murphy’s rattlesnakes

a wholesome heart weathers the rain
the times i reflect upon grow more dense
they come to get you when you least expect
the ordered process of form is bypassed
the form is what i miss, the effortless
the tight compression thus achieved is more
tried responses are rarely true to times
trees gaunt against distant spotlight of care
torn between the urge to self and to you
tomorrows have scant to offer our hearts
to bicker meant an asking in my past
time spent waiting becomes good time to be
this day arrives fresh to my lone senses
thinking back upon occasion to form
themes are in the end ultimate chance
the will to be aware of complete needs
the walls reflect my gaze of open stare
the slightest chance of sun brings out the best
the rush of change o’erwhelms my static soul
the room is stifling hot in my waiting
the magic remains, misdirection allows
the leaves of the maple hang til the last
the lay of the land determines the way
the droning dance of stated facts delights
tiresome reality intrudes most when
the colors and silver of old indian men
the atmosphere is oppressive this day
the idea of marching in tandem
thick notice tends the other end of self
thursday evening brings the hint of change
the siren song of easement when i drink
when i was very young i walked the path of autumn
outside my windows it rains with a steady pace
a sputtering sun lifts hints of leaves
a sharp shattering sleet on my face
the timbre of his times marks the poet
the winds have died down, the breezes calmed
your lips taste red in immediacy
tears wind their way down these weather-worn cheeks
youth starts to fade as one thinks about it
forms become elegant in their uses
some things become buried in detritus
half the story of beauty is the hands
half hidden the form comes to idle mind
hardness of image comes first from the stone
my pride roars not, like the lion’s kept tribe
unformed letters have an urgency felt
the drums of death beat slowly in my mind
time was when i baked in texas sun
i sit in my chair and rummage through stray thoughts
creamy turmoil slides slowly to settle
i hear a crickle in the fluorescent lights
you have to aberrate yourself to find something
figure what you figure out
the rain soaks down its sullen way
the spring comes slowly some soft sodden years
justifiable pride in one’s bearing
my time will come to someday and will stop
time’s sporadic successes tire one out
tired from the constant effort to renew
i sit with a magic pen, capture thoughts
foolish girls wish poesy for themselves
the heat is pregnant, its music sultry
crazy running street of dark shadows
recognition of one’s peculiar place
attention now is the past remembered
each time we begin anew as a dream
each time we begin anew as a dream
loving before we have the consciousness
asking ourselves too soon about the hurt
in part acting out of those fantasies
needs reflected in their overt telling
echoes unwanted as we listen hard
chanting that which we most have told thus heard
heeding not the past we have all subsumed
our startled awareness brings back freshness
yesterday tastes tart as though new grown now
some semblance of order cannot be borne
our cultured astuteness standing tall, proud
defending the depths we shall soon attain
eliding fulsome recompense we share
an eremite i have become
we wrestle with the lessons of our time
the echoes of last year ache in closeness
i stand n this cold, this night
fog, white, lungs with ice
the summer seems indian in its soft intent
the clouds tonight are clumped enough
the winds die down, the breezes calm
dark morning sky is thick with cloud
grey mist blue seam of edge
i, too, enjoy the meal, the festivity of it all
mist of morning swallows ship
a baboon circling the meadows
all is nods and glance aside
change is the way the world feels
i’ll tell you what i know
i’m huddled in soft light of lone bulb
within my computer, solitaire
swigging hard the lethe of torment
time was when the fresh span of day sufficed
roiling clouds bedaub with gray
sewing soft the frock of morning
the pen i wield captures me

 

 

 

 

a wholesome heart weathers the rain
twisting its beats to find new tune
though never giving way too soon
before throbbing lightning brings fresh pain

a wholesome tongue labors to spell the truth
twitling its tip in a fricative drive
to parse the words so they’re alive
with wisdom’s bite, with wisdom’s tooth

a wholesome hand will frame the door
hinging its gate to a stately gape
solid and there in its welcome shape
made fast; then loose to welcome more

a wholesome nose will sense fresh food
inhaling the bubbling stew of meat
the animal gone so you can eat
its life as yours in brotherhood

murphy always choosing whole grain bread

 

 

 

 

the times i reflect upon grow more dense
once i paced myself to fit in, somewhat
proportioned to normal discourse and not
a flowering of conjecture to sense
meaning when presence alone was enough
electing to allow free flow of image
lets me be more there now later; i bridge
all facets of those times in written proof

crowds swirl in my mind and what was not the
heard order takes over, remolds essence
and adds by selection of felt sequence
newness explodes and impacts shards of me
in startled patterns on walls, as presence
normally not noticed– nor state evinced

 

 

 

 

they come to get you when you least expect
overt movement against the impressed needs
pardonable but expressive of seeds
aggressively rooting for their effect
mention of the short attention we span
erecting the ways to reach that after
life which so controls a lack of laughter
assaults a proper balance, the command

calls into being an order, the felt
heavy burdens carried as fallen foes
attacked successfully before the remorse
needles the senses, stitches the wounds dealt
in caring past the normal reaching lows
nameable and thus palpable in force

 

 

 

 

the ordered process of form is bypassed
our chaos imploding in dense inward
progress toward that center in the words
ascribed as a forced telling, the harassed
memorable complexity of that
eventual payment called as our right,
leavening our flat ardor, the so slight
actionable cause accused– in effect

cursed as whimsical chosen chartered show
held in check so as to heighten tell tale
aspersion when released– i do not see
needless pretense as manner to bestow
issues with human hurt– we all shall fail
naked awaiting warm propinquity

 

 

 

 

the form is what i miss, the effortless
order which so constricts the turning in
patterns balance and the aweful new sin
added as awareness is easy to confess
martyrs are made by hand as a unique
endurance of gained response, agreement
lurking in our strongest purpose, the meek
acceptance of our deepest fears, our rent

clothing as uncontrolled cover, habit
hard put to veil what we so most would have
and hold, the openness so stripped in partial
noticed rhyme that reason is slow to grab it
insanely, and thus to prove pain’s needed salve
nothing more can so begin to startle

 

 

 

 

the tight compression thus achieved is more
often for me dwelt on as the punch press
permits a proper definition, stress
accumulated past usual time’s store
meaning impressed past tolerance, as form
eventually understood by the mind
lived again, again to help me to find
a cohesive meaning within the storm

complexity has this siren’s appeal
herding what occurs toward the squalid
acceptance of control from the liquid
nether world wherein we natural feel
in total submersion are those solid
needs we have so often successful hid

 

 

 

 

tried responses are rarely true to times
obvious in their flashing of secrets
permitted roles never offer surcease
assumed as resolvement; they’re never whims
meant to highlight by indirection, bounced
edgeward in outline, letting words in edgewise
little is gained from postures learned as guise
as children, habit precludes new-mind sets

cutting through to trueness involves despair
haunting in its memorable response
asking guilt instead of that fresh wonder
needed to produce change for which we care
instead of surety we should seize chance
narrowed option as concept is blunder

 

 

 

