Steerage

 

Steerage      P. J. Murphy

Sailing seas of sideroad sedge

Far from vast tarry ocean

Avast ye denizens of hedge

Beware this cyclic motion

I steer my vessel on it's course

( with checks to port and starboard )

Yell at the sea-cows, till I'm hoarse

This boat must reach it's harbour

Full steam ahead, the coast is clear

All Doldrums navigated

The boat's bell sounds for all to hear

The Captain is awaited.

Now journey's ended, clipper docked

Captain disembarking

Another pleasant voyage clocked,

No pile-ups, tolls or parking...

Praefectus Iudaeorum

He troubles me, this Nazarene,
His humble words do not accord
with anarchy or insurrection
yet these others call him Lord.

He speaks no hate for Caesar's Rome,
Yet Jews would have me crucify
This man who's calm serenity
Does Judas' calumny belie

Were't not for the Sanhedrin's ire
My Prefecture would stay it's hand
and send this strange but gentle man
to exile in Judaic land

But yet they bay and thirst for blood
"He Blashphemeth", rabble cries
These Jews hold no respect for Rome
Their hatred for Him mystifies

I thought their anger would appease
Once I had sent Him to be scourged
But with His bloody body shown
"He must be crucified" they urged.

I think myself a humane man
I view their bloodlust with distaste
I wash my hands of local laws
But bitterly decry this waste ...

~ ~ ~

And now my days are numbered short
I wander, and my eyes grow dim
I pray to Pluto, as I should ...
And yet my thoughts are fixed on Him

~ ~ ~


This was written for an AllPoetry contest "Close Encounters with Jesus",  where the task was to write a rhyming poem in the first person from the perspective of someone who met Jesus, giving their feelings and reactions to the meeting, and to the situation. It won Silver for second placing.

Indigo Child

Indigo Child             P. J. Murphy

As the transient Age of Violet ends
Indigo child (she has no friends) is seen to be
just wild (ADHD.), tempestuous, stubborn.

She has beautiful clear purple-pea eyes

is sensitive (she cries) but self-assured
creative (that can be cured) but undisciplined
has a mission ( we have our suspicion) and a purpose
she knows but will not share with us

(she doesn't care) where she is going
Self-empowered, psychic, ethereal,
( she doesn't feel ) unaffectionate,
dodges hugs ( is she on drugs? )

She won't conform, she hates routine
( she's just being mean ) and sees the better way
She waits ( I think she hates us ) patiently
For the Age of Indigo.



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 'Indigo'  


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Aurora Corporalis

Aurora Corporis           P. J. Murphy

bursts of
flame's glory
in moments
before
ember fades
and dies



exhausted;
exothermic
energy
explodes -

Magdala Red
and
Magnesium
Orange -



the colours
of a soul

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

This was submitted to an Allpoetry Contest "Prewrite Party".

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Amber

Amber             P.J. Murphy

Arboreal sap oozes lazily; 

Embroiled in glutinous trap, 

unwary arachnid 

freeze-frames an ecosystem 

long ago erased 

Information 

imprisoned 

in resin 

intact; 

Fast-forward through millenia: 

Primeval life-secrets revealed 

as learned spider-men gaze 

through translucent windows 

of amber 

 This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Dirty Brown", and won the Gold Trophy.

Sleeping Beauty

Sleeping Beauty       P.J. Murphy

In the sorrow of your smile
I wandered for a while
wistful, wishful, heart-concealed
in the bitter of your tear
I washed away my fear
flesh and spirit nakedly revealed

To the silver of your speech
I listen, as you teach
wisdom pouring from your honey-lip
in the comfort of your breast
I lay my soul to rest
as deep into oblivion I slip

From the golden of the dawn
is your sleeping beauty drawn
the soft perfection of the waking sun
in the amber of your eyes
I find, to my surprise
the joy and sorrow of the world are one

P.J. Murphy

Copyright ©2004 P.J. Murphy

Website: pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com

Pop!

Pop!         P.J. Murphy

Bobbing among the giggles
Transparent, but with rainbow hues
like sprites they magically appear
and dance misshapen by puffcheek winds

Filling the room with luminescence
and small throats with laughter
dismay at pings of evaporation
replaced with tentative replenishment

reflecting the flickering candles,
and bright and shiny birthday things
restless and impatient to be gone
they wend their way relentlessly

