EDENBRAY in EXILE – 41 – perfecy

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …





…   …   …

There is no word such as perfecy

No highlight so strange as leniency

Nothing as excellent to the core as profundity

There are only fleeting glances

Only minimalist extreme chances

And a pile of August petals by the door

I am caught in a lift door for one moment

And the everlasting ash whose fingers point up

Strays braver and ever toward me

But I grasped the mermaids towel deftly

It was as I allowed, soaked in blood

Here is your fire handed on a burning paper

A howl from the deep answered  

600 the day’s dawn that brought me no return




Perfecy : perfect conclusion


#Authors Note : I have been experimenting with abstractionism all my artistic life, both as a painter and writer but approaching my 70th birthday I suppose like a lot of creative minds, on reaching shall we say – our ‘golden years’ – the left-side of my brain wins more battles than the right. I’m pretty sure that is not due to any real signs of dementia or alzheimers and here I am honestly not joking. I feel, as sound as a pound which is probably not the best saying to reassure my readers during the current economic crisis.

I have always applauded the fact that – the bard – our greatest poet, was not afraid to create his own words, sayings and journeys of creative thought. Sadly for many writers his inspired works have become the conclusion to the tale rather than grand overture to a writers paradise, a stream leading into a river of written classics, a sea of – hey, yes well I’m sure you get the enormous picture. Hey, Nonny no – et Blackadder.

This piece – is experimental, inasmuch as I have created my own perfect word and then denied it and created a paragraph of seemingly disconnected stanzas which for me are powerful to the end of the line but in appearance unrelated. If however you are brave enough to ingest, dear reader, you may discover the line of thought which during the current mentally suffocating isolation caused by CV-19 I can assuage you, will certainly do you no real harm and in fact may aid you in your own personal voyage of discovery to ultimately find for a brief fleeting moment your perfecy.

                                                                                                                   ~ edenbraytoday


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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 40 – chrysalid

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …



The open wound healed and the taut,

pale skin grew faintly over

Foreign fingers still felt for that

awkward pain like a summer lover

Quiet amateurs, just sad explorers

who never quite reach above

Likened to madmen who endanger

love as they push, they shove

We set about this long road a long

while ago and the blue horizon

Sapphire and urban it lies like a

burning snake upon the sand golden

Where I am going is the choice of pilgrims

and you might not come

Where I have been it is cloudy,

it is overgrown, now lost in the sun

Darkness growing, an army lost

from sight and the faint colour of snow,

To temper it’s soul we reached out

to touch it and in the darkness, it glowed

Hands blackened from course, silent,

prayers break the granite of shame

Chisel-men, peace-men step from their caves,

the least should bow to blame

The strength of the ox and the plough,

the sweat of a nations golden thigh

There marched fourteen thousand,

yoked to broadsword to live or to die

Rivers fall, the longest path tumbling,

like frothing beasts in metal chains

Where the almanac says parties will vie

for certain clouded peace in vain

So many stories should be written,

so many angered tales of far too few

Black earth & soldiers bloodied ordure,

la couche de Mouron-des-Oiseaux

And the midnight call to prayer,

attended by Monsignor and His Wives

That silent abattoir where only things

unholy are unspoken, only evil dies


‘the life of chrysalids may be prolonged by keeping them in a cold situation, such as an ice-house’.

~ According to M. de Reaumur


la couche Mouron-des-Oiseaux – the blanket of wild chickweed


Authors Note: We have reached No. 40 of this latest Anthology of work completed post-2013 and this is so far the most recent I have included in the Retrospective, having been written as recently as April, 2018.

A lot of things are happening in this piece – a lot of allusions – a lot of imagery – a lot of history to be recognised and a lot of future hopefully to be discovered.

I would call this a hopeful piece – it touches on past hurts, past grievances that sometimes lie dark and festering – waiting their chosen moment to resurface and exact revenge but those painful memories and troubled times can with forgiveness, tolerance and the strongest human character – be allowed to die, experience a kind of metamorphosis and change into something quite different. Humankind must choose the individual specifics.

