I see the look in a sputnik’s crater eyes
as we are hurtling through space
the trinket moon offers only splendour
by which our soul’s journey is defined
written in the book I have been writing
hoping strenuously it will mean a lot
to someone – it is more a journal than a book
it has no beginning, no middle or a finish
©edenbraytoday23.08.2023
Sometimes I think I came too late to writing
I should have come first of all
to listen is to spell
to see to speak
to tell all, a rat-fink
when the amber sun sinks in the pan
and the warm good smell of bacon cooking
phenols of clear scotch whiskey
sparkle up your nose
the aurora of a pretty lady
whose smile lifts your Dantė thoughts
of judgement, death and hell
pro-creation is the reason
a message in a bottle
a signature in sand
and all those damn fine cliches
I learned as a kid
with grandparents
a Kerouac without a road
they grew cabbage and leek
and profound mundanity
no tin roof except the jangling stars
Orion, Jupiter and the bats flying
I felt the rain on my face, cold wind in my eyes
I came too late to writing
Whitman had already been and Keates and Kelly
and every name becomes a name-drop
a dead phoenix rotting
a minotaur without a head
crumpled up da Vinci drawings
lost under the bed
I once bought a Djembe
from an African in Italy
at a market in a northern town
he talked while he ate
spat bread crumbs in my face
his sweated brow was full of animus
richness of history, character
I considered him entirely great
we haggled
I paid him 20 euros for his trouble
I bought my African drum home
should I leave it by your gate?
©edenbraytoday11.09.2023
alcohol and the elite – a heady mix!
I pick up another bottle
summoned up the elitist
the amateur has gone
still hiding in her tree
is this your chosen brand
can I add mine to the list
I studied nothing more at school
than girls and their knickers
ink blots on the desk
my imagination running wild
blind until I could not see
teacher’s finger pointing at me
it pointed at the ceiling
as in Leonardo’s cartoon
teacher was no madonna
she had bony, arthritic fingers
not really funny except that
teenage boys can be obscene
whoever chooses our lovers
chose not our teachers
who then chose neither you nor me
taught what they thought they knew
nothing about life, living or
the best whisky on the shelf
©edenbraytoday28.08.2023
..
and if I were a rogue elephant
at the zoo where I grew up
presented in the land
where I was born
in the zone of rhinoceros or armadillo
my scaly skin protect me
from that awful sin of adolescence
summer visits upon this gushing train
spewing anonimity with children crayons
these impartial thoughts collide
there can be no immunity
from noise in London town
Camden Town where group leaders
assemble bustling, budding drumsters
we do not ask what type
of which political agenda
their art on street food escalators
broken down where people congregate
at canals, locks, bridges
once converted rivers
beside the opportunity to submit
the fond oppression of knowledge
appropriate to that which no one understands
the march of antelope
within the zoo I was raised
left now to only make conjugal visits
on summer trips by electric train on google-foot
to buy back memories
wrapped in fridge magnets with cellophane
teeming citadels of learning
framed engle culture
the Rosettis come into view
historic subtleties of political reference
they were just people
who stored their lives in writing
painted metaphor with oil
behind glass in pencil, sanguine
where there is now little meaning
there is panic on the streets of London
of Boston, of Birmingham
we have lost our ability to draw or reason
in old St Pancras churchyard
people meet to talk
I hear people singing under shade of tree
a mongrel dog is passing
as we orbit the sun
.©edenbraytoday24.08.2023
.
.
(italics: reference borrowed from a song written by the Smiths)
EDENBRAY EDITS is now available to purchase from LULU BOOKS or the AUTHOR – please follow link https://www.lulu.com/shop/stephen-eede-and-warwick-eede-and-dawn-collins-and-benjamin-zephaniah/edenbray-edits/paperback/product-ey5r95.html?q=edenbray&page=1&pageSize=4 or message me below – eb
language distorts our ghosts of freedom
heritage has gone up in timber
lights the beacons true flames desist
edenbraytoday20.08.2023
.
ears of corn only whisper in reply
if I have ought to say
this fingered dam grows stone defiant
pain of man-made glass so thicker
duplicate and tempered till unseen
neither frost nor fire may charge
or seal your apoplexy
my honesty prevails upon such sadness
to offer thee a besmirched ear in hope
of your declension
goodnight sweet flower of earth
your scarred beauty
much less you owe to hide than we
our rabid morbidity
spawns actions forced upon you
goodnight again sweet earth
©edenbraytoday8.08.2023
light glances sharply off the wet cobbled lane
it is wet, dark and vaguely cold
like the hand of the soon departed
there must be a reason these words wander and
wonder are similar in sound yet not meaning
trapped as we are by consequence of reason not fact
history and circumstance should have more to say
but I can only write of torture for an hour each day
let rest dissolve stitches from a wound that will not heal
inside the eyes you saw the trauma the voice of Sinead’s pain
her face fragile as the mist upon the cliffs of Moher Irish lands left alone must now kiss repeatedly to reconcile
©edenbraytoday15.08.2023
..
