure that we must have met before

…

You seemed as someone I had hoped to meet 

or maybe I was found out

In the moment passing, I stepped back, 

had I noticed you were glancing?

Was my heart now really dancing? 

something born to make us happy?

…

You were so young but I was not old, 

your femininity did not scare me

It made me strong, an artist and you the clay, 

words were suddenly easier to say

Not worn clichés or a yellowed bouquet 

but a thunder followed by lightening

…

Love discovered in the bushes is no less frightening, 

unless we fear the orange sun,

the purple moon, the comet trail 

of a lovers pain in marine skies advancing 

You to me were a treasured find that eased 

certain allusions of my serious mind

…

With hindsight, the poet battles gamely 

to hide the most considered of conclusions

Despite the wake of love, an ambient balm 

that may heal historic contusions

A kind of new birth arrises from the girth 

and separates what is gone from what is born

…

We were Adam and his Eve, 

the serpents power unwound, tried again to deceive

Naked upon the heath, beneath Swiss mountains, 

at Loch Ech, our hideaway in Leith

We flaunted, showed the green-eyed Jezebel

our love was never fit for any hell

…

Our purest union rang an unseen bell, 

saints attended, nets are not always mended

Into our bed we welcomed our children three, 

four or five, the ones alive we nurture

Adorn with garlands born of our loves travail 

and the labour that we learn to savour

…

Lives we helped create are a trophy to us truthful, 

all their futures and their tales

I boast as though I were a captain, 

though best an honest seaman much afraid of waves

More suited to the sanity of caves, 

where simple men carve simple words and draw

…

I, as honest in my way as any conniving fox, 

wore my fleeces well before I knew thee

Was hidden still a little in my shell, 

before you ever thought you knew me well

You need to be like the fox, be crafty, 

our home at London Road forever drafty

…

Wherever you have been with me you have tried 

to be a comrade to my private army

Have shown a character and faithfulness 

when we have faced life’s next tsunami

Yes, you chide and show disdain 

for my darkest moments, sincere regrets

…

You apportion blame, bare she-wolf teeth, 

fight for the honour of a mother’s lair

Only a mother has the right thus to care, 

even when the eyes of reason are clouded

And the Grey-wolf licks his torn paw, 

alone with the night winds and one faint star

…

We haven’t dared yet speak of Ruth’s prettiness 

or her beauty, your happy ways

They often adorn thee a cloak to your personal form, 

which only a lover should know

Yet, the night we first lifted your dress, 

stood each naked, I needed no sense of duty

…

Valentine he hides in a shroud of mystery 

although he were a Saint loyal and true

The same form, the same constancy 

is what I find in you, he mistreated, unrecognised

By his values, his bartered steps 

hidden from this worlds most popularist view 

…

Yet in milder ways, discerning eyes may recognise 

this strength of virtue that I see in you

Not once to venerate or exascerbate 

any healing virtue of your truth but to quantify

that particular charity of Ruth, 

a more than fitting sudiname to your eternal youth

…

That youth once seen to appreciate is now mine to elevate, 

semblance from disorder

Recognise and appreciate, the tunes you play 

with patient style become our piano sorte

Distinct and sublime like fresh flowers in a rhyme, 

which is your creative forté

…

edenbraytoday

         15.10.2020

🌾

Ruth 1:16-17: 

But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. 

 

edenbraytoday

Ref. 15102020

🌾

 

 

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THE ARTMAN #2 – THE SAD MAN and THE GALLOPERS

Posted on September 29, 2020 by edenbray

 

ORIGINAL VERSION – THE ARTMAN #2

THE SAD MAN and THE GALLOPERS

EDIT 2

…

 

gallopers

She looked like Betty Grable, she was and post the Brighton bombing

Maggie had her hair, she might have worn Carmen Miranda’s extravaganza

I didn’t wear a care, for in those days I philandered, selling art materials,

Listened in on Brian Hayes as British lads were sent down Falklands way

…

Listened in to anybody with half a tale, chance often throws up a sale

The sad man came one afternoon, we cope in different ways with grief

Queue up behind our system of belief, sad man trying to turn a new leaf

Concealed his pain in a harmless folly, mourning the loss of his one and only

 

He coloured in a technical poster, during the days after he had lost her

A working diagram of a fairground Galloper, that he sent for in the post

In our gentle conversation the man who was sad he won my attention

I admired his style, his consideration, as I helped him choose his framing 

 

Back in the centre of our domestic situation we were unaware and green

to a mechanical complication as we set the timer on the washing machine

It leaked, covered the living room Lino, seeped through to the floor below

Having nowhere else to go, sprinkled upon sad man’s poster, a true disaster!