Like a lot of these chosen pieces, this poem was not written with the Covid-19 Pandemic in mind but applies itself quite well. A lot of pain and broken pieces will need to find such a healing and rebirth after this sad and sad time for so many. Can humankind find the good grace to enter the chrysalid, find a way to properly mourn its losses and emerge in a brighter day? History tells us it can but also tells us it doesn’t always. ~ edenbraytoday

red admiral0123242502_6033313029397938176_n

Can humankind find the good grace to enter the chrysalid, find a way to properly mourn its losses and emerge in a brighter day?

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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 39 – waves

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …



Countless, phosphorous, rushing

and over the smooth stones, they fall

Overlapping earth boundaries

wearing at the harsh edge of form

Gathering, shaping, smoothing

destinies, times mementos

Here they lift, there they fail

each one a measured throw

A dancing, cavorting, riderless bay

clothed in silver foam

and garlands of spray

Magnificent for a brief, fleeting moment

then back into the hapless,

shapeless eddy

Drawing circles, describing outline

shape and semblance

To what otherwise would be

only mauve history and uncertainty

What is today but a collection

of faded, picture postcards?

Mounted, framed and collected

for a future generation

Who may study the serious

tale they tell or maybe none the wiser

Only fools who rush and sweat

with no thought or remedy

no system of retrieval

But caught here in the time warp

of eternal messengers relay

The grey waters riders blossom

glisten and thunder

Not just mentioning the tale

but positively shouting

to the earth’s receding outline

Here I am and have been

always ‘Ever and Sure’

Give me your attention

and let me speak to

your next shallow generation

O’ tireless, disarmed and eager

your army marches on

Wave upon wave

upon endless wave.




#Authors Note ~ This a poem I wrote in 1990. It’s a kind of techno-poem written at a time when my eternal view and my worldview were merging pretty well I feel. I suppose it’s a kind of ‘hybrid’ – fusing modern nature with future hope and centred on that almost eternal quality that crashing waves on stones hold in their grasp.

I have decided to archive my past poems on this site so that my children and my grandchildren and friends might hopefully find them and read them, for you never know when ‘your wave’ is coming. ~  Original Note written     jjuedenbray21.04.2018

#edenbraytoday – I wrote this Poem almost 30 years ago when I was 39 years old. The waves of the sea still have that relentless, ongoing, eternal quality. I have always been fascinated by them and I guess this is what this poem is about. Our world is sick right now and even I find these words refreshing and so full of hope and optimism. As previously stated, many of my Post Corvid-19 poems fit right in nowadays that we are in lockdown, myself now since 5 weeks!


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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 38 – its a bailey

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of Poetry, Articles and Essays