 

trees gaunt against distant spotlight of care
offer sight for icy walking night
produce that outline of questing plight
an immediacy which is rare to share
memories related in dimness grow
ever more close for that unseen looming
life that one can’t make out, which unassuming
alters how, what and whether we can know

cold ignored but steps so felt that stopping
hurts for all the rest we might so acquire
aches for the loss of complete retelling.
none other there but us; no one hoping
it can be again that tightly enclosed shire
needing visitors who offer more than dwelling

 

 

 

 

torn between the urge to self and to you
often brings a fineness of discernment
permitting details of the fit to be
as pertinent as the chance to share
mention must also be made of the due
elegance of the pairing element
linking our oddnesses to complete the
ardor each fusion process will involve

charm is the latest particular force
helping scientists explain their inner worlds
as they grope on smallest scale of unknowns
neither their example, nor ultimate choice
is ours to control, nor should offered pearls
need other than acknowledged luster shown

 

 

 

 

tomorrows have scant to offer our hearts
our present intruding with its sense of time
protruding, an immediacy as prime
accusation, the now the sum of parts
mixing the patterns ago and our whens
each moment allowed to slip away
lives as waste discarded, lives gone astray,
a jumbled heap grown from our might-have-beens

calling for change will not force it to be
hard breathing only underscores the futile
attempt at shaping what should be formless
no one can embed a sudden memory
implanted indelibly as subtle
normalization of our humanness

 

 

 

 

to bicker meant an asking in my past
of pleading for a place to eat with friends
perhaps those times have changed, distance lends
a smoothing rankness to digest repast
maybe each moment is railing against
evidence of impending cessation
letting degree of struggle as creation
allow small hope for our continuance

chant your song, beguile life’s smooth passage
hear the echo of your reception and fit
assumed answer to statement of our love
note discrepancies as just missed message
ignore discontinuity, admit
narrowed options lost in our time: move

 

 

 

 

time spent waiting becomes good time to be
ourselves, alone with indeterminate
possibilities, becalmed in ornate
appreciation of the moment we
might ask of time in which we find the time
each moment means, whether inattention
lets in feeling or even if mention
allows the sense to grow to reach one’s rhymes

children innately apprehend that mist
hanging before the next important thing
assuming vague outline as our harness
nearness becomes important, not the gist
intuited of life, but the wellspring
nestled securely in our awareness

 

 

 

 

this day arrives fresh to my lone senses
opens feelings to blue expanse and sun
pushes past experience to bring the one
aspect of life which erects no defenses
magic is change without cause or reason
except as an explosive inevitability
luck is confirmed as system so vast as to be
a happening: we approach proper season

clouds are punctuation, sprigs are thrust
health is leafy warmth of our next full growth
as a certainty the memory allows
nascent identity is begun in flesh first
in full openness of touch, in being both
needed and giving, in growing strings of now

 

 

 

 

thinking back upon occasion to form
our ceremonious withholdings
puts an emphasis on those very things
actions sublimate to our profound harm
memory becomes the muscles we’ve used
evincing those highlights of proffered joy
letting the shared response forge the alloy
alleviating that purity traduced

could there not be acceptance of our own
health when the unusual pattern of rejecting
accumulated habits we’ve long outgrown
needs the pressures of peers to be overblown
in our schemas– proud stagings of suspicions
neath that honesty we might have chosen

 

 

 

 

themes are in the end ultimate chance
of message, understood by bone and blood
pressing home the feel of what else is good
after it’s all over with magic dance
mild friends together to mention how few
easy answers were pursued, how many
lives were touched in love; how often when he
asked to be, how seldom did we give his due

cold burning was his firm request of us
handing, as it were, residue of love
as aspect of his deeper self alone
needing tradition not, nor hallowed dust
in choosing how ’twas done at last, to prove
naught but to be forever dreamed in stone

 

 

 

 

the will to be aware of complete needs
of ordered words which echo primal
possibilities will in the final
analysis sustain itself in written deeds
mornings are my best times as my mind clears
each wisp of underlying fog of night
leopards that prowl beyond determined sight
and yield glimpses only of spotted fears

clean slates aren’t clarified as butter is
heated just below browning level, kept
at room heat thereafter without spoilage
nor is erasure forgetting except
in details of carefully plotted foliage
needing only light to grow again in bliss

 

 

 

 

the walls reflect my gaze of open stare
obliquely, leading a fluttery lid
past the topmost hindrance of latest bid
at loosening the self and being aware
mirrors couldn’t do the same, for their light
engages my thought at total image
leaving nothing to imagine or gauge
askew, to further confuse orbs of sight

confusion, thence it comes, that full felt
health of focus with what has always been
at hand, but denied by definition
no lone individuality can ever be dealt
ideas enough to re-present the scene
needed to engender re-creation

 

 

 

 

the slightest chance of sun brings out the best
of me, that i might be heard, or perused
perchance enjoyed as this rather bemused
athlete tends to hide his inner wordy crest
minding how seldom the light dawns when shown
evoking a charitable faith in that
luster of bringer only, not what
after all separates our flesh from bone

cold achieved goal in desired act of faith
hot felt welling shaped to fill inner mold
aching hurt buried hard neath muscled strength
needing the sight of those whose assured grace
is supportive, heard alike, even told
now how muchly needed and to what length

 

 

 

 

the rush of change o’erwhelms my static soul
old stones stand shattered, old stops are gone
proud props of comfort stand if at all alone
aloof almost from efforts to keep me whole
my flywheel slips loose, the choice, if made, to
end any of the careers that might be
leaves me the poorer somehow, which i see
as damned if i stop and death if i flow

cordons or cartons, the fences remain
horses are ridden and control assumed
action implies directions and the ends
needed for movement; and those are the chains
in my heart, the dreams of completion doomed
nitrogen welling, blood, decompression bends

 

 

 

 

the room is stifling hot in my waiting
old fantasies slip soft under droopy lids
part of my life slides by as changing rids
act of control, emotion of rating
matter is here and palpable in mind
each aspect of the nodding sense of scene
lives floating, as the wispy motes careen
attach themselves to eyes as they go blind

change becoming fixed and fulsome happenstance
hops past control of will to become real
at last, the loose shreds of doubt defeated
neatly enjoined in affording a chance
in the thousand or so at hand, to feel
newly tasted as savory soup, slow heated

 

 

 

 

the magic remains, misdirection allows
our surprise a legitimacy, it permits
personal variety show, it outfits
as style shadings of each puffed-sleeve blouse
maintained to hide and hold our reaching arms
effectively as outside glow of deep
longing, as permanent face of that sleep
affording freshness when baring secret charms

caring covered, brought forth on occasion
heard in special timing, hoarded to use
as a giving when wanting wants a shove
nights which grow long with a crushing passion
inside their slow ticking of self abuse
need a saving gesture, a miracle of love

 

 

 

 

the leaves of the maple hang til the last
of the others, their time has been a raking
promising nothing more than ordered heaps
awaiting fire or trundling truck to come
maybe this clearing signifies that some
event is in the making, that in our deeps
looms a singular feeling which breaking
away from solid roots blows, will be past

chance argues for the number of those leaves
holding unique possibilities being
anything but unlimited. in fact
nothing is usually noted as a lack
in the lives of those who are partly seeing
now what some have already felt time weaves

 

 

 

