Blog Stats
- 33,064 hits
-
Recent Posts
- … edenbray is moving over darling!
- EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 8
- Edenbray portrait
- OLDE MANN
- The PERCHERS – a guest poem
- Spring 2017 – From Life Birds and “Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Tyrannus forficatus)” by Mark Miller
- I NO LONGER NEED TO BE ME …
- THE BULL
- DEREGULATION – DON’T GET ME STARTED!
- ANG
- A DROP IN THE POND PRODUCES A RIPPLE!
- DAVID LYNCH DOES NOT LIVE HERE ANYMORE …
- I ACCEPT YOU AS YOU ARE …
- RUNNING TO RUNNYMEDE!
- WHEN THE DATE RAN OUT IN THE MORNING RAIN …
- WILD HORSES
- THE WRITING PROCESS
- YES, I’M SURE IT IS VERMILLION!
- THE ARTIST
- THE POET
- Letters of faith #2
- Letters of faith #1
- UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH …
- ANGE
- OKAPI THOUGHTS
- SHE WAS …
- PHILIP ROTH
- THE DIARY
- INNOCENCE
- MY FATHER
- WAVES
- CHRYSALID
- MY 4 CHILDREN !
- THE ANDY CAPP BEATITUDES
- A FEW ORDINARY LIVES – CHAPTER 12 – Draft
- PERFECY
- IF TRUTH WERE TOLD
- LEAVING .. .
- REJECTION
- JESSICA MADLALA
- LAVINIA ANN
- FACEBOOK LOGO SAVED
- THE LITTLE BLUE DONKEY .. .
- ITS A BAILEY
- HAVE WE GOT ENOUGH TIME OR CURIOSITY TO READ ANYMORE?
- MAUD & MARIAN
- VENICE – THE CITY THAT WALKS ON WATER
- JUST WORDS
- THE WILLOW AWL
- HONEY POT
other edenbray pages
Move EDENBRAY up to top of BLOGSURFER
Archives
- July 2020 (1)
- November 2019 (2)
- October 2019 (1)
- September 2019 (4)
- August 2019 (1)
- October 2018 (1)
- September 2018 (4)
- August 2018 (1)
- July 2018 (3)
- June 2018 (8)
- May 2018 (2)
- April 2018 (10)
- March 2018 (5)
- November 2017 (1)
- October 2017 (1)
- September 2017 (1)
- July 2017 (1)
- May 2017 (1)
- March 2017 (1)
- January 2017 (1)
- November 2016 (1)
- March 2015 (2)
- February 2015 (5)
- January 2015 (1)
- December 2014 (2)
- September 2014 (4)
- June 2014 (1)
- May 2014 (4)
- October 2013 (3)
- September 2013 (4)
- June 2013 (2)
- May 2013 (3)
- April 2013 (3)
- March 2013 (9)
- January 2013 (2)
- November 2012 (5)
- October 2012 (3)
- September 2012 (3)
- August 2012 (4)
- June 2012 (4)
- May 2012 (2)
- April 2012 (5)
- March 2012 (6)
- February 2012 (9)
- January 2012 (8)
- December 2011 (4)
- November 2011 (1)
- October 2011 (2)
- September 2011 (1)
- July 2011 (2)
- June 2011 (1)
- May 2011 (1)
- April 2011 (4)
- March 2011 (1)
- February 2011 (3)
- January 2011 (3)
- December 2010 (1)
eeE-Aaaw!~edenbraysay
edenbray POETREE
-
Join 41 other subscribers
edenbray8
Tweets by edenbray8edenbray SITES to VISIT
- #edenbray 10
Like EDENBRAY Move him to the top of BLOGSURFER
stepheneede689@btinternet.com
who says I'm a dreamer - well I'm not the only one ...Top Posts & Pages
Follow me on Twitter
My Tweetsedenbray CATEGORIES
- #LETTERS OF FAITH (2)
- BALADIN'S DREAM (1)
- BLOG LINK ARTICLE (3)
- edenbray balads (2)
- edenbray essays (42)
- edenbray memoirs (11)
- edenbray pomes (96)
- EDENBRAY RETROSPECTIVE (1)
- edenbray sayings (5)
- edenbray songs (4)
- edenbray thumbnails (9)
- GUEST POEMS (13)
- its a BAILEY (4)
- LOVE'S LOST (2)
- NOVEL EXCERPT (2)
- PROG-PROSE (4)
- Uncategorized (30)
… edenbray is moving over darling!