… … …

its a bailey … using no traditional punctuation

its a bailey

when I was six years old    in nineteen fifty-seven     on a sunday morning  with  2 way  family favourites playing on the radio     I came down late for breakfast      which was a weetabix       and I observed the actions of the family  like joe browns song     what a crazy world were living in   ⚫️   dad was working in his shed    mum was working in the kitchen    brother was reading on the sofa    ⚫️  i felt neglected  abandoned  alone   ⚫️   properly alone probably for the first time in my life   ⚫️   no one seems to notice me   isnt it a sin   what a crazy world were living in   ⚫️  then it came to me   i would have to leave home   i was six years old   ⚫️   i planned my exit and i  was very apprehensive  ⚫️   i had the coolest toy gun you have ever seen and i mean ever    ⚫️   it was a retro luger pistol  ⚫️   i had the coolest leather satchel type bag with a shoulder strap too   ⚫️   i would need to defend myself if i were attacked out there in the world   so i put the cool pistol in the cool bag put the strap around my shoulder and headed off   i made sure not to bang the side gate while leaving  ⚫️   i felt bad for leaving home   it had been a good life and i really loved my family but this rejection i felt threw  serious doubts about their love for me   ⚫️  i went out our front gate and turned right  walking past the front of our house and turned right again into fieldsend road    behind the tall hedge and i was gone   ⚫️   i journeyed up the hill past fromondes road and turned left into tilehurst avenue and down the sharp incline to st dunstans bypass    it was always a busy dual carriageway   ⚫️   i looked both ways carefully and nervously and crossed two lanes to the small bollard island in the middle of the road opposite the wide swing gate to spillers field where there was a hawk that flew high in the twilight   ⚫️   i was six years old   ⚫️   i waited for the traffic to pass and crossed the remaining two lanes   turning right and onto the pavement and past the few cottages set back on the far side   ⚫️   two hundred yards and i could climb the few steps down into sears park and away from the noise of the traffic   ⚫️   i was wearing a tee with  denim jeans and black and white bumper shoes   ⚫️   i always wore black and white bumper shoes with white laces   ⚫️   sears park was one of many great parks in our area of around    say   six or seven acres   ⚫️   i crossed the park diagonally  passing the open pavilion where older boys and girls met and talked in groups   ⚫️   i did not enter the pavilion because i did not like to see some of the words scrawled in marker on the walls   although most messages were simple  naive   love talk   or  kilroy  style drawings   ⚫️   tom loves maddi   cas fancies jimmy   susie shagged richard   that kind of thing   ⚫️   i continued walking the remainder of the park which ran down the hill and past a wide bed of tree sheltered rose bushes and then i exited into the wooded path that ran for three hundred yards through to west sutton and the gander green lane shops   ⚫️    on entering the path i was probably three quarters of a mile from home   ⚫️   it was warm in the sun but coolish in the shade   ⚫️    this path was known as   boney hole   ⚫️   it was called that   as it goes  because allegedly while digging down the lane  workmen unearthed human remains   namely a skeleton   ⚫️   the legend was that someone had been murdered and buried down boney hole  just next to the grammar school playing fields   ⚫️   the story gripped my imagination and i wondered where the bones had been found as i walked down the cold  enclosed path alone   ⚫️   i was six years old   ⚫️   at the far end was a barbed wire fence and an overgrown area which spread itself onto the path   ⚫️   i exited the path into the warm sunshine to walk past a run of four or five shops i was most unfamiliar with   ⚫️   i did not know why but the sight of these shops scared me   even more than the boney hole had   ⚫️   i thought i knew the way from here though   through the back streets to sutton  which was three miles maybe from where we lived   ⚫️   i saw the red phone box and knew i should ring home   ⚫️   i was still six years old and a long way from home   ⚫️   i still had the luger pistol in my leather bag around my shoulder   it made it difficult to enter the phone box as the door was on a firm spring   ⚫️   i knew our phone number as well    people recited their number when answering the phone in those days   ⚫️    i had been told to lift the receiver and say clearly   fairlands 4205   ⚫️   the phone box smelled musty and i had no money but i lifted the receiver and dialled the number and listened to the bleep  bleep  bleep   ⚫️    my family must really be missing me and worried too   ⚫️  i exited the phone box and retraced my steps   ⚫️   past the shops   down boney hole   across sears park   down to the falcon field   over the carriageway   up the hill to fieldsend road and then on   down down down   round the corner   past the tall hedge and in through the front gate and the noisy side gate  quietly in fear and trepidation   ⚫️  dad was working in his garden   mum was working in her kitchen   brother lying on the sofa   ⚫️  what a crazy world we are living in   ⚫️   nothing was ever said   no questions were ever asked   even about the anonymous phone call   because no one had even noticed that i had left home   ⚫️   all this on the day i decided to leave home   ⚫️


its a bailey … using no traditional punctuation


                                               ⚫️    ⚫️   


Authors Note : This is the 4th baileyusing no traditional punctuation – that has been selected for this Edenbray Retrospective Anthology.

