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Mockingbird
I do not know who you mime
low in my locust, just out of reach.
Is it me you mock?
Ripe berry chosen-plucked-swallowed.
Is not red the warning color?
You show no concern wondrous bird.
Do you mock fear, darting shadow?
I fade, harmless in my repose.
With your trill and your whistle,
singing or warning,
your psalm does not frighten.
Do you mock silence?
So confident little one,
so careful to draw my gaze.
Your beauties unfolding, definer of gravity.
Can I not cry for others?
It is their loss I moan, their stolen years,
not for myself, restless soul.
Do you mock me still?
Greg Rayborn
Greg Rayborn is a 46 year old father and grandfather from Kentucky. After an 18 year hiatus, he is writing again thanks to the encouragement of his dear friend Kellie. He reckons it is about time. He offers this recent comment on his work, "a baring of the soul in the most uncomplicated and unguarded moment." Greg blushes then laughs; he considers his writing simple, a mere bleeding onto a page. Recent work may be viewed at Scorched Earth Publishing.
To press kisses on her skin is to taste the lotus, the deep cave of her navel hides a store of spices - what pleasure lies beyond, the tongue knows, but cannot speak of it.
- Sungarakarika Kumaradadatta; 12th Century