Posted in edenbray pomes
Tagged HISTORY, home, LIFE, MOVING NOTICE, nature, people, POETRY, technology, TRUTH
Leave a comment
EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 8
FAREN and MELIOR
Originally posted on April 10, 2011 ~ Written 30.06.90 ~ Revised 10.04.2011
.
.
… …
BALADIN’S DREAM PART VIII
...
FAREN and MELIOR
☀ ☼ ☀
Melior, the strange creature
stumbled toward him
in a blind and ashen fit
he frothed and tore at him
with blind rage and anger
he was lost in an uncontrollable frenzy.
☀ ☀ ☀
Faren caught the strange terror
by his mane and flinging him madly
against the hard stone floor
he drew the glinting rapier from it’s scabbard
and with a cry as clear and hearty as he could muster
threw himself upon the strange animal
and buried the stinging steel
between its breasts.
☼ ☼ ☼
Melior convulsed and tore again
with giant hairy paws
reaching vainly at Farens throat
his grey and scaly tail
lashed in a wild circle
but his assailant caught him
a severe blow to the temple
with a mailed fist.
☼ ☀ ☼
For the first time Melior
uttered a vocal sound,
a terrified cry as the
rapier swung mercilessly
removing a large patch
of his grey spongy flesh
and causing an ooze
which ran with an acrid odour
down his terrified face,
his movements now involuntary
strange, garbled, choking noises
and a wild strangled sobbing
as he writhed violently.
☼ ☼ ☼
The noises abated
the stench now sickening
a final staggered, spasmic reaction
then Melior gasped no more…
Who took the sun
and made a hole in the sky?
Who dressed and cloaked
in dark clouds stole forth
in the daylight and plundered the earth?
Whose murky thoughts invaded
more than a single generation?
Whose evil countenance smiled
and silenced loves sweet
moments for a long hour?
☀ ☼ ☀
Meliors thunder was fierce
his lightening a sharp tongue
that lashed and flailed
His anguish a bitter poultice
for the misery born in his heart
and many born old and dying.
Melior, grey and pale
starved of suns warmth
and again roasted black
by suns fiercest rays
outcast and jeolous
his night knew no end.
☀ ☀ ☀
Faren, stood a victor unvanquished
but saddened by the
misery of the battle
with the great grey Melior
now a cold heap lying
who had been a champion
a darkened prince
his latest form now relieved of terror
which seemed to relax
as a rose hue falling
from this evening light
washed over Farens haggard frame
almost bringing to him
the joy of early, regal youth.
☼ ☀ ☼
Faren knew oh so keenly
the hopeless pain Melior had born
but the gas that now reeked the air
causing even the ground
upon he lay to stain
was indeed the final admission
that Meliors very life had been evil
and as he walked from the scene
his weapon lying spent
beside its final purpose
a calm and special moment grew.
☀ ☼ ☀
Farens’ face now caught
the light of the evening sky
it threw a strange colour
an aura around him,
a sky green that drew gold
his eyes still lowered
out of some greater respect
for the many sad tales
this night preceded.
☼ ☀ ☼
Faren walked toward a turquoise haze
sheltered green by a grassy bank
and as he walked
the dark dreams fell from him like shadows.
He passed through them
his head lifting imperceptibly to the light
while it seemed that figures were appearing
not individuals admiring
more, triumphant armies adoring
as a gentle hollow horn blew
and gained momentum
stirring both sense and emotion
the gathered clans assembling
of every righteous battle won.
☀ ☀ ☀
Now Faren seemed to bear a scar
and every victors garland hung
to his neck most gracious.
He was now adorned royal
and to the horn could now be heard
an anthem quire singing
sweet pain it drew easy.
Farens’ temples bathed in golden light
now held firm and honoured
a gentleness distilled
his eyes softened grey set
lifted the many noble
champions to see.
☼ ☼ ☼
Gold and silver lined the crowds
a magical dawn, a living allegory
a famed tale, an open hand
as now hung the herald shields
polished bright and glorious
now stored the arms of battle
now formed these soft, sweet words
of memories past when pain had been real
and blood the currency of decision
when the terror of Melior a fabled dragon
may be writ or sung
and the error of the story enormous.
☀ ☼ ☀
Now sing the birds
not mourn the wound of creation
Now dance the maidens
not swear the curse of youth
Now laugh the ancients
the eternal children
Now skip the young men
not shame the burden of honour
the bracelet of respect.
