James Walter Orr
Biography of James Walter Orr
A Biography of James Orr for “Third Book from the Sun”
James Walter Orr was born in Amarillo, Texas, in 1930, in the fabled dust bowl days. He grew up on a farm and ranch. He has also written under the pen-name of Easy Seeker and ezseeker. He has been a husband and hobo, laborer and engineer, cowboy and truck driver, rancher and roustabout, hod-carrier and concrete finisher, rod-wrencher and pulling unit operator, and everything that has touched any of the above. He has hooked up many a separator, heater-treater and flow line manifold.
He has been a collar-pecker on a screw pipeline, pulled skids on a big-inch line, cut paraffin, handled a pipe jack, used a lazy board, run a gin-truck and hacked cross-ties. He has crumbed ditches and even shot the same. He has piss-anted flow line. He has been a radio activity log draftsman, instrument craftsman and a combiner.
He has performed the necessary surgery on an untold number of bulls and boars. He has notched ears and branded hips, stretched wire and built some of the prettiest fences ever built. He was an expert with a brick paddle. As a kid on the road, he has slept on top of buildings, in box cars, in the fields and under hedges, in empty airplanes in air-ports, cars, vestibules, post-office lobbies, in old boxes, deserted buildings and hobo jungles. He has been a bindle-stiff, if a brown paper bag will pass for a bindle. Oh yes! He has been a pretty good wind-mill man!
He has talked his way through the road blocks of many Indian villages in a South American uprising, and been in the ONLY car that was allowed to traverse the highway.
Other than a host of similar things, he has lived an ordinary life.
This is his third book of poetry.
James Walter Orr's Works:
Reflections of Love______ 150 pages
The Beckoning Hand______ 210 pages
Third Book from the Sun_ 110 pages
These books are all available at:
James Walter Orr Poems
Right Love, Wrong Time
You come to me because you say you need me. I come because I cannot stay away. You weep with me because our love was thwarted. I weep with you because you cannot stay.
The weasels run, a mighty herd Of charging little beasts. They're waiting on King Weasel To call them to their feast.
Her gray head bows, and in the lamps dim glow, with steady hand she sticks the end of thread toward needles eye, but bushy, raveled end declines to go. She makes another try
In ages past, when the evening star shone down from an azure sky, it carried warmth from the goddess of love: love shone from her twinkling eye.
Can I Reach You?
When I'm crushed between the debris of the cold, hard rocks of space and the end of time and I know I'll never be free
Shadows Of Separation
SHADOWS OF SEPARATION I call to you across the miles, those empty miles which lie between
Deep and solemn tolls the midnight bell. The moon begins its slow descent, to sink, Behind the steeply rising western hills, And yet I lie in bed, awake, to think.
While waves of passion lap the shore, I plumb the depths of Eros' lake And drink it dry, and look for more: Oh God! , that this desire might slake
The Way Things Are
I have to this, I have to that; What makes me think I must? I cannot take the time to chat, Much less escape the thrust
I came to earth, from a distant star, And alien point of view. I walk this earth as I did afar, And I search for what is true.
Judge Her Jolly Jelly Jugs
See You Soon
There’s slightly over half a moon that shines on us tonight. Fragmented clouds approach her face, but none can block her light. The night is nice to take my walk. My shirt is wet with sweat. They say a rain will come tonight. I will not take that bet.
An Autumn Night's Dream
My limbs are knotted, like an oak, that stands, devoid of leaves. I don’t envision or evoke, an image that deceives.
I Saw A Child
She stood on the sidewalk, to all whom passed oblivious to their glances, bumps and talk. That she was heart-broken was obvious.
Life’s winter brings its frost bite to our hair.
It cools, perhaps, the heady wine that flows
Within our veins, our life-blood’s hidden lair,
But naught but death can give it that repose
That stops the roaming ghosts of memories
That rise to haunt the restless spirits, who
Have in youth’s wild impetuosities
Neglected for one moment to be true
To one to whom they owe their plight of troth;