Mjseaborne

Mjseaborne The Raconteur

06/04/2026

Hold On

The morning sun, tentative at first light,
finally poured streams of honey through a canopy of emerald.
Taking its time spreading dew diamonds on spider webs.

A light wind blowing eastward turned the forest into a kaleidoscope of colors and peekaboo shadows.

In a abandoned sawmill area a Woodchuck hears a twig snap, stands up and whistles a warning throughout the woodland.

Across the clearing a Buck deer bulldozers his way through a thicket of bramble bushes and birch trees.
An explosion of antlers and a sweat slick animal.

The whole forest becomes a tie-dyed playground.
A swirl of all types of birds.

Every foot fall is a memory now and every moment is held to heart by hands so accustomed to holding on so tight.

© Mjseaborne 06/03/2026
North Adams, Massachusetts

05/30/2026

Stitch Memories
(Betty)

From the tips of my fingers to my elbow and beyond, through the arch of colored mist of a dissipating rainbow, adrift but never completely vanished.

A thick red line traces stitch memories from crazy bone to the left hand little finger.
Reminder’s of a motorcycle.

Pot holed highway’s.
Manic yellow center lines, a zipper on a fat man straining to hold it all together.

Say a prayer, if it makes you feel free.
Recite the words just as instructed.

(Restrictions Apply;
Best of Prayed Before Dec. 03, 2028)

No one will know just you and me.
Sister Mary Martin is six feet under- everywhere.

In a slow but deliberate pace the blood red horizon drizzles into my imagination.
Lost in what seems to be an endless funhouse.

My right foot begins an inpatient, tap-be-tap-tap.

Ripples appear in dusty silver clouds, reminiscent of Betty, her long curly hair, finally set free.

Stitch memories.

© Mjseaborne
05/29/2026 North Adams, Massachusetts

05/26/2026

Forget words, all those syllables, not to mention the proper voice inflection’s, pronunciation’s and good gosh if not for hand’s, some people would all but forget words.

Never mind those questions followed by answers that leave many a person scuffing out explanation point’s in whatever firmament their two feet fidget upon.

Do not even consider following a tilted neck, a twitch at the side of an eye.
Never a pulled earlobe.

Forget words, embrace and love someone’s soul.

© Mjseaborne 05/25/2026.
North Adams, Massachusetts

05/24/2026

When my eyes close from grey days,
I want to hear my dreams.

But every song is always so far away.

When my head settles into a fine cotton dressed pillow.
I want to hear my dreams.

When rain kisses the north facing window
and
I sink deeper under the soft blue sheets.
I want to hear my dreams.

But every song is always so far away.

© Mjseaborne 05/23/2026
North Adams, Massachusetts

05/16/2026

I want to travel faster than the speed of light.

I want to kiss the red lace at the far end of this universe.

I want to skate on the mirrors in the valley’s of Mars.

I want to swim in every ocean and feel the turquoise sky melt into and heal my soul.

I want to have a dialogue with the entity(s) responsible for all this and much more.

I want to sleep in the arms of Angels.

© Mjseaborne
05/16/2026
North Adams, Massachusetts

05/14/2026

Anywhere

Rain tumbled in sheets of cellophane.
A rose petal fell in slow motion, immune from the weather, thankful for the freedom.

Below the thin skin of the old mans hands,
blood in his bloated veins flowed in mad rivers.
That firm grip,
keeps Old Scratch away.

The old man stood in his yard wearing a long rider’s slicker.
Feeling the cellophane wrap itself around his memory.

© Mjseaborne 05/14/2026
North Adams, Massachusetts

05/13/2026

One more time just ‘cause I like it.

The man in 17B never rattles a shade.
The front porch features one lone incandescent lamp burning up electricity day and night. Never a flicker, even in the eye of a storm.

17B sits in the back yard, a postage stamp of sticks and stones and old dog bones on his decomposing 1962 Old Orchard Beach Adirondack chair.
Lemonade, ain’t his bag. Dig?

The person in 17B possesses a 1967 brown Plymouth Barracuda, complete with a faded ivory ragtop.

Ravens and starlings have ravaged that ragtop for several generations.
A family heirloom if you will.

Rust forms curtains over the fender wheel wells of the ‘Cuda.
When the rains come the fading brown paint and the rust runoff gathers in pools onto the decrepit parking lot pavement.
A fair enough comparison might be of your Mom washing blood off your newly skinned knee. Again.
17B was proud that his ‘Cuda was organically becoming one with the earth.

The grey haired man in 17B walks with a limp requiring him to travel in his 1967 brown Plymouth Barracuda with the ivory p**p splattered ragtop to fifty-six
Pulaski Street for his weekly case of Gablinger’s beer.

Limp be damned he purposely and carefully parks his vehicle far away from the savages that seem to enjoy denting and keying his beloved 1967 organic Plymouth Barracuda with the ivory ragtop begging to be chemically analyzed.

Back at his apartment, did I mention that he lived in unit 17B?
No matter.
The point of interest in this story is not the whole of 17B, but what has been placed on the wet rotted kitchen windowsill.
In perpetuity it would seem.
A two and one half pound canned ham in a diamond shaped metal can.
A key for opening this treasure is attached to the side of the can.
Although that ham, isn’t for consuming in some silly king’s banquet.

The man in 17B paid homage to his canned ham, complete with genuine bee’s wax church candles and a church purple velvet vestment.

Every day was the same for Mr. 17B and even in that crushing boredom 17B found himself inspired by his shrine to the canned ham.

Sure, it wasn’t an expensive Spiral cut ham. But the man in 17B was very optimistic.

© Mjseaborne 03/04/2026 North Adams, Massachusetts

05/12/2026

March 1979

Unfinished thoughts.
A dangling participle.
Hanging there, frozen in verse.
She scribbled a blue ink note on a flower pattern paper towel, that ink bled through to the countertop.
Too bad there wasn’t a red ink pen handy.
“I couldn’t get the speaker’s off the wall.”
I guess that inferred that I could have been condemned to hearing white noise screaming into my black soul.

Interrupted prayers, for what those are worth.
Pennies on the dollar a dime to untangle this rhyme.

Consider this; consider these incomplete thoughts.
Gathered somewhere beyond comprehension.

Fixated on a solitary seagull floating against the wind above the froth of the Old Orchard Beach waves.

March 1979

© Mjseaborne
05/11/2026
North Adams, Massachusetts

05/10/2026

Welcome to the University of Dreams.
A tangled web between blue bed sheets.

Dusk turns orange, the trees exploding green and one red feathered bird perched on a seventy five year old brown tattered electric wire.
Whistling the same tune
I heard his grandfather use.

The world turned tangerine, then I used my tongue to moisten my right hand forefinger and drew circles around a powdery grey moon.

A thin coal black cloud weaves itself like devil’s lace, up and down a Berkshire range.

Welcome
to the
University of Dreams.

© Mjseaborne 05/09/2026
University of Dreams

05/09/2026

The Vatican has announced
a new and improved Breath of a Saint.
Now sold in 16 oz spray cans.
Remember, there is no ozone in heaven.

A storm is coming baby!
And no canned halitosis from any purported Saint is going to save you.

© Mjseaborne 05/09/2026
North Adams, Massachusetts

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Hubbardston, MA
01247

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