 

Sad man came to review the damage, I would reimburse him for his trouble

I couldn’t help him colour-in the double, yet in truth I thought he did it better

Possibly not as personal, heart-felt, not racked with grief, certainly not wetter

He thanked me, went on his way with his framed Gallopers, that he got cheaper

…

He had looked a little like Don Ameche with no moustache, so much younger

He had a gentle way, he missed his wife, she’d died of cancer, you learn to listen

To your customer, let them have their say, In that way, your like a counsellor

You cheer them up, pack their purchase, send them on their Argentina way!

…

 

edenbraytoday

Ref. 28092020

 

 

THE ARTMAN – 2 (2ND DRAFT)

THE SAD MAN and THE GALLOPERS

DOWN ARGENTINA WAY

…

 

She looked like Betty Grable (for she was)

and post the Brighton bombing, 

Maggie Thatcher had her hair,

She might have worn a Carmen Miranda, 

extravaganza, 

I didn’t wear a care,

For in those days I philandered,

 selling artists materials,

Listened in on Brian Hayes as

British lads went down Falklands way,

to fight!

…

I listened to anyone with half a tale,

listening, will often throw you up a sale

The sad man came one quiet afternoon,

we cope in different ways with our grief

it queues up behind our systems of belief

Sad man tried to turn over a new leaf

concealed his pain in a harmless folly,

mourning the loss of his one and only

 

He had coloured in a technical poster,

during the bad days after he had lost her

A working diagram of a fairground Galloper,

he had sent for in the post

In our gentle conversation

the man who was sad, won my attention

I admired his style, his consideration,

and helped him choose his framing

… 

 

Back in the centre of our domestic situation

we, unaware and green

of a mechanical complication

set the timer on our washing machine

It leaked, covered the living room Lino,

seeped through to the floor below – and

Having nowhere else to go,

sprinkled on the sad man’s poster,

that now became a shop disaster

…

The sad man came to review the damage,

I would reimburse him for his trouble

I couldn’t help him colour-in the double,

though in truth I thought it  better

Not as personal or heart-felt, not racked

with grief and certainly not wetter!

He thanked me, went on his way proudly

with his new framed Gallopers in its frame

…

He had looked a little like Don Ameche,

without moustache, so much younger

He had gentle ways, he missed his wife,

she had died of cancer, you learn to listen

To your customer, let them have their say,

In that way, you become a counsellor

Cheer them up, pack their purchase,

send them on their Argentina way

edenbraytoday

Ref. 28092020

 

 

 

 

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I, I AM WILLIAM BLAKE

Posted on September 24, 2020 by edenbray

I, I AM WILLIAM BLAKE

Unknown

…

Sweet bird of youth, I attend your birth and watch thee grow

As fond as any doe or any love that I in honour still may show

The amplitude of life, either ascending or descending as a lark

My heart, faint of love becomes a river born of hope, another ark

…

I, I am William, William Blake, my true respect carries me forward

Through the dearth of my adolescence, through that awkward night

Of middle age, I rip the page, it held no bottle top nor taught me how to stop

Till the sun goes down upon my soul I will stand at heel in repose

…

The curiosity of exchange, where people meet unholy

In matters of discernment, frail the condition of society

Lament O’ Lamech, though the fires of hell await thee

Good fathers visit then thy children’s sin, treat to agree

…

Bold, the golden Lion of Judah, whose oiled template I desist

In favour of the pen, the fever of the brow, the trial, the grist

I scroll de capita, dismiss the leaven, bind Dante’s heaven/ hell

Speak only of the former, describe the torture – of Nebuchadnezer

…

And other spiritual contrives, important detail that affects all lives

The handle of the brush, the stain, the rush of watercolour as it dries

Art’s prophetic choices, in consequence of abandon, often does decide

How we listen to the voices, madmen, seers, taste prophets salted tears

…

Listen thee between the lines in soft words, illustrated by the mind

Beatrice addressing or what our forefathers, foolish, naive might find

Elohim, Newton, Satan, Job, the Ghost of a flea, Pilgrims of Canterbury

Innocence a freedom, infant morning Joy when the Stars all sang together

…

They journeyed on a dusty road, wan brothers Elisha and Elijah, to their Emaus

Sweet joy befall thee, the rule of ebbing life-blood never better than its cause

Who questioned then, other than my alma-pater of a negro hung alive by the rib?

