Thanks For making me feel that my weaknesses are part of my boyish charm For lending me your arm When my excesses get the better of me For beaming your pride at my triumphs And withering those who would demean them For picking me up from my failures Moulding them into moral victories Thanks For fashioning two precious daughters from the warmth of our passion Somehow passing me the credit When all that was required of me Was to love those images of you Who, swathed in your young mother love Knew nothing but to return bubbling affection while my heart burst with pride Thanks For filling me with youth when I'm old Finding the boy in the weary man For blinding me with beauty Which is no reflection of the past But a new and vibrant vision The pictured lover of my dreams Beside me when I wake each day A startling and a wond'rous reality Thanks
Liquid eyes as dewdrops on pinkening petal-cheeks lips suffused, smolder with promises ; intoxicating fragrances permeate sepal, buds, corolla of this exquisite Celtic bloom The sanguine Spanish sun, accustomed ever to smile upon a well-stocked rose bed of it's own reflects the radiant glory of an Irish rose nurtured by it's balmy bounty and has the grace to blush. ~~~~~~~~~ I am from Ireland, and this was written to my wife, whose beauty flourished and was burnished exotic in the warm and splendid Spanish sun - the fiery beauty of Spain, in its turn, was enhanced by her presence. Sometimes you need to transplant a rose to a sunnier place to realise how very beautiful it is.
Never terribly far away, they clamour constantly to make their presence felt.. Suppressed, repressed, bubbling just below the surface, they jeer this veneer of stolid, solid middle-aged respectability "Hush", I tell them this is not the time nor place to show your face and we are not as young as we once used to be I guess I'd always just assumed that they would fade away and die dissolving with the remnants of my long-lost misspent youth But no, they tease and taunt and pester, these ghosts of rampant yesteryear. "Someday", I promise, "I will let you out to play again". And then, By God, let the world beware... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Where the Wild Things Are"
They have been among us for some time now You could have passed any of them in the street... Discrete, they have been waiting, waiting they flex an occasional muscle independantly devastating a portion of humanity communicating transcendentantly to apportion synchronicity each one having wrought a limited, controlled vengeance without thought of consequence cold, purposeful malevolence Preying on the weak playing on the weakness of the lowest of mankind to further bind their vile finality our reality is that in a while, soon they will fashion soul's destruction Our sole defence is to commune the forces of collective compassion to pit the milk of human kindness against mounted apocalyptic horses and enemies of man, long recounted... War Pestilence Famine Death P.J. Murphy (c) 2005www.guitarsongs.info Guitar Lessons+Guitar Tips+DVD Lessons+Voice Tutor+Piano Lessons Poetry
"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? )
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