The baileys are intended as a novel way of writing a recollection or a memoir, usually from my childhood. This one concerns my 1st successful attempt to run-away from home when I was six years old, in 1957. I think its quite amusing ~          Edenbraytoday

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Murder Most Foul

by Bob Dylan



…   …   …


[Verse 1]

It was a dark day in Dallas, November ’63
A day that will live on in infamy
President Kennedy was a-ridin’ high
Good day to be livin’ and a good day to die
Being led to the slaughter like a sacrificial lamb
He said, “Wait a minute, boys, you know who I am?”
“Of course we do, we know who you are!”
Then they blew off his head while he was still in the car
Shot down like a dog in broad daylight
Was a matter of timing and the timing was right
You got unpaid debts, we’ve come to collect
We’re gonna kill you with hatred, without any respect
We’ll mock you and shock you and we’ll put it in your face
We’ve already got someone here to take your place
The day they blew out the brains of the king
Thousands were watching, no one saw a thing
It happened so quickly, so quick, by surprise
Right there in front of everyone’s eyes
Greatest magic trick ever under the sun
Perfectly executed, skillfully done

Wolfman, oh wolfman, oh wolfman howl
Rub-a-dub-dub, it’s a murder most foul

[Verse 2]

Hush, little children, you’ll understand

The Beatles are comin’, they’re gonna hold your hand
Slide down the banister, go get your coat
Ferry ‘cross the Mersey and go for the throat

There’s three bums comin’ all dressed in rags
Pick up the pieces and lower the flags
I’m goin’ to Woodstock, it’s the Aquariian Age

Then I’ll go to Altamont and sit near the stage
Put your head out the window, let the good times roll

There’s a party going on behind the Grassy Knoll
Stack up the bricks, pour the cement

Don’t say Dallas don’t love you, Mr. President
Put your foot in the tank and then step on the gas
Try to make it to the triple underpass
Blackface singer, whiteface clown
Better not show your faces after the sun goes down
Up in the red light district, they’ve got cop on the beat
Living on a nightmare on Elm Street
When you’re down on Deep Ellum, put your money in your shoe
Don’t ask what your country can do for you
Cash on the ballot, money to burn

Dealey Plaza, make a left-hand turn

I’m going down to the crossroads, gonna flag a ride
The place where faith, hope, and charity lie
Shoot him while he runs, boy, shoot him while you can
See if you can shoot the invisible man
Goodbye, Charlie! Goodbye, Uncle Sam!

Frankly, Miss Scarlett, I don’t give a damn

What is the truth, and where did it go?

Ask Oswald and Ruby they oughta know
“Shut your mouth,” said a wise old owl
Business is business, and it’s a murder most foul

[Verse 3]


Tommy, can you hear me? I’m the Acid Queen
I’m riding in a long, black Lincoln limousine
Ridin’ in the backseat next to my wife
Headed straight on in to the afterlife
I’m leaning to the left, I got my head in her lap
Hold on, I’ve been led into some kind of a trap
Where we ask no quarter, and no quarter do we give
We’re right down the street, from the street where you live
They mutilated his body and they took ouyt his brain
What more could they do? They piled on the pain
But his soul was not there where it was supposed to be at
For the last fifty years they’ve been searchin’ for that
Freedom, oh freedom, freedom over me
I hate to tell you, mister, but only dead men are free
Send me some lovin’, then tell me no lie
Throw the gun in the gutter and walk on by
Wake up, little Susie, let’s go a drive
Cross the Trinity Rivere, let’s keep hope alive
Turn the radio on, don’t touch the dials
Parkland hospital, only six more miles
You got me dizzy, Miss Lizzy, you filled me with lead
That magic bullet of yours has gone to my head
I’m just a patsy like Patsy Cline
Never shot anyone from in front or behind
I’ve blood in my eye, got blood in my ear
I’m never gonna make it to the new frontier
Zapruder’s film I seen night before
Seen it thirty-three times, maybe more
It’s vile and deceitful, it’s cruel and it’s mean
Ugliest thing that you ever have seen
They killed him once and they killed him twice
Killed him like a human sacrifice
The day that they killed him, someone said to me, “Son
The age of the Antichrist has just only begun”
Air Force One comin’ in through the gate
Johnson sworn in at 2:38
Let me know when you decide to throw in the towel
It is what it is, and it’s murder most foul
Edenbray Comments : Another Guest Poem that I am placing on my site – partly out of recognition and due respect for this gargantuan effort written by a writer I very much admire and partly to support my most recent and 37th post in a 2nd Edenbray Retrospective of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays which references the assassination of JFK.
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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 37 – rejection

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …



…   …   …

The snow of 1963

The snow of ’63

…   …   …

That bad winter when the snow was piled high was the first shot

It ricocheted on ice leaving a double echo hanging in the frozen air

As it slid, an arctic sidewinder, the full length of a tortured sled-track

Not sure if Etienne had said to me, Is there something more I can do?