..
author’s note ~
this is my ongoing tribute to Sinead O’Connor, who I loved and whose heart and soul were damaged but whose voice was clear and ever triumphant – braver than I – braver than most!
edenbray 15.08.2023
There’s a crack up in the ceiling
and the kitchen sink is leaking’
~ Ray Davies
.. .. ..
the day closed
when we ran out of path
down by the cherry orchard
reading Chekov
Sibelius, Mondigliani
keepers of bees and hunny
psychotherapy philosophy
the books of R.D.Laing
write what you know
not what you think
Frankie Shaeffer tells the truth
kicks up humanistic stink
different points of view
intellectuals in Bermondsey
or some such other place
Forest Hill when we hung out
the Old Kent Road, Notting Hill
Camden Town, Islington
Shepherd’s Bush – proles live
like struggling insects
who joined an honest queue
for bread or maybe to live better
but when were we free
or ever could we be
when things go wrong
sadistic leaders rise
Nazi Germany in around ’33
possibly a clichê
Timothy Leary, Uri Gagarin
the ultimate Mata Hari
names where I grew up
in another country
francs and lira, japanese yen
do ya’ ken John Peel
or are you Arthur Scargill
when socialism was a thing
the British pound plummets
which is colloquial, metaphoric
not Shakespeare in the park
deja-vu – a new synchronicity
hyper-pseudo sensitivity
are you animal, fish or whore
some people fair
far better at deception
Sally-ann around on Fridays
we had never had it so good
taught to think of others
Biafrans as our brothers
bitter beer, sardines on toast
no queers or untold sadness
faith slightly infinitesimal
psycosomatically brittle
then came Billy Butlin
coca cola and the bingo
no one seemed to notice me
nor ever heard the springs go
Tommy Steele, his smile
Joe Brown and his bruvvers’
mother’s little helpers
Cathy’s up the junction
cockneyed optimism
where did it come from
and when did it depart
on the horse or in the cart
can you feel the rythm
of the four-piece drum
use a plectrum or a thumb
we were all so young
plastic mac wonder
the labour exchange
coffee-table nostalgia
stole our cul-de-sac thunder
©edenbraytoday07.08.2023
..
I wake and rise
anxiety
fawning skies
venomous wan
describe catatonic frenzy
in two divided worlds
barbaric memes surrender
quantified of intellect
and memory
sky skaters
on the edge
there is no returning
the golden bridge
burning
down and down below
a tectonic gorge
a canoe of words
thrashing through high water
people were here
before we came
were they kindly
we should have known
vertigo now calls me
circle turning
black vinyl
question all absurdity
your hollowed face
anxiety
spontaneity
inspired artistry
the fall of life
chance and change
travels through a train window
gaining
always chasing
shapeshifters appear
changing faces
fear
nights of insecticidal dreaming
©edenbraytoday31.07.2023
INCOGNITO BEACH BALL .. .
incognito beach ball .. .
incognito beach ball .. .
incognito beach ball .. .
and rolling around off shoulder
of both defiant and living
who cried freedom but have similarly
given up the glory of recognition
surrendered to nightmare folly
or drifted to the edge
of the sun-dried earth
the lillo is now floating lonely
calmly out at sea
where old men and fishermen dwell
submitted finally
to the irony of parody and misfortune
like bad storytellers
comedians, b n’b trollops
they have nothing more to sell
but their organics and their orgasms
their vital signs
their heartbeats
their memories of youth
their dead, derogatory lives
their friends or relatives
sold out to the nazis
who we mostly agreed to hate
who turned out lived next door
who sold out to Abram’s whore
or any pint of jin-sin
or catalogue of errors
any mausaleum of regrets
1001 of lost bets
hey the ignition
the calamity of solution
when finally he died
kinda’ beautiful…
©edenbray05.09.2023
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