Faren’s peoples joy
the uninhibited spectacle
this celebratory feast
this betrothal ceremony
it has begun and never, never would it end.
☼ ☀ ☼
.
.
writtenbyedenbray30.06.90–revisions10.04.11
<
<
<
.
#Authors Note ~ BALADINS DREAM : This was actually the 1st published part of a long, unending Collection of Prose – prepared under the theme – Baladin’s Dream – Baladin – a sage, a prophet, a mystic, a mythical and spiritual visitor to various places on our planet and possibly on others also, who, in his latter years recounts from his vast experience of life & experience – both tragedy and joy – either true or imagined, in a rambling tome of memoirs, recollections and supposed wisdom and biographical insights ~ A Dream ~ THE ‘DREAM OF BALADIN’ – The Many Parts of this DREAM take on various poses, are noted at differing times, deal with different facets of human experience and fantasy that can occur within various cultural settings that may suggest Baladin has kind of – always been with us observing life and death from his own wisdom and unique perspective – Join the Dream and you will no doubt be enriched, enthused, enlightened, even en-wisened! .. edenbray14.11.19
#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation!
Posted in BALADIN'S DREAM, edenbray balads, edenbray pomes, EDENBRAY RETROSPECTIVE, PROG-PROSE
Tagged BALADIN'S DREAM, memoirs, POETRY, RECOLLECTIONS, WISDOM
Leave a comment
Edenbray portrait
Posted in Uncategorized
Leave a comment
OLDE MANN
Olde Mann
..
Banyanamin’s reign – the oil ran sweetly on this, his Holy isle’s embrace
Adorned as if with golden crown – of sweat and bone and fur and entrance
Candid skies, circle of morning grey neath both tha’ bronzed n’broiled long hae’ther
Such starlight eyes, so burning sentinels within any weather bruised nor fine
Grizzled, matted and thick locked-hair hangs, sweet rabbit-pelts on a poachers pole
This prince, championed by his sternest stare, snorts and swallows purest air
Haunches bowed, the neck, the sinews set, the collar, adorned this chosen parapet
As if the day were born in summer-sun he bears against the cold, ash-broken night
Purveys a scene of longest sight, to stamp, to wrestle, then to shout his hollow roar
Of beasts ancient, memories found, not caged or bound – the wolf, the bear, the boar
And Beowulf, vacant ghost of lands, rocks and nature’s grist once hidden in the distant mist
..
.
writtenbyedenbray03.10.2019
..
The PERCHERS – a guest poem
THE PERCHERS
Tyrranus Forficatus
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
~ Emily Dickinson
Posted in GUEST POEMS
Leave a comment
Spring 2017 – From Life Birds and “Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Tyrannus forficatus)” by Mark Miller
Posted in BLOG LINK ARTICLE
Leave a comment
I NO LONGER NEED TO BE ME …
I no longer need to be me …
.
The acknowledgment in no way pre-supposes any hostility or self-image harm but remains a conclusion derived by personal freedom-analysis and a careful conclusion to the submission that I have become tired of the necessity to determine my own image control – I no longer need to be me …
.
.
.
writtenbyedenbray10.09.2019
THE BULL
THE BULL
Wipe the blood from my brow, I’ve seen much worse than this
Take me into the stalls, the best seats, those ruddy-red plush ones
Where centre of stage they all can feel me, glimpse this animals rage
Not bottled or canned – everyone full-on sees me bold, out of my cage
Exposed to the glare of the sun with my balls hanging free
Ive seen the obstacles, I know the score, My chances are faint
My weak heart is racing, My sides ache – these wounds scalding-sore
The riders taunting, matador painting – splashed in this animals blood
No time for this bovine to stand aimless, guileless, chewing farmers’ cud
My place in a march of destiny, I am a creature of meat in August-prime
No care for mens triviality, taken up with the facile of words in rhyme
Life itself, the power of brutal form adorned with behemoth’s mantle
Rid of faceless graces, all traces of the hypocrites scorn or of habits worn
I paw the earth, a storm of dust where men fight freedom & their lust
I shake my head bowed and rush to meet this foe, this final friend
Who draws my pain, my blood, my death, my final breath and lays me to the ground
..
writtenbyedenbray01.09.2019
Posted in edenbray pomes
Tagged BULLS, CHALLENGE, DEATH, LIFE, MATADOR, TRUTH, TURMOIL
Leave a comment
DEREGULATION – DON’T GET ME STARTED!