Questioned the absurdity, analysed eternity, profanity, a religious life yet never glib

…

I am Blake, my conscience I forsake, led by opportunity, by the invisible forces

Engrave a pallet from earths hard core of stories, some brave, some darkest blue

Some born to warn, some impossibly true, the aspect of Newton’s compass, Pity,

The Great Red Dragon and Woman Clothed With the Sun, Titania, Puck, alongside Oberon

…

The season I decided my pretence of reason, through age does not seem as long

A song of thorny youth, caught in the crossfire of distant revolution, a forkéd prong

The mysteries of organic nature and causal moments to each generation belong 

Those who weaken, set to fall, those who widen their belief, like William stay strong

…

I, as William Blake understand  the changing tides, like Canute I walk naked out to sea

Realise in daubs of paint, line and light, celestial forces fight the Archangel of the free

As Job I settle on constellations, question truth, barter youth, on pain of wise conclusions

Within my reverie, the only Angels that I see are those that offer me practical solutions

…

And that being that, we queue to view The Night Of Enitharmon’s Joy, then let us salute

The actors who must take the stage, jealousy and cowardice, laid out within the page

Honour, love and rage, triple law to triple love, all creatures woven here, except a dove

In tone nothing is much darker, the rule of Rome, a mythical lack of love and laughter

…

The world was stronger, life seemed longer in the delve and sway of William Blake

A sniper who set his sights, amidst the glow, ere the dawning of the feast of lights,

Banish then dull tradition, attest brave St Pauls divine confession and utterly forsake

All others for one night, the chimes rang out in London Town to our prince of Light

…

I, am William Blake unrecognised, I walk the streets unseen through life’s darkest sunrise

Such deft compromise causes Sun at his Eastern Gate to rise, despite the horror of my eyes

Refill my pen, incline my brush, I record this triumph of the Dawn, reflect in artists’ ways

Draw lines, write verse, assimilate, I meditate and at my last create my Ancient of Days 

..

edenbraytoday

Ref. 24092020

…

The-Ancient-of-Days-painted-by-William-Blake-Nothing-represented-his-harsh-view-of

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ODE TO LEXY

Posted on September 20, 2020 by edenbray

ODE TO LEXY

Lexy

She is a beautiful girl is Lexy, hair in waves, as dark as Irish peat

Her tiny feet, she can run to greet you in the pale morning

Such a beautiful girl is sweet Lexy, as warm as Rosey by the fire

Her little hearts one desire, to be loved and cared for, therefore

I am the fiddler, I am the jaunty sailor leading thee, I’d never hurt thee 

I’d bring thee home my wee, timorous girl and put you safely to yon’ bed

The sweetest doll is tiny Lexy, a morning song is my Lexy, a sonnet

And if she were a wee girl she must wear a flowered bonnet

.

edenbraytoday

Ref. 20092020

Posted in edenbray POMES | Tagged | Leave a comment

THE ART MAN #1

Posted on September 19, 2020 by edenbray

THE ART MAN – 1

pillars of deceit

The Pillars of Deceit by Michael Lang

…

THE PICTURE OF JESUS

.

A look of recognition, the sun streaming making abstract shapes on the new, suspended ceiling, a Miro!

She stepped through the door, I harboured a good feeling, a pantechnicon crashed past blocking the sun intermittently and heading south

The light in the shop flickered as though the fluorescents by the door needed a new starter, nothing like the fireworks that were to follow after

I disappeared from view into the cool, half-lit stock room where we stored piles of Beswick, Coopercraft and other gifty boxes

In the corner, stored safely in large, manilla bags, some wrapped in corrugated – the completed, framing orders waited

She seemed a fragile and inconsequential soul but for all that, obviously she loved some kind of Jesus

She had seemed damaged by religion, fragile, emotional, somewhat irrational I thought but you have to appear non-judgemental

Yet the way now that she was standing at the counter made me nervous, the expectation was tangible, though the lights had stopped their flashing

I try to put my customers at ease, you must use so much discretion, send the message in your eyes, ‘we only aim to please’

Two weeks before she had bought it in, a triangular thing knotted at the back, in texture and in colour, a monks habit, a hessian sack

‘Its a picture of our Lord’, I could tell, ‘you’ll take great care of it I hope’, I thought I heard her say – those words always make your day!

Well, what can you say? ‘Lets get down on our knees and pray?’ I mentioned it to Michael as I always thought to do

The traffic outside was noisy, light played again over the pictures on the wall – a Turner, a Gainsborough, an Utrillo, a random bag of daubs

I questioned with myself should I tell her no, just tell her where to go or try to sort it out, leave Michael to decide

Michael, he retorted she’s pulled the stitches far too tight – I’ll have to damp it, stretch it, see if it comes out all right.