 

the lay of the land determines the way
our movement reaches toward resolvement, finds
place of ease as a natural gravity
assumes the base motive force to be all
man’s volition doesn’t erect a wall
enjoining fate with folderol of mind
life’s unseen thread proves to our sore dismay
an unbroken and solemn levity

coursing through our smallest veins, back to heart’s
health, being squeezed in muscled aimless move
allowing acceptance of all our woe
nervous twitching seeking ever lower parts
is as much the dread as the need to prove
new worth by elegance of flowing show

 

 

 

 

the droning dance of stated facts delights
oft dissociating tragic web of life
permitting retention without the strife
attention forces on remembered sights
my approach to the seamier side of chance
edging as it were to touch, taste and feel
levies a tax in payment for what is real
asks a skewness to deflect deadly lance

chasms permeate my dreams, sleep reflects
hard possibility as its reverse
adduces vulnerable knowing act
needs compiling to be correct
inattention to conclusion, rehearses
next scenic wonder to beguile, refract

 

 

 

 

tiresome reality intrudes most when
our defenses are down, resilience gone
painful impingements increasing bright tongs
assailing our protectments, our sins
memory is our process as we deal
evening the background and all the hurts
loosing good reasons become efforts
assuaging wrongful guilts for how we feel

calm recollection then permits our lives
health, allows growth as inevitable change
asks nothing more than acceptance of now
nothing less, nothing else can ever give
immunity from those fears whose felt range
nurtures our instinctive probing to know

 

 

 

 

the colors and silver of old indian men
one night they decide their sleep won’t come
pull their serapes tight round to find some
assurance their ways matter still, have been
mattering since the early patterns were fixed
exposed as costume and thus the role they
looked to to explain, they dress to meet day
as and when it comes, their plumage does the rest

cold steeps old vapors as body expires.
heart seizes, then knowing stops as the balance
assumed stays, and the kept warmth slides away
nature sometimes shows itself in layers
icy rime holding all life until brilliance
notices the numbered few who are still today

 

 

 

 

the atmosphere is oppressive this day
our collective wills stagnate, hang fire
pose as solidity of purpose
a scattering of sins forecasts our guilt
morality is our common aegis
enriched with peccadilloed curlicues
lifted together in polished phalanx
accepted as final proof of each worth

couldn’t a chariness break through those clouds
hanging to stifle with sense of closeness
a delimiting of common canopy
needn’t we force a personal freedom
in case we can break through the accepted norm
noting thought as peculiar totemed soul

 

 

 

 

the idea of marching in tandem
one step with another, seems to be more
persuasive after the part pattern plays
acting on reflection, becoming known movement
mannered and thus accepted by the mind
each motive force redounding with credit
living both apart and as part of assumed whole
artful as consciously designed faith in growing plan

charts can then be drawn upon, expanded
handed to another, reinforced in
an author’s eye, traced as shared destiny
no reasoned choice is involved to break
in this form nor should future perception
negate first rush of emotioned feeling

 

 

 

 

thick notice tends the other end of self
only sloth allows our mornings the full
promise of feeling possibilities
as slow remembrance brings back our full nights
music slow paced, paternal, directing
each wakening as moment, as a full
link in the crucial change from a normal
association with darkness to life

chance dreamed, realized in dense parts to hold
heavy on ourselves, a palpable force
asking attention and ultimate belief
nether feelings accepted as such
inbred fears dissociate and thus known
needs separable finally in time

 

 

 

 

thursday evening brings the hint of change
of surcease from the drumfire of pressures–
partly from the cultural weekend rest
and partly the choice to step aside
marking a certain time as pertinent
eventually, and repeating that
link to expected gain of insight, life
and even love accentuates why

choices are always made in patterns
hearing soft echoes of remembered thought
acting out of previous unfelt linkage
neither the unknown beginning of what
inside we haven’t learned yet clear to see
nor the past we’ve left should stop our changing

 

 

 

 

the siren song of easement when i drink
our call to owning up to laziness
as i age into a senescent gloom
don’t you always bring me back to think

every time i bring the brimming cup to lip
letting loose the slippery sense to be
each laughing fit squeezes you out of me
such pouring as one should always hope to see

and let’s stay on this course we’ve set upon
now that old age and wisdom shares the way
don’t leave me now that i’ve discerned that play
exists in all we do, all that adds to me
reaches deep to springs of all the bouncy beds
sitting under my dreaming bliss of morn

murphy a guinness in his prime

 

 

 

 

when i was very young i walked the path of autumn
now that i am old i seek the rains of spring
the very heights i reach serve anew as bottom
contain all my shyness in the forwardness i bring

the river of my dreams wells its way up hill
the ships i sail upon dive into the deep
the troughs between the waves too broad for me to fill
and when i’m most aroused i lay me down to sleep

it’s always been that way the sense i have of life
no matter what i want the opposite arrives
comes sidling in the scene without a welcome cue

i have almost given up, i almost tell my wife
it’s just too much to take, the dullness of my knives
the edges of their blades unsharpened even new

murphy left footed and right handed

 

 

 

 

outside my windows it rains with a steady pace
in this cool sweet, wet sweet, blossomy summer

inside my rooms the steady hum of thought
tossed carefully out there to meet with water’s grace

i seed my dreams thus free to be in time
to start their life without me as further source

thought dream caught unfolding in elegance of rhyme
a cat’s purr insistent, soft in inward ear

they burn in me as always in dreaming time and space
where best chance is seized upon with dancing hand

to let a thin wood shaving communicate my mind
my sense of feral nature, chaos sowing grace

murphy abundant with rapture

 

 

 

 

a sputtering sun lifts hints of leaves
but grey and cloud, and concrete
that lately rain can’t shine, nor wash
this dirt, this trash, this pavement

i limp today, my legs grow old
and slips are part of walking
when step we eye is past our frame
when thoughts are not for talking

but kept within to ponder long
while slowly getting somewhere
that’s dry and warm

and here i am in urban shade
of indoor light and plumbing

you want it cold, the ice is here —
or hot, the gas is glowing
and for the noise a cocktail tune
soft strings and horns of honey

i limp today to find my place
among the privileged sharers
the glasses filled, the plates heaped high
no thought of past or morrow
i ache within in sorrow

murphy waiting patient in his place

 

 

 

 

a sharp shattering sleet on my face
this winter is snow, mist, and storm
i see through the window’s clear grace
how safe is inside, and how warm

the world gives me time now to see
to sit through the days quite alone
my children are snowflakes and free
and i hate to call on the phone

this winter has been here before
and sunshine will come back again
i see through my mind’s inner eye
both what is, and what might have been

my future is pale though, and thin
while memory is firm now, and sure
this day when i look close within
inside where it’s warm and secure

murphy going nowhere, fast as can be

 

 

 

 

the timbre of his times marks the poet
delimits the deafness in his ear
or hers, or theirs, the lonely readers
who faddish flock; comprehending, hear
particularity in the voice of the singer
signifying a shirting of his soul
or hers, or theirs, the lowly hummers
who fearful wrap with burlap whole

the style we each assume creeps early
slithers hard, habit’s hips wrapped round
tucked and gathered in life’s movement
the arch of leg and arm’s sky stretch
show what was there the first time through
the acid etching permanence of view