That I would have learned to cry then, those tears that melt the snow

…   …   …

Something looms over the banks, over the deep crusted hard-pack

It’s a silence you can hear, the shadow of a huge bird passing

When you know you are alone, even with people in your home

We never learn to be lonely, we bring it when we pass the gorge

From eternity’s darkest night into history’s brightest dawn

…   …   …

Icy glaciers run cold today with the missing tears of that golden age

When ignorance raped nature’s store and turned her to a common whore

But when the second shot rang out and the curtain fell in Dallas

Jackie held her husband’s brains in tender hands and we all cried

For the baby-boomers like me and Jen, something genuine that day died

…   …   …

And then upon the snowy scapes, we learn to love again

Plunge our hands into the icy flow and watch the mountain grow

Within an atmosphere of coldest breath, without the hostility of death

Pluck the sweetest flowers born, shout the loudest words we’ve ever sworn

Curse the mighty behemoth from his slumber, with eyes of red and thunder

…   …   …

Then a third shot sounded, it took me down, limp and broken to the ground

Ice drained deep beneath my skin, the cruelest capers speak the ugliest sin

To turn away a heart as trusting on a night as cold and rank was disgusting

The snow leopard pads the highest parts, a mother learns to bare her heart

To make her family sure and safe when life’s harsh moments scrape their face

…   …   …

A berry picked, shared or given, to the cub with no will for living

Rain falling in the desert, coats for street children, kind words to a victim

Abuse of child-love cannot be measured, love that always should be treasured

When the skip returns to a broken step, its’s always love that lays that path

Not else can light that darkest shaft into the misery of a soul’s rejected past

…   …   …

always unfinished .. .



.. . love that always should be treasured’

…   …   …



…   …   …


DALLAS – November 1963



‘Icy glaciers run cold today with the missing tears of that golden age’


‘It’s a silence you can hear, the shadow of a huge bird passing’


‘For the baby-boomers like me and Jen, something genuine that day died’

flowers in snow

‘Pluck the sweetest flowers born, shout the loudest words we’ve ever sworn’

snow leapard

.The snow leopard pads the highest parts, a  she-mother learns to bare her heart’


‘A berry picked, shared or given, to the cub with no will for living’

GLOSSARY:- Ettienne – Steve

…   …   …

#Authors Note : Good poetry should contain a hint of mystery and enigma, that is my view. I do not say this by way of introducing my own piece here reviewed, but out of tact and tasteful consideration and to introduce an idea. Neither would I wish to suggest that in my view – my poetry is either ‘good’ or even close.

Rejection – AN UNFINISHED POEM it turns out is of a most experimental notion. The notion that domestic pain and distress may be healed but still leave a scar that even the most repaired and readjusted will find themselves fingering from time, to time. Whether out of sad regret or of painful scarred-tissue memory, the victim rarely mounts the horse it fell from without a second thought.

At this sad time amidst the turmoil of the Covid-19 pandemic we have been made aware of those for whom lockdown adds no relief from suffering as they themselves are victims of another curse – their abusive domestic partners or parents.

Rejection is another silent foe that niggles, undermines and hampers its victims for years as clearly as those in post-virus recuperation may find in the coming days, denying quality of life and peace within, as certainly as those who harbour painful memories of a more physical nature.

Not wishing to necessarily ‘blow the gaff’ on this piece or ‘tell tale’ but the novel notion this verse conceals and reveals in pretty much equal quantity, is that those shots that rang out in Dallas in November 1963 at the assassination of JFK provide a kind of terrible punctuation to the telling of my biographical story of personal pain around that same time in the early sixties. The JFK narrative provides a ballast to my sad story, according to the thinking that there is always someone with a sadder tale to tell than our own.

