James Durburow

The Art of Fruit

As the doors open,
straight and to the left
the plethora of fruits
are displayed.

Positioned in front of blended background
were glossy, blushed apples,
assorted from crimson to gold
and cleverly placed
adjacent to warm-colored oranges (as bluntly orange as overcast skies);
ripened, soft, foxing bananas
etched diagonal to crunchy aquarelle pears;
smell of fresh blueberries,
spherical blackberries, and raspberries
emit from the site of sense.
Squishy, acrylic grapes,
stippled between spiked, deckled pineapple;
fuzzy-textured peaches
and oval coconuts
laid crookedly parallel
to succulent strawberries;
cold-colored kiwi and açaí, fresco pomegranate;
tart plumes and sour lemon
and flat-colored lime,
speckled randomly around the arrangement.
A juicy, accented cherry,
seed in the middle still intact,
lay next to the apple and orange;
waxy, analogous starfruit,
separated from the rest.
Imagine. . .
the soft chew into a tamarillo;
explosive flavor of opaque lingonberries,
the tangy taste of tangerines
water-colored to a perfect tone
to complete the still life.

Other varieties of the same
and diverse hybrids,
influxus gradient of polychrome. . .
too many to list
on this stained easel.

The artist must be proud
to have concocted such a masterpiece.

The Rift Between

I am from exhaust,

from the jungle of cement and smoke.

I am from the voice of instruments,

as the downtown goers soak in the universal language

while I translate from hand to note.

I’m the traveling essence,

from the building stone to the suburban air,

from waves foaming on the sandy shore plaza,

to the trees and sun that I now grow with.

I am the smell of home,

from the culinary art produced here,

from the smorgasbord

I come to know and love.

I am from the advancement of technology,

from the generation I call my own as we age.

I am the abysmal void of gaming and sports

as they strike out my ability to take it to the limit.

I’m from the right sector of the brain,

from the left-handed thought process that it controls.

From the pencil creatively possessed,

to the time travel phase,

the mode of which becomes controlling as I travel through my left and right mind.

From the rift between imaginary and reality

logic and creativity

I stand in the wilderness with the wolves,

the mutts I call my family and friends

as they look up to me for guidance and courage.

I am those who take shelter under this lone tree,

with all its diversity and uniqueness,

growing ever more and shunt never wither.

Jimmy Durborow

Ars Poetica

A poem should hold no hidden meaning,

a rough sketch of the actual product

as an empty white room

or the blank canvas.

It should promote the lack of realism,

against generalized rules

similes and metaphors,

instinct and inspiration used as your tools of creation

scribing and painting an image that only your mind can see

or lack thereof.

Call it an influx of emotion,

continuously moving in the abysmal labyrinth of the brain,

where stories are never complete

and the chaos that is created is sustained

in the flowing stream of the mind.

The tree of life and order

we call the Universe

goes through it’s

eternal cycle,

as the fruit it bares we call creativity

fall into diverse dimensions we call our minds

throughout the infinite spectrum,

creating colorful worlds

that refuse dull

and ordinary,

but stay mute

in our heads

as they are lead into the oblivion we call our world.

In this Galaxy

as the moon and sun cycle

and life and death


one art

with a sinking heart

will remain,

with language not understood

but mutely spoken,

as the illusion of life

shadows it.

Jimmy Durborow

Skeltonic Verse



Filled with voices,

Traveling ear to ear.

Did you hear?
It was clear,

Enough to steer

The mind.

Time is not kind

To those that bind

Themselves to crime.

Everyone knows,

The rumor grows.

You can’t hide

Your lack of pride.

The deed has been done

Lose sense of fun…

You’re the one.

The One

No one understands her, nor do they want to. She tries to cloak herself in a pedestrian bus – all was well. She covers her identity with a soaked hood, and walks cautiously off the bus. The city is dim and the sky is grim…the time has come.

She is the only one that doesn’t follow the One. Those that do were brainwashed ages ago, and find their lives normal – though it is contrast. They still look for the one that doesn’t follow…her.

As she takes a brisk stroll down the depressed avenue, one of Them, under cover, spotted her distinctive Auburn hair as a strand unintentionally covered her left eye. No time to panic, just run. She was confident in her stealthy gait with the help of her slender body to blend in the crowd. Rain roared as it plummeted onto her and her hunters as if a stampede of Zebras were being dodged. As she ricocheted of the on goers and jolted left into an alleyway, she caught her breathe and scaled the brick wall. They were still chasing her, but at least they are about two stories down. When she got to the roof, she quickly ran to the edge…and was soon surrounded by a horde of followers.

“Become Us, resistance is futile…” they all spoke in monotone.

With a smirk on her face, she agreed. As they began to close in, she pivoted slightly, took one more look…and jumped. She was saved.