 

 

 

 

the winds have died down, the breezes calmed
our parting reluctant as the funeral dirge
that girds against the chill of earth
tamped careful now in its mound to settle
the road back monotonous and smooth
though lumped with traffic and others’ ways
a hum of tedium beginning to soothe
the slow return to tomorrow’s frays

how not to show how much one cares
this paltering man one has turned into
shown vivid now in the driver’s seat
how to chivy the world and prove one’s mettle
to be the father and assume more manly airs
how yet to march with a confident beat

 

 

 

 

your lips taste red in immediacy
i sip last wine and, lost, remember how
to come back down to this earthly place
the one i have with its mottled sky
starting fresh i nod to inner drum
its heart beat slows, becomes regular
i have no peace within my lonely room
except for time in your warmth of face

i see your eyes when i touch your toes
i taste your skin when i rub my nose
i hear hair brushed while i don my clothes
you’re gone again and i know you more
than i ever will, so strong it seems
your presence here is eternal springs

 

 

 

 

tears wind their way down these weather-worn cheeks
offered unbidden as i walk the dog
deep into the central park sense of fog
elements out of place between brick peaks
beaten down earth now has no growth, no green
objective to send its gendered essence
rising above the crumbly loam in dense
aspiration for approval in being

how times have changed. i much prefer back when
morning presaged that life would be fulfilled
out of bright cerulean cloudless sky
remember those days when might have been
sundered reality, reconciled
eventual death, almost made one cry

 

 

 

 

youth starts to fade as one thinks about it
escaping from each of us while still prized
as a natural resource, utilized
rashly in a seemingly endless chit
the realization of its end takes
honest appraisal and an acceptance
rarely evinced, yet full of poignance
evoked while in one’s prime; and the heart aches

elderly feelings have their place for the young
they force the growth needed for mature thoughts
heading, as it were, forward to that place
respected by all: a wise seeing sung
expertly by one who balances taut
epitomes of youthful strength and aged grace

 

 

 

 

forms become elegant in their uses
our presentments follow our felt secrets
rising to do bidding as we allow
meeting needs silent in slow radiance
showing inner structure lines that softness
lying at surface of fluent shifting
ensures sharing sole sense of what we’ve been
tells stories as shadings become ourselves

today has lost its freshness but gained surety
in small editions of realized loves
nothing can replace that already lost
gaining comes from giving sense to might be
going by letting past be understood
opening by admitting perplexing now

 

 

 

 

some things become buried in detritus
of living too deep for germination
moiling in subterranean closets
elastic fading in a vain snapping
they suffer neglect of purpose: beings
held from rooting, fate hard shelled kernels
in murky hovels, forged gemlike hardnesses
never permitted consideration
growth and change forever denied
such adamantine protectedness

but sometimes when outward skeleton creaks
etching one’s age and loss of another start
careful sifting of that infertile loam
offers small reflections of what we were
memorable in their compacted facets
easing life’s logic of one way passage

 

 

 

 

half the story of beauty is the hands
attempting what the mind sees, and feels needs
reconstructing in solidified deeds
of time, caught in its own shifting of sand
less is formed than we imagined was there
doubtless for the obstinate nature of stuff
coming to hand as we sit in our rough
hoping for telling what we would lay bare
as we attempt to show what we should think
lurks within ourselves, we always find in
exacting what we wished to draw forth, whole
form, the completion as a smoothing link
forging what we wanted with what has been
the medium we work with, and our soul
our falling short shows most the strengths of the
surrounding solidness of what is there
how can we presume to achieve a rare
alignment of what is and what is free
perhaps we shouldn’t even try that which
eventually can never be done
the effort seems not to be worth the friction
hardly glimpsed between mind’s rhythm and pitch
either we take what we have and feel right
when we allude to what we feel might be
or build monuments to our frustrations
remember, as you start creation’s flight
lightness and clarity are figments we
demand for our incomplete reactions

 

 

 

 

half hidden the form comes to idle mind
as musing reverie muscles my will
running my wishes to that which i feel
obliging a respect of humankind
lithe shapes return, torment my waking dreams
deadwood twists the scene walking on the beach
charwomen reflect their polishing reach
harmony is achieved in solid terms
a small sculpture can be much more than stone
lying in my hand, and turned round to see
effects of light and weight, as work of art
firmness of image can never be shown
for what it is; the remembrance to be
takes time to burrow down next to the heart
otherwise why wait to say what i felt
standing in the room reacting, my words
happen now to describe the sense of absurd
as i came close to flame to someday melt.
perhaps that’s what it is, a future heat
encysted on special optical nerves
that retain those unforgettable curves
held somewhere behind eyes, and thus complete
else how explain their strength of return
why else would they seem so much purer now
old traces, old glance, old remembered grace
reach back to that, sculptor, and make it burn
light my hoped-for past, and somehow allow
dark thoughts of my world to take proper shape

 

 

 

 

hardness of image comes first from the stone
as we shape its mass by diminution
releasing the fused strength of eon’s sleep
ordering our eyes to compelling form
lustre of surface comes from within as
deep rubbed horniness of hand, the patient
chipping of calloused roughness, the chamois
half felt, half sweat of creator’s old dreams
ask michelangelo how he loved the
life lying under, which he always showed,
endlessly furbishing his time, his world
freeze your fluidities as he has done
fix form for all around you to be seen
thrust your sense of space into that source
or you can work in more pliable wood
sanding to finish a perishable
having the grain of life enhance, make its
appearance as counterpoint to soft
possibilities of rot and decay
ephemeral beauty has its place then
trying our acceptance of the loss of
heart which eventually takes us all
either course is right, of course, and both are
windows to beauty, allowing aspects
of our yearnings to hold the attention
rightly given the most human of wants
let your eyes see for us those yet hidden
dramas in all blocks of unshapened worlds

 

 

 

 

my pride roars not, like the lion’s kept tribe
bringing tribute to a lazy master
demanding through slow insolence portion
befitting unnecessary provider

it stands prouder still, as a quiet drive
lean hunter gathering gifts the faster
to forget the getting for, the notion
of praise subsumed in joyous non-ending
life, that is a vision of simple sort
for such as i, self effacing trueness
of purpose, resonance as melody

the song not of forced singularity
but of irrepressible rhythmic pattern
to engage all but the most tainted taste

 

 

 

 

unformed letters have an urgency felt
by the sender as need to be well read.
when younger i wished to talk to betters
in years, and i thought in their perceptions
the words never came, and tongue tied i tried
to force my message by overt strutting
of physical presence and not facile
curlicues of learned expressiveness.

i know now the futility of this
normal reaction to a child’s frustration
the abnegation of that thing strived for
i now am teacher of exactly what
i was before in years, in perceptions
and blocked still by apprehension of words

 

 

 

 

the drums of death beat slowly in my mind
one measured step comes hard upon another
lesser men seem content with all this bother
yet you and i tremble before that wind
not enough say our fibers as they pulse
not enough to react with each our tears
etch your skin with corrosive scalding cares
cascading from flown canisters accursed

hammer the nails grown long in pampered ease
attack the spittle of our leader’s lisp
let yourself see the red promised in your eyes
efface the proffered posters mouthing peace
fold not your flaps to dive and flesh encrisp
fly fresh against that wind and die, and die