DEREGULATION ~ DON’T GET ME STARTED!
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 it’s meaning. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea? Maybe I didn’t explain the word too well? Anyway, she doesn’t talk to me as much as before now but well it was just a joke and yes, it sure is still a good word!
There are some words and expressions that say it for me and you can’t tell it any 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 loved a picture they were told was good?
As the guy in the cinema queue in Annie Hall the movie says – ‘Its gotta hit me on a gut level’ or I personally don’t appreciate it and then again, like Woody Allen’s character Alvy Singer, rejoins in the same scene – ‘Boy, what I could do with a sock full of manure right now.’ This, because the guy in the queue keeps on speaking his dogma and personal opinions loudly 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 (clue: there is a joke or three in there .. and if you didn’t see it # it doesn’t really work does it ?!).
I really do love language … Language is communication! .. Language is dynamite!
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 psychoanalyzed
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 psychoanalyzed
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
.
There are other things you shouldn’t touch but do not mess with language! … or take words out … or re-write words … Are you listening America? – Yes you can add words and maybe some words might be simplified but only if there is a very 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 be there, even if that particular sacred cow is a country’s flag on a pole, a long-standing, local and 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, to feed on local refuse which you might say is not what a sacred cow should have to do.
I think maybe respect is what we are alluding to here although even that particular word might need some re-definement 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 to consider and I do not mean to sound patronising.
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’ point 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 ourselves 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 is moving into the realm of our popular culture and affecting 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 bull calves, game for slaughter, processing, recycling, even vivisection of the vulgarest order
If it’s not brok’ why fix it?
Why do advertisers process ‘favourite tunes’ for their advertisements and re-record classic pop tunes with bland vocals and homogenised, 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 into modern sub-plots with current speech and up-dated story lines. Is nothing sacred.
Don’t re-write what I have written
While screenwriters, film directors and writers have fun ‘deregulating’ the greatest of movies and stories by changing characters, situations, emphasis 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.
Posted in Uncategorized
Leave a comment
ANG
Ang
“Marchon, the gate is wide open in the complex and I’m looking down a long, retreating corridor. Come over tonight and make me the happiest man in the valley.”
The 1940’s Studebaker rolled effortlessly down Sondrick Lane purring like a feline with its chrome pieces extended, glistening in the sun and it’s buttercream leather seats. The engine noise as soft as baby-skin and LeRou draped over the bucket seat snuggled warm in Vucana wool and Charmeuse at Marvin Bexer’s side. She looked and was a million-buck babe!
Marchon often lamented, that time was a great healer but the hurt that hurts the keenest was seeing another woman happy in the arms of your lover.
“It tears you in two, I don’t truck with jealousy. Sure, I always feel joy for the lady, except that the knife in my chest makes it impossible to smile.”
She turned from the shuttered, sash window and the sunlight left her perfect outline an orange-tinged sunburst that eclipsed the hanging, window blinds. Slant lines blanched across her trim body, striped with a lasered light that filtered through the haze from the corner window as she stood ‘smoking’ in the centre of the room and in every sense of the word!
“We think of others too much Angie! We should spend more time on ourselves. There’s love and then there is lot’s we like to do. We should get a place on the outskirts of town. Have a shack built near Thunder Falls where we could walk and you could learn to river-fish, buy a puppy-dog, you would just love a fluffy mutt. Take time for just the two of us and stop caring so much.”
She rolled the thick, black cheroot between her fingers, blowing plumes of smoke high into the tall, stone-white ceiling-space while she stepped around the room like she was a ballet star warming up. She described her words and thoughts in steps and shapes with exaggerated arm and leg movements, making arcs with her arms and pointing her toes like a regular Margot Fonteyn.
Marchon knew that he loved to watch her ‘perform’. Her body, lithe and lean and well developed in all the right places, moved effortlessly around in the diffused, shadowed aura of their room, her feet feeling the smooth, polished plank flooring or the wool pile of the large, Egyptian-Mumluk rug that Ang had bought her home from that long trip last fall.
Marchon sat on the rug, smoking the cheroot.
“Nothing makes sense anymore when your heart is broken Ang! Is it worse than a bereavement? How can you mourn the loss of a lover? The loss of a friend?”
Ang, was he smiling? He just listened, as he always did.