The Poet

   polished wood

Yes, the poet knows solitude

The hard side of the wood

The rough side and callow,

the bare and the rawhide

splintered, sore and fallow


He knows silent winters

Honest earth, bitten raw

Hooded trees cut down

Woolen mittens laid, frayed 

Fingers, french polished brown


Such a poisoned, stagnant tale

as cancerous solitude gnaws grim

at both the mast of the schooner

the mouth of the grey whale and

the gateway polished smoother


Can you ever know a thing truly?

Or choose a prize that’s fitting?

dancing with a maidens murmur

lost in revelry draped in splendour

At the dawn of that mizzen’s murder


Ahoy then, famed drunken traitor

carried on the silk backs of angels

authors of all that’s bright & holy

sullen yet, So tired of protecting

a nations worthy secrets of shame.



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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