 

 

 

 

time was when i baked in texas sun
thought nothing of the color of my skin
the endless afternoons of walking creeks
the morning shivers of cold linoleum floor
life was honing craft to grow and win
a life in a place of thoughtful men

but now i know the fruitless trees i climb
in air conditioned hum while clicking keys
the treasured slivered view of water’s course
the slant of sun’s late afternoon
the idle wait for evening news to come
reminding that i’m anesthetized and numb

this is the center of my remaining days
the sip of wine, the thirsty gulp of beer
the only place that is mine alone at last
the sustaining gift of knowing i’m still here
though slowing in my eager rush to know
sufficient now in mind’s soft inner glow

murphy counting his blessings

 

 

 

 

i sit in my chair and rummage through stray thoughts
important mainly because of people in the conversation
strange how the setting invigorates the idea
conjoins emotion to the bare bones of words

two days ago i shared pints of guinness
my poet friend told of his quandary
searching for surety of path
through okeefeenokees of swamp
between ease and tough glory
through clumped thickets of gorse
to read true the entrails of tomorrow

yesterday my son machine gunned his thinking
spraying the bar with steel jacketed rounds
daring the crowd to join in his rancor
to tear down the walls of privilege
to fill in the fetid moats of denial
to let all the young hear the truth

this morning my daughter told of her fears
tossed the baby skyward to change her bottom
stooped to clean the mess off the floor
casually fluffed the babe’s hair grown longer
and smiled into the camera aimed at my heart

murphy replete in his dotage

 

 

 

 

creamy turmoil slides slowly to settle
i fiddle around waiting for the taste
but first a pad to sop what’s foamed over
the full pint presented, dark and delicious

the polished stone cool in its veined glory
soft chatter of sots a murmuring din
the third and fourth are smoothness embodied
charlene the maid stands steady at hand

why do i come here to this haven of brogue
to prattle my nonsense and think of the world
why is this basement the paragon of pubs
luring the thirsty with its kindness of pints

charlene the maid graceful with another
and i understand place as the warmth in her grin

murphy ginning up the words as is his practice

 

 

 

 

i hear a crickle in the fluorescent lights
and a humming whirr that stirs the air
a stern old clock ticks time away
there is no window to this modern cave

i push the paper from around my mouse
and squint to see computer screen
my wrist winces as i pound the keys
to make memory of my fresh made thoughts

i pause to hear my own breath pulse
i touch my chin and stubble reminds
how i keep changing despite this place
its sterile square portentous space

i pinch my nose and stroke my hair
take off my shoes and wiggle toes
i try to imagine a grassy field
the sun and water, some other where

murphy achieving lotus position in free-fall orbit

 

 

 

 

you have to aberrate yourself to find something
that clasps its hands to your deep well soul
you have to find your vertigo which works

you have to make your mind a car that’s lost its grip
become slippery sliding ice of ass
that’s whipping round up leftwards
as fast as front is fast
faster still til tumble
disturbs twoness of the ship

and what then happens, happens
a clarity that’s past
behind to where there’s nothing
and death the only pass

you have to aberrate yourself to find your thing
make feelings fly as fingers of the heart
will touch a face relaxed at last in grip
on how the earth is moving and what a glorious trip

murphy on a rainy windy night

 

 

 

 

figure what you figure out
it’s never what it seems
someone’s always asking
someone always screams

january, february, fourth of july
first you are born and then you go die
why oh why is the fourth of july
on the fourth of july

dig right down and dig it out
it’s never half as big
someone’s always screaming
someone’s always pig

thistleberry, that’ll tell you, whistle ‘til you’re dry
first you are born and then you go die
why oh why whistle ‘til you’re dry
on the fourth of july

think a bit, then think some more
it’s never quite so grand
someone’s always scheming
something’s always planned

count your toes, count your nose, count until you die
first you are born and then you go die
why oh why count until you die
on the fourth of july

murphy typing on his baby typewriter

 

 

 

 

the rain soaks down its sullen way
there across, a fluffed rock dove preens
keeping dry as i myself

and all outside is rain come sullen down
along the city streets of walls
those crater-surface flats of niche
for dove to sit at home

and all inside is grey, the sullen grey
of winter’s touch; i form
a mind of deftly woven wool
in home of cluttered mess
that’s i alone

dry not wet
this self alone

i hold november day

 

 

 

 

the spring comes slowly some soft sodden years
our long kept coldness trickles under sun
shining above somewhere (but here there’s none)
ending our solid station, oozing tears

next will come the plopping green of a shoot
out of the sullen ground, left too long alone
risking its tenderness as the wind blown
ides of march pass; it will begin, take root

that’s what isn’t seen as the cold rain falls
acquisitive tendrils explore
madness of subterranean tunnels

enhancing tendency in grasping sprawls
sending essence to meet that golden hour
as hoped for sun brings life to our runnels

 

 

 

 

justifiable pride in one’s bearing
as meaning, is quite often another
notion, misunderstood; and will bother
even the confidante of what we’re wearing

more times than not the way in which i feel
fails in translation, the height of my lips
underwrites my utterings– those hot tips
resound with unwanted force and appeal

though attention to detail would seem to
hone one’s appreciating what’s behind
summery facade of ginghamed good health

oh, that it would. Oh that the depths below
depths assumed the righteous form we’ve outlined
ever more singularly as truth and wealth

 

 

 

 

my time will come to someday and will stop
yet now impinges on resolution
turns attention to slackened existence
ignores pattern for mystic scenic drop
meandering past benign assumptions
established as too ready presence

when life becomes a decisive proving
it’s almost always a non-knowing spark
lighting irreversible path to dark
laughter at the sheer impulse of moving

cheers become an automatic response
outdistancing performance as the true
moment’s measure, inverting sense of new
ending inexplicability of nonce

 

 

 

 

time’s sporadic successes tire one out
options sap what little reserve is saved
looking closely at consequential braved
years adds gnarls and whorls to limbs now grown stout

neat denouements have always been denied
night people; their maunderings are never
ended; rumpled sheets are seldom clever

clean wins are morning paper sports applied
heedlessly to coffeed haggles tonight

and i remember– when anew i greeted cold
light of freshness, when certainty i felt
echoed those long nights before, when the tight
force became overwhelming, when the bold
force of youth tasted its triumphant guilt

 

 

 

 

tired from the constant effort to renew
old fires as ashes grow deep in the pot
little men go out and leave some cold, few
youthful bits of charcoal as what they got

nothing should be left as we fight for those
needs we perceive, else the very holding back
ends natural rhythm and will foreclose
coveted chance joys won in sneak attack

how else deceive the flow of body’s sag
as gravity grabs and eventually wins
life, and pulls our very hearts to the ground

even as we blithely try to play tag
for the joke is on the ones who count sins
forgetting that flesh is bought pound by pound

 

 

 

 

i sit with a magic pen, capture thoughts
sensed as completeness; loose them in telling
i sit with a magic hand, weaving doubts
tossing chances into air; catch them, flailing

words form in felt order of their hearing
i sit with a magic tongue trilling songs
that sing of rhythmic secret stirrings
held focused as my message for the young

a magic for me is lacking in free
magic when its endings sense is coming
a magic for me survives in growing

ghosts haunt the mind’s gnarled darkening tree
i sit midst magic objects, midst mumbling
crowded images born now in showing

 

 

 

 

foolish girls wish poesy for themselves
openly courting as muse words we say
richly proffering limbs and love their way
larding their presence, putting books on shelves

years will pass and our thoughts become more free
needing inspiration we will call our own
needing clear cut ways to carve our song
cleanly and boldly on that loving tree.

has the lack of your initials been felt
as snub from this sharp occasional pen
literally weaving immortality

everything shouldn’t be so boldly spelt
for all to see, let’s save what might have been
for dry future academicity.

 

 

 

 

the heat is pregnant, its music sultry
this oppressive summer goes on and on
the leaden clouds invert a grey cool stratosphere
and shade the plains of this my world

i wonder if some other life might have been mine
if i had turned left instead of right that time
so long ago when the personhood that changed me
rose up in its verisimilitude

my children then would not be now
my wrist not have its well known ache
my head would be untrammeled then
and my passage here have calm its wake

i wonder if this hard edged life
that’s right and all that’s left to me
the little time that i have left
could raise in me an attitude

 

 

 

 

crazy running street of dark shadows
aching breath the fear of failing true
this aching soul turns back to meet its end
hits out at closing scuttling men

every path now focused on this winning
fresh comes the mortal smell of rue
imprint for all the timing of this message
negate the all while now still comes so new

each unknown rushing path alike a lone one
picked sense of home instinct of forward goal
in rage of falling short the final motion

negate for now the all encompassed darkling
opt for the limning light of shadow
meet once for all the keening of your soul

 

 

 

 

recognition of one’s peculiar place
in the whole jumbled human scheme of things
changes the contours of cherished ego’s face
halts the puffedness self-vanity brings

as this site becomes more fixed in the mind
revamping direction of forward thrust
doubts present themselves as some sort of kind
benevolent friends, and as such, discussed

until that certitude of position
loosened the quivering gut wrenching thoughts
lying beneath my social condition
i, for one, was unsure within my redoubt
expect ease and contentment only when
the ndividual adjusts to his own den

 

 

 

 

attention now is the past remembered
intrusive in the perfection of its song
ringing mind’s thickest bell of thought

attention then is happenstance recalled
incisive in its pulling up the file
from deep within the chaos of the pile

attention new is the wish for what may be
corrosive as life’s etching of the skin
on what is now the when of all that’s been

murphy packed and ready to go

 

 

 

 

each time we begin anew as a dream
loving before we have the consciousness
asking ourselves too soon about the hurt
in part acting out of those fantasies

needs reflected in their overt telling
echoes unwanted as we listen hard
chanting that which we most have told thus heard
heeding not the past we have all subsumed

our startled awareness brings back freshness
yesterday tastes tart as though new grown now
some semblance of order cannot be borne

our cultured astuteness standing tall proud
defending the depths we shall soon attain
eliding fulsome recompense we share

 

 

 

 

each time we begin anew as a dream
our tentative movements awkward, unformed
meant to carry us forward to some
misunderstood bliss, hoped for perfection

there is acknowledgement of that full past
accentuating aspects of feeling now
acceptance of the relevance of time
an easement of the soul in ever changing sea

the attraction is indisputable
forcing us to face prematurely that
possessive drive for the ultimate one

we should be wary of the birth of hope
which leads too simply to a form of life
loving before we have the consciousness

 

 

 

 

loving before we have the consciousness
of that love, before we’ve even begun
the complex modulations required for
expressing what intuition still gives
leads again to possibilities fraught
with uncertainty. we leap forward fresh
not knowing where the soft land lies, richly
nurturing growth despite seeds’ random fall
the fear of cold, a weather change,
denies proper joy in the purblind rightness
in bravely reaching for the returning sun

the realities of seasons intrude
as we use learned logical life models
asking ourselves too soon about the hurt

 

 

 

 

asking ourselves too soon about the hurt
we assume must come whenever people
conjoin in as couples to explore selves
together and alone, will assuredly
bring that hurt as inevitable, lock
patterns of future dance to already
learned foibles, prevent the very health
needed if we will somehow muddle through
successfully achieving a settled
existence which supports and nurtures

our awarenesses permit a flowering
which can only be appreciated
in freedom from fear, in presence of hope,
in part acting out of those fantasies.

 

 

 

 

in part acting out of those fantasies
we so deeply crave we cannot show them whole
our usual diffidence departs, weaving
jagged edge where seamlessness should be

where the process promoting acceptance
of open search begins to feel as if
it fits into where our march has always
been headed had we but paid attention

had we but taken the time to slowly
set the scenes bit by bit, the landscape
whole so felt in the shaping that
wills would became ways of relating in homey
comfort the full depth of those untoward
needs reflected in their overt telling

 

 

 

 

needs reflected in their overt telling
we strut and prance with practical abandon
highlighting what we think we wish to be done
those edges don’t cut through to the quick
sense of impending change, they rather mask
true modes of excitement, true indices
of feeling with conventionability
the already learned responses for show.

gain comes when real problems are discussed
heard by all parties, perhaps misunderstood
but dealt with with faith in up front dealing

listening to the other response than
that which was expected or even wished
echoes unwanted as we listen hard

 

 

 

 

echoes unwanted as we listen hard
replace expected harmonies and clash
with time out of sorts, the biorhythm
unsensed and counterproductive to thought

the thrust of expression being but first
drafts of ferment, the compassion needed
to halt process in situ to await
reflection, and thus losing purity

the interval permitting rehearing
inhibits smooth flow of ordered discourse
syncopates heart beat to frenetic peals

the attempted fixation of new patterns fails
to deal with old problems, as we are always
chanting that which we most have told thus heard

 

 

 

 

chanting that which we most have told thus heard
we reproduce our idiocies pell-mell
outlining in gross aspect our worst felt
inadequacies, thus giving them life

it’s the background noise which upbraids
our senses, forcing them perforce to heed
formal morality, to be the same
as all we’ve been told before, ever done

the tricks of memory pin us to all
that’s gone before as we have social pressures
presume agreement to all we have told
each other of the ultimate worth
yet it’s only surface trick which fixes flux
heeding not the past we have all subsumed

 

 

 

 

heeding not the past we have all subsumed
we march proudly forward to similar
fates– compromise with composure with luck
downward spiral of suppression if not

we do not pay attention to simple
truths learned repetitively by us all
youth is impatient, old age is hurtful
the middle passage seems to seek the mean

until a happenstance brings it all back
the spilled black paint on patterned hand wrought rug
the crystalline moment of new born sun

muted awareness comes from human wear
which underlines how use forces design
our startled awareness brings back freshness

 

 

 

 

our startled awareness brings back freshness
we push past usual solicitude
leaving behind our accomplishments when
we with great effort confront our senses

the adumbration of the fervors
raises hackles, if not brings on fevers
raging through the body of the body
left behind in forgotten memories

i talk to several bodies of part
whenever I seek to expand the rule
of thumb opposing sensitive fingers

as boldness will establish true touch
my rude steadfastness brings me back once more
yesterday tastes tart as though new grown now

 

 

 

 

yesterday tastes tart as though new grown now
the tangle of youth tautens in visits
an effort at recapture can caption
wildest scene with an understood tang

a cyclical view of mankind is old
and subtle in its permissive bias
allowing for hope born in the despair
attendant on all attempts at progress
i went again to work today to find
solace of sorts in good deeds, those selfish
manifestations of cruel morals

the crush which awaits the child we once were
falls full force in storm of encirclement.
some semblance of order cannot be borne

 

 

 

 

some semblance of order cannot be borne
within the mind when time should disappear
when cause ceases affecting actions
when events take solidity from themselves

not from linkage have we learned to presume
nor from artificial codes of behavior
do we progress in our confrontation
with divinity to oneness we share

beneath it all, below our discerning
hearts, behind our masks, between lines on show
begins the awareness of rectitude
the forwardness of the manners we live
the changing role age assumes in aging
our cultured astuteness standing tall, proud

 

 

 

 

our cultured astuteness standing tall, proud
finally allows the outline its grace
its redundant themes to intermesh
in spiraled pointedness, in recurrent modes

ultimately to a piercing sameness
a brotherhood of shared humanity
we allude to this more often as we
look again and yet again at pattern

nature has decreed our movement from salt
seas to sugared thoughtful ease, from struggled
survival to intense concern with how

we struggle to maintain the quality of our selves
the ones we juxtapose to probe our feelings
defending the depths we shall soon attain

 

 

 

 

defending the depths we shall soon attain
we often neglect the growth required
to sustain the attempt, to decide on
plumbing to deepest fathom; and we forget

how seldom does choice allow pleasure
its fullness; how sad that delimiting
existence permits survival while stab
at totality beguiles sanity

instinctively we grasp this double bind
life entails, we look deliberately
away from consequence inherent

in the absurd, we help ourselves delude
each other in manner of love’s telling
eliding fulsome recompense we share

 

 

 

 

eliding fulsome recompense we share
we plow onward to reach our beginning
the completely nurtured warmth of sharing
life’s bloody basics, the throes of each birth

the inescapable pain of each death
the lone struggle for individual
understanding of recurrent process
as payment for intense moments of bliss

we step back at times in a ritual
attempt at evocation of cycles
we focus our entangling logical
development; we add density in
colors of irrational feeling drives
each time we begin anew as a dream

 

 

 

 

an eremite i have become
a cave dweller who waddles the climate

a stalagmite of ground emergent
a loneliness of process done

a safety, a protected sleeping
a quietude inside, a focus

a sparkling of atoms within the night
an evenness of inner sight

murphy signing his name and keeping the evidence

 

 

 

 

we wrestle with the lessons of our time
roustabout texan to gentleman scholar
one’s background tells

we settle for a vision when we learn
timid schoolboy to wry savant
one’s highlights blind

we nestle for a common sense of warmth
teenagers horny to wrinkled old guys
one’s hunger lasts

we fasten on an image in the mirror
dowagers flash to fashion mamas
one’s ego sings

murphy feeling particular

 

 

 

 

the echoes of last year ache in closeness
of image, the sun and table seem sane
poised in the mind to underline gain
accepted slowly in my verboseness
made somehow to be much more than what is
etched so trenchantly in expectation
life itself assumes such subtle direction
as to make mockery of other bliss

crayons can scrawl as well on borrowed sheets
have indelible patterned thought subsume
a blank future, and wielder of these thoughts
needles the senses to produce small feats
intended to furnish a spacious room
next to the heart that’s saved, tight and taut

 

 

 

 

i stand fast in this cold, this night
the recent warmth of wine returns to me
i’m fleshed and more through fresh propinquity
you’ve turned around and now you’re gone from sight

my kith and kin are falling, as will i
and you who taught me fresh to want anew
will stoop to know the bitter root i chew
when your time comes to bring the others’ sigh

i stand alone and watch the ones who watch
and talk to us of how we sparkling show
our youth as feelings written smiling loud

white billows, love is frosty, breathy cloud
joy’s warmth holds tight– tight, yet leaking slow
i turn and see my days, another notch

murphy newly aware of how precious taste can be

 

 

 

 

fog, white, fills lungs with ice
hisses lack of clarity
an inward breath breaks free
in explosive choking gasp

the winter storm outside
sleets long this night, and stays
this lonely house
lets sleep its holidays

this room still flickers neat
in sparkling light, these eyes
twinkle wet in inward gaze
a wispy candle stills its lisp

i sing to touch within
the soreness of this chest
alone again in its gangly cage
throbbing alone its human quest

the times pass their due
speak full in silence now
the darkness rasps glass pane
of unsleeping frosted brow

murphy freshened in his feelings

 

 

 

 

the summer seems indian in its soft intent
this afternoon seethes with its balmy breeze
not long from now will start the cold
the coming stillness of last desperate sun

i wonder why the ending starts so soon
what is the way that one ends one’s song
when water growth of heat and tongue
will lick the skillet that sautés bones

that tries out the blubber beneath whale skin
that renders the oil that’s fine in film
that rubs so slick and soft it’s sin
to ever think of killing men

so be forever this lovely day
that presages death to come my way
the best of this, the last of that
silver cup reflecting hairs of gray

murphy tongue tied in his quandary

 

 

 

 

the clouds tonight are clumped enough
to shine back from the city lights
thick in their number and rival to the dark
but loosely arranged to let emptiness through

black depths to plunge into, without sparkle
the points snuffed out by glowing patch
the tintinnabulation of the eye
blurred by a reflective sky

i sit, fresh paused, and hear the cars
they leave behind a silence
that’s deep and proud in profound ways
my music enters singing

it moves across my soundscape slow
as cars will when they’re creeping
steady slow to catch the light
fresh, right when it is changing

the change from dark to glowing light
as from the silence laughter
is what you bring and leave behind
a memory ever after

murphy murphy murphy

 

 

 

 

the winds die down, the breezes calm
our parting reluctant as a funeral ring
that girds against the chill of earth
tamped careful to its settling mound

road back, monotonous, smooth
lumped with traffic and other’s ways
tedium hum beginning to soothe
slow return to tomorrow’s frays

how not to show how much one cares
the paltering man one is to become
shown vivid now in companion’s seat

how yet to march with confident beat
chivy the world to show fine comb
as fathers will assuming their airs

murphy on his way back from the graveyard

 

 

 

 

dark morning sky is thick with cloud
stretched tight to cover me
forward gaze, unblinking, proud
unknotting ropes of duty now

sun, though up, is yet unseen
light altered, slowed, diffused
as are my thoughts of ends these days
strong, awkward, and confused

so empty of a reasonable choice
is life when it is gone
and what is real is real
remembered firm as bone

i choose to know what i can know
and let transpire the what new now
til it becomes dumb mummer’s show
the quenching of my fire

murphy ribs mending, feet upon the desk

 

 

 

 

grey mist blue seam of edge
a blurring sense of doom
sharp air wet with clinging cold

i call out to the river
its slow, broad debouchement
call a pealing cry of need
room to breathe
without this dismal damping

i call for day to be
dry though bitter cold
to hold to course instinctive
in simple will to live

til spring and its new meaning
with purely skyward blue
an awkward azure blue

murphy hurting through the winter

 

 

 

 

i, too, enjoy the meal, the festivity of it all
in the afternoon in the tasty bistro of new york
the new bar maid being instructed at her post
we’re ushered into a coveted, padded booth

i, too, relish the talk, the camaraderie
sitting together in the p m in a crafty, boutique bar
the patient maitre d’ officious in his care
no assembled host to share his unctuous ways

i, too, luxuriate in warmth these too soon winter days
the thaw of flesh loosening tongues to chat
the fulsome feast exuding too much fat
idly chewed in recognition of its worth

i, too, can wrest the pith of ordinary day
nothing special in its dawn nor tick away
its pulse of blood insuring my continuance
as does my son sitting here with me

murphy still scribbling e’en as he dines

 

 

 

 

mist of morning swallows ship
grey white and wet its tasting

soft clam of doubt makes me blind
what i see envelops me

where lies the land where away
what solidity can i find

murphy at battle stations waiting in the dark

 

 

 

 

a baboon circling the meadows
i skulk about in trees
look down at all my kind
the ones i wish to join

young, ambitious, frustrated
the women all down there
with that stony old bastard tony
the one who tops them all

practice craft, work on strengths
prepare, erupt, sudden as steam
attack the brute
the one that must be beaten

i am ready as will ever be
all is inner pride
chivy heart, risk it all
take my place among the women

murphy whose ancestors came down from the hills in arkansas

 

 

 

 

all is nods and glance aside
no openness of approach
life but a fine tooth comb
red and scrofulous

it catches in small snarls
knots and inequities
then the thwock of dart
gone home to muse’s womb

murphy 47 years in the city of neon dreams

 

 

 

 

change is the way the world feels
its hands grasp at future’s shape
how small our own importance
how quickly comes our end

change is quick and slow
inevitable in its leaving

change is the way the world sings
its melody a fleeing tone
how slow our plodding after
how crumbly are our bones

change is small and large
disappears, on up, ahead

change is the way the world dances
its feet an intricacy
how clumsy our emulation
how awkward eccentricity

change is strong and weak
and water conquers all

change is the way the world hears
its ears directional and keen
how deaf we are behind us
how back to back we fear

change is mad and sane
and always always bending

murphy in love with jeremy lin

 

 

 

 

i’ll tell you what i know
i know to sniff for strangeness
i know to look for change
i know that this ain’t always

we share a shifting home
we share quite simply something
so wonderful so strange
it’s all we’ve ever wanted
except it’s partly pain

but joy and pain are balanced
and we each reach for our plane
our level of involvement
our after this then nothing
our last best time while sane

i’ll tell you what i know
i know to touch with feeling
i know how hitting hurts
i know chance affects a future

i know the sense of losing
i want to stay for more
this last best time of mine
when i get to play with strings
and galumph in the morning
and sing as johnny sings

 

 

 

 

i’m huddled in soft light of lone bulb
above shoulder and coned to my book
i read you know
i don’t just point
i don’t just click, and click real twice

i sit here thinking in my lambent place
it’s quiet tonight
for a change
the soft sirens of inner court
my only muse

i sit here now
and watch my toenails
curl red at dawn

murphy leavening his levantine

 

 

 

 

within my computer, solitaire
this game i play with myself
tells a memory told in number
a per thousandth if you will

if i play to win with back-takes
i sit on 400, tense, and proud
if i play it straight, in one shuffle
i sit in the 200’s, and fret

both ways work to reach us
selfish within our place, we sit
the joy of winning, battle
the pity whining when we fail

quiddity jibbety, then equanimity
a rare imbroglio, a fisticuff fight
harrity jarrity, all is hilarity
amusing faux pas or tryst in the night

numbers tell you something
something true about the world
the odds how things do happen
when the counting has begun

murphy staring into an early 30’s bogartian fog

 

 

 

 

swigging hard the lethe of torment
patient wait for pain to go
choose this time choose a liquid
fire to warm the bones to flow

time before was time of litheness
time is hard now sidewalk hammock
knees that bent now gone southward
wrist and fingers foot and stomach

this the sleep i choose for moment
this the choice i now will sip
yesterday sat talked with elders
today i lean lift slow to lip

where oh where is spring of childhood
when oh when will i leave the show

murphy taking his medicine willingly

 

 

 

 

time was when the fresh span of day sufficed
once dawn was sprung, growth was sure to come
carrying all the shining dreams along
hugging tight to secret heights of song

all i asked were willing ears to hold
reaching out to hear if what i said was true
listening with an awkward sense of dread
eager for the rush of secrets to unfold

sometimes though the air was stale with need
passing paltry effort at light mere candle flame
a feebleness overwhelmed by fearful dark

should i not remember how hard it always is
spading ground new tangled with striving roots
your many shoots green with the taste of spring

murphy sipping his guinness in his dotage, quite alone

 

 

 

 

roiling clouds bedaub with gray
in swirlish stain of passing
sit beneath this shuttered light
this friday everlasting

seek outside this cell of now
this hellish chain held tightly
full faced time in life’s embrace
this friday day of sorrow

slurp this night its veil of wetness
on this third, this fourth of same
the rat stink smell of dankness
flesh that ages clothes my bones

in liquid pooling sweat smell
the mind that will not settle
this ticking toll of heart beats
that lead only to tomorrow

murphy oddly rhythmic in his chant

 

 

 

 

sewing soft the frock of morning
mists do rise, infect with gray
making late the gleam of sunshine
and here i sit within the day

why the sun should really matter
stains my thought with pomp and glory
bedecks with tendrils twisting sideways
sifting out the paths of story

there is stillness to the pattern
that i’ve chosen for these moments
whisking brushes straighten hair line
sort ideas and welcome comments

now i’m ready for the meeting
now my spirit rises skyward
here i’ll sit until our meeting
pinning fast the fleeting byword

murphy the old collector of wayward thought

 

 

 

 

the pen i wield captures me
it delimits what i feel
to what the ink allows to be
inchoate things congealed

entirety cannot be seen
the mind assorts its parts
allows within a sliver thin
enough for partial charts

details fine escape the net
swirl back in roiling sea
beyond my reaching get
without my boundary

all i am springs from these five
taste and sight, and always smell
touch and sound, they’re all alive
and this inky streak as well

murphy whiling away the afternoon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

murphy lines

murphy signing his name and keeping the evidence
murphy feeling particular
murphy newly aware of how precious taste can be
murphy freshened in his feelings
murphy tongue tied in his quandary
murphy murphy murphy
murphy on his way back from the graveyard
murphy ribs mending, feet upon the desk
murphy hurting through the winter
murphy still scribbling e’en as he dines
murphy at battle stations waiting in the dark
murphy whose ancestors came down from the hills in arkansas
murphy 47 years in the city of neon dreams
murphy in love with jeremy lin
murphy leavening his levantine
murphy staring into an early 30’s bogartian fog
murphy taking his medicine willingly
murphy sipping his guinness in his dotage, quite alone
murphy oddly rhythmic in his chant
murphy the old collector of wayward thought
murphy whiling away the afternoon