                                                                                                               ~   edenbraytoday

…   …   …

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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 36 – oldfield

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …


… … 

Is taking the time

Whose taken the train

Or followed the line

To where the end is before the beginning?


Whole nights wasted and forlorn

Pasted in albums

With yellow ends torn

Not even buried, not ever drawn


Fake moments dressed

Cold cake, cold flesh

Peppered bold, worn yet stressed

A layman’s cove



…   …   …

#Authors Note : I have included this piece in its barest and most basic form as the 36th submission in a 2nd Retrospective Anthology of 50 Edenbray Poems, Articles & Essays ~ Originally published post-2013.

‘Oldfield’ was written out of literary respect for the work of Langston Hughes, a writer who I very much admire and who formulated a style of prose which came to be known by the term ‘Jazz Poetry’. Although this piece does not purport to copycat the style of Langston Hughes its imitation is more in consequence of an attempt to respond in kind by recreating the same rhythm, natural form and the same skeletal structure. What you might term antipleonasm~ edenbraytoday 

…   …   …



What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?


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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 35 – love letters

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …

Love Letters


…   …   …

We take the scenes of lost refuge

and write them on our sleeves

Bend spoons we use as implements

like ancient man hiding in rocks

Pioneers caught somewhere between

bandits, lawyers and pilots

….  …  …

We sat under the stars pulling wool

around us, throwing logs on fires

The sky prussian and chrome has lights

embedded ~ that shape your beauty

I scribbled on rough pieces of hemp I had

collected and wondered if it was you

…  …   …

In the grey mid-distance lights shoot

and dance to the crackling gunfire

Maybe this is the moment I should stop now

~ we’ve said hello, so goodbye

And the summer sun will return to this

awful place and touch your brow

…  …  …



#Authors Note : This is a War Poem – it was written 100 years after the ‘1st World War’ began.

28 July 1914 – 11 November 1918

It was written by someone who has absolutely no experience of War 1st hand. I wrote it as my own personal and pathetic remembrance of that horrific War as I wanted to make some personal connection and still write about something I think I know something about. It is a Love Poem.

During the so-called Great War it is estimated 21,391,452 people were killed or died.


…   …   …


The chart below provides estimates of the number of soldiers killed, wounded, and reported missing during World War I. Exact numbers are often disputed and are nearly impossible to determine for a variety of reasons. Different countries used different methods to count their dead and injured, and some methods were more reliable than others. Records of some countries were destroyed during the war and its aftermath. Also, some countries may have changed the number of casualties in their official records for political reasons. The numbers of civilians from each country killed during the war are even more difficult to estimate. The numbers in the chart reflect the estimates made by most historians today. ~ (chart borrowed from Facing History and Ourselves)

Country Total mobilized forces Killed or died

Wounded Prisoners or missing Total casualties
Allied Powers:
Russia 12,000,000 1,700,000 4,950,000 2,500,000 9,150,000
British Empire 8, 904,467 908,371 2,090,212 191,652 3,190,235

8,410,000 1,357,800 4,266,000 537,000 6,160,800
Italy 5,615,000 650,000 947,000 600,000 2,197,000
United States 4,734,991 116,516 204,002 —— 320,518
Japan 800,000 300 907 3 1210
Romania 750,000 335,706 120,000 80,000 535,706
Serbia 707,343 45,000 133,148 152,198 331,106

424,000 59,694 172,000 3,800

Belgium 267,000 13,716 44,686 34,659 93,061
Greece 230,000 5,000 21,000 1,000 27,000
Portugal 100,000 7,222 13,751 12,318 33,291
Montenegro 50,000 3,000 10,000 7,000 20,000
TOTALS 42,612,810 5,211,809 13,003,004 4,124,890 22,165,291
Central Powers:
Germany 11,000,000 1,773,700 4,216,058 1,152,800 7,142,558
Austria-Hungary 7,800,000 1,200,000 3,620,000 2,200,000 7,020,000
Turkey 2,850,000 325,000 400,000 250,000 975,000
Bulgaria 1,200,000 87,500 152,390 27,029 266,919
TOTALS 22,850,000 3,386,200 8,388,448 3,629,829 15,404,477
GRAND TOTALS 65,462,810 8,598,009 21,391,452 7,754,719 37,569,768


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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 34 – natreana

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …


a tale of Baladin

…   …   …


…   …   …

Eberus, a tall, lithe warrior dressed in fur and dusted by the plains of Maraballa, knelt and looked far beyond the deep purple hills of Sysophola.

His heart was heavier than the cargo of a sea barge drifting on the Aratteus after a months hunting and trawling for pescuthus.

He viewed the herd of Atruscean antelope that carried such rich, dark meat, little fat & fetched good bounty at the Gerder market each first day.

Natreana had not spoken to him for six days now and this after they had shared that special moment while he visited – carrying forest truffle.

He nursed the knife her jagged eye lodged in his open heart, the wound where only torn emotion and passion lie side by side.

When they were joined by thought and imagination he knew her heart raced with his and by now he were chasing the insolent deer.

Who grazed on autumn coloured grasses, trimmed, and so languid as Eberus who contemplated turning his  dagger inward to end his mire.

Why is love the hardest, the slowest and the most painful night while it also causeth the step to quicken, the countenance to lighten and a smile?

For these thoughts the deer were now left to tripping, gambling, running and to breathing free as the night prussian and dark fell upon them.



#Authors Note : Another Tale of Baladin, whom we have met before and this an unlisted Tale as well. There are 9 such Numbered Tales and the last regarding Baladin the Wolfmaster to be found and each is a mythology and a fantasy. For Baladin is a pro-ven seer, a prophet Sir and a Storyteller Regal with a memory near old as the wind and he so travelled with such wise counsel.

So to this Tale regarding the fair Natreana and her lover Eberus – a Tale so similar in points of interest found to a much earlier and longer piece entitled ~ Concerning Andriose and Methuen which in the stakes of this mythology has led many to consider there are Truths current in both Tales enough to warrant they speak of a Daughter somewhere in Baladin’s past history that he does so long to speak of, yet, some great sadness preventeth him so to do but causeth him to write of her in Tales; or prevented him, as now the Long ships have long since departed and taken our Regal Storyteller far away aboard the Hringhorni.

For sooth, you may likely thank the works of Tolkien, Lewis, Aesop, the Bard himself, Greeks & Norsks & Moses’ ‘Book’ itself from whence such hopeless imagination runs.                                                                                                                                 edenbraytoday


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EDENBRAY in EXILE – 33 – the willow awl

‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of 50 Poems, Articles and Essays

… … …

The Willow Awl

the willow awl

…   …   …

To take this moment and spread a shawl

Around and over our many hedged thoughts

Of where and when we ever set a compass

Or drew lines to our reasoned, grey target

…   …   …

The object of every night’s star or dream

It is in this fondness for the subject

That fits so smoothly in the palm of your hand

A useful, treasured friend, a kind of hand to hold




#Authors Note: This piece should be given the sub-heading ~ A Celebration of Subtlety or An appreciation of fond things we love – possibly unaccountably! A potentially gentle and thoughtful piece, in contrast to the many more intense subjects I have tackled as a writer.

It gains entrance to my ’50 Edenbray in Exile’ Retrospective Poems List for precisely that reason. Into my 5th week now of LOCKDOWN during the COVID-19 Pandemic crisis and I think we all crave a little more genteel subtlety, aside from Government Information Press Conferences, tragic news bulletins, our restrictive living space, repetitive lifestyle, personal anxieties and natural family concerns. What better way to unwind than with a passage of calm prose, written around a treasured tool but in actuality a prompt for a much deeper philosophical, morally challenging and uncompromising discussion than you might think. Please enjoy from whatever standpoint you may arrive! – The Willow Awl ~                                                                                                                                           edenbraytoday

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