Michael calls on Fridays, before the weekend-trade, Saturdays always are the busy day, busy people just got paid

We unpacked her tapestry almost as the golden sun streamed through our picture window for the first time that day

And Jesus shone, the lumps had gone, the triangle square, I in awe of total transformation, a miraculous resurrection

How does it look?, her question was intense as I peeled back the sellotape and pulled her Jesus from the bag – ‘I think you will be pleased’

I’m sure the sun only shines through that window and it was hot, hell-hot, I never saw a face so changed, so anguished

Mary Magdalene, by Raphael did not paint such a joyless study, her face, by observation, replaced by Dante’s view of Hades in Van Eyck’s ‘Last Judgement’

This needlepoint disciple, her chagrin broke, her face contorted, Saint Peter spoke, hot spears of tears squeezed out from her eyes

‘What has he done?’ she lamented, like my Jeremiah, a cardboard poster I kept of Rembrandt’s famous study, I considered him my buddy

I used my Jeremiah to back my daily sales graph, it hung on the store-room door, I tried to reason, ‘Honestly, our framer really could have done no more’

It was twisted, it was pulled, it had almost been de-wooled, out of shape, wouldn’t budge – the work that Michael did was splendrous, Jesus, please defend us 

The customer is always right, this poor creature’s face now ashen-white, blushing in the cheeks, where a women’s tears will always make you guilty

A monochrome in grief, despite my disbelief, she tugged at my conscience as I had tugged relentlessly at her abysmal tapestry, with no joy!

‘I don’t know what to say, I’m not sure you understand, what my picture-framer has achieved is quite beyond belief’

Her attitude had changed from sad to sassy, there was definitely more behind this complicated lassie, ‘I hate it!’ she cried.

Well, here comes the great capitulation, not the famed oil of Velazquez 1635, just one more dent in my jaundiced view of humanity

Standing behind my oak and plate glass counter I offered now this little weeper to send it back or make it cheaper – she took it cheaper

The Pillars of Deceit by Michael Lang come to mind, so was the broken lady really so cast down? Could I tell my framer his work had been maligned? 

And how can Jesus happy be in a cheeper casing, how can this lady sleep at night with her Jesus hanging, stretched and mounted on her wall?

edenbraytoday

ref. 18092020

THE SURRENDER OF BREDA by Velazquez

 

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PURITY

Posted on September 17, 2020 by edenbray

PURITY

Screenshot 2020-09-16 at 06.20.36

There was a red stain on Jessica’s dress, it grew, an inkblot, a tattoo, a cloud above the East Fen and it travelled slowly above a spread table where the community were gathered

Ben Dawlish, whose whiskers fawn and charcoal curled upward at their ends, himself fourteen years a brother, poured, while the sun glinted on the children’s faces and they adored the amber falling

An aura spread, livid, across the eastern counties where the dark peat sod gave to the blade, five proud clydesdales each to their separate duty adorned, shiny with sweat, plaited by red ribbons hidden in their curls

Forged steel white, the frog, shaped like a hammered scimitar, weathered oak always the preferred timber for the mouldboard, it bears a heavy burden, a subject once of a Sunday sermon by Brother Sherman

Jessica asked neatly to up from the hand-plained table and all the younguns’ ran, this bleached summer, swallowtail, cetti’s, even a gyr falcon all frequent in the valley, another cloud hit the sun

The Marion maids so pretty, plain in cotton blouses attended to their duties, polyester smock dresses, their hair cascades in waterfalls as the trio that run off Bear Mountain on the long walk down into Ebdon Canyon

We came today to betroth the unity of freedom, two people washed of order and servile duty, now to bare their final vow and honour not the mutiny and infidelity of disorder but celebrate impunity with grace

The ladies rose to form a line, rehearsed and fine, a harmony, a coalition, despite its fond tradition, larks rising and falling, a cuckoo’s call, trumpet swan, no sound of hen, the baton bounding

And now across the fen, the sound of oiled engines, kick-start, bass rich and low they do splutter, proving not all men have morals of the gutter, a shout, a brave salute, we pound the back, rejoin, never mutter and never mute

The sun descends behind the eastern slopes, fires lit add apricots and cardinals, a galaxy of cerulean, silver and lemon and the warmest glow, excited children late to bed, their voices lift, a golden bow to angels arrows

Jessica has changed her dress, her hair no longer is a mess, aside the fire she sings a prayer, a voice of water, a galaxy of stars and to this tune community attests this evening, this day, this union, nothing less – 

 

edenbraytoday

Ref. 17092020

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

MY POSITION

Posted on September 17, 2020 by edenbray

my position

a minimalist study in dialectics and peace control

————————————————————————————

my employer decided not to trade

my job description was terminated temporarily

ladder-series

my employer wishes for me to work somewhere else under the same contract

my contract does not include a mobility clause 

green-etching

i have no wish to comply for various reasons

i made my position clear in a calm, open, honest and reasonable manner

silver-engraving

my employer wishes for me to work somewhere else under the same contract

this conflict in dialectics has caused me serious stress and depression

brown-aquatint

i believe i am being bullied without due consultation 

i am being treated by my physician

rose-madder

i have no intention of working at a new location

it will be for a tribunal to decide

this is my position

EDENBRAY-17-09-2020 

Posted in edenbray COMMENT, edenbray OPINION, PROG-PROSE, THAT'S ME IN THE MIDDLE | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment