Photography > Little Rayburn

I am not just a rambler threading tales
Through the eye of a antique needle
Mending my old blue jeans
My words are split at the seams
Blending reasoning into tactile hung out dreams
On the clothesline
Of lost time.

I am not a stranger in this crowded room
Sighting the fallen bottle off the tabletop that plummets to the floor
Shards of glass like
Satellites in galaxies
Myriad of drunkards songs lost in
Longing for the companionship with each full cup.

To the rim again because of what we miss or what we are unable reach
Fallible tears mixing fears
Fragile spirits and shells of men
On the rocks
at the docks
At the dockets with
Empty pockets
And undecipherable
documents.

I am not a peddler of worn out hours
Stories that blind fiction and blend rhymes out of a caravan wagon
Immovable and wheel less
Oil lantern flickering

My Sentences of doing time with pen
And paper
A pauper in the field of heavenly drapery and clouded forms
Wildflowers in extravagant spread out cloaks in every color
Bespoke some wisdom for the sake of no fortune gained.

I will just comb humanities mane
Spear a dividing rod in my veins
Let the Source of my nature
bleed forth
A ribbon of
Weightless red poppies afloat
Bending to the moons
Charm.

A midlife time sounds
The alarms.

I am not the rich man with the poor mans heart or the impoverished man with a staff
Encroached
On the diamond roads.

Boldness of conviction is stronger
Than fools gold
fortifying lists of lost minutes by making
Excuses of how tired your thoughts have become
On loose boughs that break into
Songs
Wind the orchestra leader.

Fruit will ripen if you witness it or not
Blossoms shapeshifter or changeling
Chameleon ransom
Red apple thief.

Cheating Orchards out of remembrances.

Grappling with solitude and the
Strength of the tree that was
Immovable as freedom
Often stood alone
Immovable freedom
Freedoms sharp
Tongue.

The elements your new throne
And the thrown out things of this
World
Just reminders that the objects we
Cling too are dusty relics
Of future estates
Hands caressing the keepsakes
Of forgetfulness.

Tales of innocence and young
Manhood and old age
In the shape of a worn suitcase

A pressed shirt, an old razor blade
An unread bible and an empty inkwell
A pair of socks with holes
And a frozen pocket watch
Worn from sitting in the palm
Of the hand

While the sun declined.


The great diviner in a garment of golden
Threads
poetry
2013