He dressed in blackened soot whose eyes shone upon his bare and yellowed teeth

He worn and torn, whose royal, calloused hand, held no change or caution in its flush

Battened, trained and tested he doubtless and replete might live 10, the 20 less than many

but still would carry brother ‘hame’ from dark the wilderness battle,

the grim shadows dancing

I earned these scars for bearing down with gritted teeth and carving diamonds from my  sorry flesh,

now is there any wonder the purple thunder in the dark night cavern is a womans hole

and a necessary mother to those who pay with perspiration, oiled hands and

attend the birth of nations wealth, the rich man’s worn-silk purse, lovers mementoes

The day the siren blows like a death knell at this royal mile where only thoroughbred

 stallions enter and four maimed and broken ponies leave, drawn on a rickety cart to the bone-man

The glistening heat burns this sweat box over,  as men who are men, dream of women’s

flesh or the soft sweet touch of a harbour friend with tattooed-bluebird and a faithful touch

In the centre of the earth only burnt goblins, wraith’s or branded saints can stand healthy

So fathom the memory of those bruised gladiators carried from their duty unheralded

Born on the shoulders of the working classes, straight tall people who bowed their backs

to grasp an egg omelette, a slice of dry soda bread and maybe a broiler in a pie on Sunday

These forgotten, muddied infantry of the foremost lines still treading and spreading

Waiting on a word from God or a handout from the Pentecostal soup kitchen whose

battered Yellow Coach-Bus they call ‘Emmy’ rolls into Market Square when all the good,

fair people are rehearsing whispered promises and making plans for an evening with

solitaire, magazines and some oh so simple and po-lite conversation 

I wished I walked again in Steinbeck’s holy pages with faces wrinkled by a dagger-sun

or scanned the white-fields where hands and figures boned, tend and care for ankles torn and bloodied by the day

A ‘mistral’ cat with a sharp eye is prowling hungry in the bare gorse bushes

It’s fur is knotted brown, its clavicles and pelvis standing bare through thinnest skin

Its stalking game against a mandarin sky with its belly so full of kitten, so ripe to burst 

A mothers face I see amid her salted torment, a face of recognition in a dry wind gusting

this wind catching ever so lightly a chicken wing thrown from a tan-faced workman’s lunch-tin.

written byedenbray21.12.11

scene from ‘DAYS OF HEAVEN’

diamond worker with muddied face

DeBeer Diamond Mine Workers

where only thoroughbred stallions enter and four maimed and broken ponies leave…

About edenbray

I've always enjoyed writing and that is all I want to do... .. . I’m not sure why I ever stopped, was it 9/11? .. . Edenbray is born ugly, wet and covered in blood, mucous and bodily functions. The effluence of my short life .. . I am a Writer and Artist - since 1966 - I'm now an avid Blogger ~ I write lots of poems, written essays, articles, reviews, opinion + comment .. . I have published many of my poems in booklets ... please ask for details or just join the shebang by leaving me a marker with a 'like' or a comment for my ego and my encouragement :- thank you so much for listening ~ edenbray
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1 Response to BLACK DIAMONDS

  1. jessicaphiri says:

    Thank you for your rich painting of words and history and cultural distress. It really quite means something, EB. And how we take for granted the blood on our fingers! I love the pictures that you selected as well. It’s a humbling and faithful exercise to think of the downtrodden; the workers who push our world around its axis- the hands of God when we think we are our own. Your work is alive and speaking in tongues!

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