Lumber Paralysis

"The opposite of love is not hate, it's  indifference." Elie Wiese



feigning oblivion
to sprawled
lifeless lumber,
fallen,  felled

Our limbs loft
rigidly erect
proud,  aloof,
upstanding

we gaze skyward,
haughtily avoid
awkward  vista of
wretch stretched

uncouthly oozing
sap solution
over  our exclusive
deep-pile carpet

If anyone
asks...

we  heard

Nothing.

( If a tree fell in the forest and everyone pretended not to notice, would it make a sound? Are bears catholic? Does the pope shit in the woods? )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Queen of Ghosts

Triumvirate Deity, exalted by Zeus,
Hekate Queen of Ghosts am I,
Goddess of moonlight and magick,
Protectress of the wilderness

In Phrygia and Lagina
devout acolytes pay homage yet;
the lost and the swollen pray
for safe deliverance; safe delivery

Favouring ever my faithful,
sorcerers and necromancers
beseech favour: howling hounds
herald my intercessions

Wary traveller lost, receives
Divine guidance at crossed road,
Titan torch throws illumination
to light the righteous path

Queen of the Night, traversing
that precipice betwixt the worlds;
nourished by obeisant offerings
lost souls I steer to Hades' haven

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Man, you been a naughty boy....

encouragingly
tho fragile
I have
not yet
cracked...


despite
scrambling clear
of a dozen
sizzling
attempts
including
some near-miss
crack squad
shell attacks

out of the firing line
into the (friendly) fire
bubbling in hot water,
hard-boiled

sitting ducks lay, while
the chicken's safe in it's coop

but

this will not
be over easy

Mister Bush

I am the egg man
There's a one-legged man
You have the war lust

goo goo g'joob...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Egg" 

pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com 

I'll have you to remember...

Through the heavy clouds of grief
The melodies still find their way
The voice ageless, sweet, comforting
The songs, old, familiar friends
Lifting heavy hearts in the long days
Lulling loved ones to weary sleep at night


The glittering trophies reflect the joy
In the hearts of all who heard her sing
And the deep pride of her loving family
Her rock of support for each performance
Marked with hushed respect while she enthralled
And rapturous applause when song was ended


'Sunrise, Sunset', 'Sweet Sixteen',
'When I grow too old to dream'
'Yidisha Mama', 'Summertime', 'Croce Di Oro'
Old songs, classic songs, sung by many
But imbued with her innocence of youth
And wisdom of age, assumed a new and vibrant life


Her family was her world, and now her legacy
Fine people, kind-hearted and compassionate
Filled with her spirit, strength and courage
Her music, the expression of her love for them
Truth rang timeless in every breath of her singing
It's echoes resound as long as there are memories

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For Nan Cullimore (my late mother-in-law), her spirit and her voice live on.

Minstrel (Than Bauk Climbing Rhyme)

  
fingers pluck strings
soft he sings of
the things to come

bass notes hum low
with drumming sound
his queen crowned by

profound love rhyme
in waltz-time with
sublime soft voice

that his choice may
rejoice, her knight
croons of night tryst

by light of moon
they will soon be
in tune, as one.

This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Climbing Rhyme", and won the Gold Trophy 

City Lights Fade

Inert gases
tout tawdry
titillations

Illuminate
paved paths
to hellish
haunts

Bad intentions
in sin soaked
stagnant pond

Lurid
invitations
dazzle -
guzzle,
gamble
drink,
debauch...

illicit felicity,
fun and frolic
unfurled in
neon netherworld

~~~

Disenchanted
denizen
forges Ford
forward
- final glance
at pallid promises -
- Gomorrah still
glows gaudy

Firefly flits,
points pathway
to reality,
to civilized
enlightenment

In rear-view
mirror
Babylon
burnishes
fainter,
ever
fainter

Along with
it's
delusive
dreams

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Errant Panther's Race - Round 3"

The Iceman Cometh

Pressing onward
through unbreathable
crystallized air
- feeling in
most limbs
long disappeared

Lower digits
blackened, inside
thick snowboots
- gangrenous concerns
pushed to back
of numbed
consciousness

Team-spirit
the driving force
- the team
unfortunately
reduced by one -
interred in icy grave
with scant
frost-hurried
ceremony

Ultimate destination
still several
hundred miles away
but driven, like this
frozen, solid air,
forced by Arctic winds
into reluctant,
pneumonic lungs,
they trudge
northward


Thoughts of home
- wives, children,
parents, friends -
pushed to backs of
tired, demented minds
focused on the quest
to forge claim to
a barren wilderness
- for a country
and a world
who could not care less..


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Moraine and Poganip", and won the Gold Trophy for first prize www.pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com

Face Down

fondly imagining
it gave him
an attitude;
a mark of maturity
placing him
apart from
those kids
he'd outgrown;
he stroked it
meditatively,
imagined how
the girls
would be impressed
at it's splendour.

lost in
lascivious thought,
oblivious to
the knob
turning
on the
bathroom door

started at
his brother's
sardonic voice -
"what's with
the bum-fluff
... dork?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Face Down"

pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com

Samael ( One foot in the Grave )

There is an angel balanced on my toe
my leg is taut and aches so much.
But I cannot ask her just
to go. I do wish she might
be just a little bolder -
after all it's not such
a long distance flight to reach
my shoulder.

Beside my ear, such a handy spot
to make the purpose of her visit
clear. And it's pretty much where
you'd expect her to perch
if only to be circumspect.
She'd also be a lot less prone to
topple if one suddenly were
to lurch .

As well one might.
It's not that it is such a
very common sight - an Angel
perched on one's lower digit.
Giving rise to this strange and sudden
urge to fidget. Oh, at last, she's moving,
now perhaps I can ask about my
present, and my past .. and what's ahead

Oh God...

I'm dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Angel Balanced on my Toe" 

 

 pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com

Cimmerian Night

In endless shadow
between the Caucasus
and the Black Sea
are we, Brem and Bolg
Gimirri, royalty.

Conquerors of Lydia,
of mighty Phrygia
and it's Golden King,
we ride tirelessly
under obsidian sky

Our ebon steeds from
Hades fires freed
with raven feathers plumed.
No need have we
for Helios' ray

In doleful day
and pitchblack night
we wage our wars
and rule, where onyx
masters gold.

Note: This was a contest entry in an AllPoetry contest, theme was "Cimmerian Night"

Covenant

God's beauty over timeless tabled mountain
Spectrum colours burst in bright magnificence
A stunning skyscape charged with prism splendour
But somewhere stirs a half-remembered promise...

A token of a Covenant, sign of a Deity
No more will Nature's aqueous power be deployed
for destruction, anguish, death and devastation -
where now this Contract, this Divine benign Treaty?

Was some expiry date in smallest print disguised?
In Illinois, New Orleans, South East Asia
forlorn faithful pore through dampened Bibles
For Heaven's indemnity of solemn promise broken

The moving finger writes...

( Containing a line from Theodore Roethke )

I have tried to write my life's story
dynamically, as it unfolds
from early childhood memories
Warm and cossetted, cold and scared
through aching adolescence
with hopes and dreams
First loves, lifelong friends
and shatterred illusions
then adult years, struggles and drudgery
joys of true love, new adventures
Unbounded miracles of fatherhood
with all of it's accompanying terrors

A work-in-progress, no rush to final chapter
I hope for many pages yet to flow
but "I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils"
No editorial control on these flowing lines
but pushed by unseen force to write this chronicle
with no eraser, no choice to reconstruct
events a Cosmic Author has prescribed
And as the graphite, piece by piece is broken
and the pencil pared to useless stub
I know the inevitable hour will come
A new pencil sharpened for a new page
Another narrative, another voyage

( Entered for a 'Stolen Lines' contest )

(c) P.J. Murphy, 2005

Rebirth

They handed me the bundle,
I took it gingerly
Oblivious to the throbbing
of pain-crushed fingers
"It's a boy" the nurse said,
"... I think you'll find it's not"
I deigned to challenge
Her gynaecological expertise

Umbilical confusion sorted,
I gazed in awestruck wonder
and unparalleled joy
at the pink, splotched
wriggling beauty,
cossetted in my protective arms,
crowned with night-black hair
that was my daughter

I know that there were many
important, sad and tragic events
In 1980. The world lost
John Lennon, Steve McQueen
Hitchcock, Durante, Sartre,
Mae West, Jesse Owens....
I just remember that I
gained the world. And was reborn.

P.J. Murphy
(c) P.J. Murphy 2005

Note: This was an entry a contest on AllPoetry.Com where the theme was '1980' pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com www.guitarsongs.info

Antishade

Black - the ebon shade, the anti-shade
to some a portentous and an ominous hue
doleful, funereal, depressing
Casting sinister and sullen thoughts
In minds where light has been excluded

To others the contrast against which
life's palette gains a new black-magic glow
Obsidian stars, an impish onyx moon
Dark skies filled with sable cloud
Mysterious beauty on a pitchblack night

To all, a moment's fraction ere the universe began
When all was raven-black and tranquil
Soundless and eternal nothingness
Interrupted by savage and spectacular explosion
A dazzling beauty, only by immortals seen

And raucous life,
With splendid spectrum colours
From blackest dark
Was born

P.J. Murphy
(c) P.J. Murphy 2005

Note: This was an entry for one of a series of Allpoetry.com contests with colour themes, this one being 'Black'

Underdog

Bloodied but unbowed
he licks his wounds
bruised and bleeding
from earlier skirmishes
appraises his diminished resources
in readiness for new assaults

No respite forthcoming
his foe rapidly renews attack
fashioning what could be
the final, mortal blow
a salvo fired, not in anger
but in smug assurance of victory

He stares into the vacant eyes
of this inhuman adversary
shark's eyes, cold, unfathomable
devoid of caring or compassion
pale glow of predatory compulsion
to devour the weak and lame

His gut churns nauseously
primal fight-or-flight mechanisms
unbidden, unconsciously deploy,
rush of blood gushes to throbbing heart
sinews twitch and dance inside
he fights to outwardly project bravado

His hour has come, his last hurrah
he breathes a mouthless, silent prayer
to fickle Gods for just one more indulgence.
A final check on his weaponry -
One Bullet, one Hook, two Clubs
And howls again his clarion war cry...

"ALL-IN!!"


P.J. Murphy
(c) P.J. Murphy 2005

Note: I am a passionate, and moderately successful gladiator in the glorious battleground that is No Limit Texas Hold'em Poker. For the uninitiated, Bullet means Ace, a hook is a Jack, All-in means you are betting all of your remaining chips. For the short-stacked player, going all-in on an Ace/Jack of Clubs is a typical example of attack being the best form of defence. This was first posted on Allpoetry.com

Turquoise

My two 'Helen of Troy's
  ( .. the spit of their mother )
She smoothly decoys
  ( .. she makes up wonderful stories )

Box full of toys
  ( .. asleep at last! )
Absence of noise
  ( .. Ah, blessed silence... )

A lover's sure poise
  ( ..God, she's beautiful )
To hell with the boys
  ( ..I can play poker anytime )

Play the songs she enjoys
  ( ..I love her so much )
My bringer of joys
  ( ..I could watch her forever )

..Wrapped in turquoise

P.J. Murphy
(c) P.J. Murphy 2005

Note: This was an entry for one of a series of Allpoetry.com contests with colour themes, this one being 'Turquoise'

Alchemist

He speaks to her pathetically of his father-love,
Seeking her forgiveness for his regal lunacy
No answer from her once-honey lips returns
while salt tears nestle in his tawny beard
Still dampened from the aureated waters of the Pactolus.

He reaches to touch her once-flaxen hair
She doesn't flinch or brush his hand away
Accusingly she stares, silent, unfathomable
Her gilded eyes, created by this alchemist,
Their lustre mirrored in this lavish surround -
Grotesque golden garden of a greedy Phrygian King

To Dionysus, God of life-force, he stumbles a prayer,
To return him to that time before his avaricious folly
That she would not be doomed to stare at him forever.
The Golden Child stirred, dimmed luminescence, roses red again
And Midas touched her caramel cheek and wept.

P.J. Murphy (c) P.J. Murphy 2005 Note: This was an entry for one of a series of Allpoetry.com contests with colour themes, this one being 'Gold'

Grown

Up ahead scampering,
newly-begged coins held trophy-like aloft
flight paths locked into their destination
- an emporium of confectionary treasure -
long minutes considering rival treats
of chocolate, ice-cream, penny sweets
brief moments of envious rivalry
before an honourable trade is reached

Coins obsolete, crisp notes now
handed over with mock-begrudgery,
for pampering in hairdresser and beauty parlour
long hours appraising graduation gowns
to grace the arms of lost young brutes
mortified in ludicrous outmoded hired suits
but pride scarlet in their cheeks
as they display their radiant prize.

They've grown.
We have not lost them, only loaned them to the world
and bask in their reflected glow.
We tried to give them all we never had,
yet protect them, keep them happy and secure.
As they walk the high-wire of life's circus
we are their safety-net.
And should they make a life that grants them blessings
only half what we have known,
our work is done, their happiness assured.
They've grown.

P.J. Murphy

Copyright ©2003 P.J. Murphy

Brown Study

High-backed walnut chair sits empty
Mahogony rolltop desk with
Sepia parchment blank, unblemished
Henna ink drying on rusting bronze nib

Beige curtains, fawn carpet for restfulness
Earthenware mug of coffee gone cold
Ginger Nuts and Chocolate fingers
Inviting but unbitten, await

The fugitive's return.
Mise-en-scene complete, but he
Sits by a toasty bar-room turf fire,
Amber bottles strewn around

In a brown study.

P.J. Murphy
(c) P.J. Murphy 2005

Note: This was an entry for one of a series of Allpoetry.com contests with colour themes, this one being 'Brown'

Ildeth of Sodom

She stands there yet
Ashen, immobilised
Sees only iridiscent flash
Feels still the blast of white-heat
Hears angel’s warning, echo
Unrelenting down the foggy years
Yearns for her family
Long departed
Sheds a salt tear

Unnoticed

P.J. Murphy
(c) P.J. Murphy 2005

( Ildeth, to the best of my knowledge and research, was the name of Lot's wife, who was turned to a 'pillar of salt' for turning to look back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, despite the Angel's warning )

Note: This was an entry for one of a series of Allpoetry.com contests with colour themes, this one being 'White'