into memories

~~~~~~~~~~~

This was written for an Allpoetry Contest "Where does it go?"
 
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Undiminished

Undiminished        P. J. Murphy

Her beauty undiminished
tho' she believes it tarnished
by the ravages of time.
Her unquenched spirit a beacon
banishing life's mundanity to shadow,
eyes shining with a childs mirth
twinkled with her impish wisdom.

Lifting me from cynical indecision
To this happy certainty:
that while we journey as one
we are shielded from adversity
by her fearless positivity.
And by her smile.
And all the while
she doesn't realise
her enduring beauty

P.J. Murphy
Copyright ©2003 P.J. Murphy


Website: pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com

Galileo

Galileo        P. J. Murphy

Gifts of celestial truths
he brings to them,
charts, orbits, trajectories
- order and meaning
to the chaos
that is
the cosmos.

Long years observing,
plotting, deducing,
concluding
re-constructing
God's universe
for those whose eyes
would never see
further than their
misconceptions.

Magisterium,
by way of gratitude
remove freedom,
God-given rights.
Father of Science,
strident follower
of  trails of stars,
now trails strides
between portals
in prison-home

Bereft of confiscated
tools of Science,
nightly seated
by high barred window
intent on Tuscan night sky.
Eyes dart to locate
Sirius, Jupiter, Mars.
Memory telescopes,
repaints the universe
in all of its celestial majesty.


An AllPoetry contest entry, the theme "Telescope"

Galileo Galilei, known as the Father of Science, was a scientist and astronomer, whose theories on heliocentricity ( earth revolving around the Sun, rather than vice versa ) led to his being put under house arrest by Pope Urban VIII .

Return of Oedipus

Return of Oedipus          P.J. Murphy

I gaze upon her from above
draped in aquamarine
her emerald eyes twinkle at me
Closer now, ever closer
Her verdant hue welcoming

My innocence returning
I marvel at her myriad
Shades and shadows,
Seductive woodland nymph
Swathed in leafy garland

Scent of pear and apple,
Wild mint and pine
Recall youthful encounters
in her mossy leafstrewn orchards
and pastoral verdant hills

With outstretched arms
And shamrock garland
She embraces me
My mother, my love
My Ireland

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 'Green' 


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Potter's Field

Rome's Eagle, head of Melqarth
adorn these shekels of Tyre.
The legal price of a slave,
marked for purchase of sacrifice
but handed out for infamy.

Pale argentate moons lie randomly,
scattered in tormented anguish
by perdition's fated son
upon the floor of the temple
whence they treacherously came.

Silvery spring sun detects
metallic glint from halter buckle
swinging from a desolate bough,
reflects the lustre of thirty Tyre shekels
The price of a Potters field grave.

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

( The 30 pieces of silver offered to Judas for his betrayal was significantly the purchase price of a slave. A despairing Judas threw back the shekels before hanging himself with a halter - the coins were subsequently used to purchase him a Potters Field grave )

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


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Sink or Swim? ( a Piscean fish tale )

I swim simultaneously
in both directions
a synchronized confusion
at once clear-thinking
and muddle-headed

It works.
Most of the time.

Thoughtlessness and compassion
compete, I feel deeply for those
less well off than I,
but have to force myself to remember
to actually do something

My love of music drives me (crazy...),
my laziness ensures mediocrity, at best
I strum and sing
And promise myself
I will learn the harder things.

Tomorrow.
Next week, at the latest.

My fertile imagination -
a breeding ground for grand ideas
which scuttle off of the page.
- once I've finally
found a pen.

Indecision my Nemesis.
So many great ideas
for things to make
friends and family happy.
Or would they?

But for my acceptance
of who I am
and who I'll never be
I would stop swimming
altogether.

And sink.
To the bottom.


This was another AllPoetry contest entry, one of a series of Astrological themes, this one being obviously "Pisces".

Who Are You?

You, you who wage this war
spatter children in the rubble
piss on your conquered enemy
torture and humiliate your captives
speak lightly of 'collateral damage'
while pieces of families
are fumbled from crumbled concrete
Consider this.

You are an accident of your birth.
It caused your allegiance to your country,
to the fundamentalism of your religion,
to a taught hatred of an enemy
whose birthright is also accidental
who hates and wants to kill you
because of where you live
and the God you believe in.

Strip away your flag.
Remove your pious garb.
Forget for a moment
Your ancestral dead.

Who
Are
You?

Opaque Resume

Unconsidered by the scornful young,
Who's eyes see only crimson, black and white;
Feared by the world-weary aging
To them a symbol of their mortal plight.

I am the shade of sense and reason
of tolerance and compromise -
Grey areas, which most ( whose narrow spectrum
shows but vivid colours ) despise.

I am the hue of contemplation,
The colour of the mighty sea at night
I am the shadow where events too
dangerous or nefarious to take place in light
are enacted by the courageous and the lost.

The dusk where clandestine lover's tryst
Unveils true beauty without distraction of surround
Enhanced with only ethereal mist.
I am the flawed or genius cell inside your brain,
the formless grey miasma of your dream.

I am the ash to which one day you will return
When tincture fades, and shades of grey redeem


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 'Grey'


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Sinecure

He remembers a time
when he was the centre
of the circle.

A social hub, a club
close colleagues, no -
more than that -
firm friends...

Spontaneous
sojourns to the pub
on Friday evenings
...just for a quick one.

Rolling home
at Eleven-thirty
bursting with
camaraderie
and a full bladder.

A pleasant institution
in their voluntary
institutionalised
Public Service
sinecure

So hard to
stick a pin
in the point
of change

Drive.
Disillusionment.
Disinterest.
Dismissals.
Dispersals.

Deaths.


All leading toward
this unfamiliar place
sharing space with
strangers with names.

Hearty
hallos
in halls.
Hollow.

Next Friday
they will
toast his health
tell bawdy
half-remembered
stories, badly.

Exaggerate his
achievements.
Present him with
their heartfelt gift

( travel vouchers
he will never use -
he has no heart for travel
since he lost her.
How would they know? )

Monday
the alarm will ring.
He will turn it off
one final time.

He will accept
well meant
invitations
to future
Friday frolics.

Until
one Friday
the strangers
will have no names.

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

This was an entry for an Allpoetry contest where the prompt was the line "strangers with names", and won the Bronze trophy for 3rd place in the contest

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

pjmurphypoems.blogspot.com

You Know Who I Am

Commanding the stage 

and the fine musicians 

bestowed with the honour 

of accenting your wisdom 

you spill your honeyed words 

into our eager consciousness s

erenely smiling like a holy man 

In your seventy-fifth year 

you sing your psalms and stories 

with the voice of a God 

but soothing now, no questions asked 

but an acceptance that there are no answers 

You were the crutch, t

he mainstay of my thoughtful youth 

a comforting validation 

that someone more austere than I 

could strip away veneer 

and see the sewers and the sunsets 

the sinner and the sainted 

and cosset them in blankets of words 

rendering them timeless 

Thank you, Leonard.

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Bull

Ok, so we've
lied a little

They need our lies -
our reconstruction
of the fables
is what keeps them
hanging on to
the dream


The faithful.
Bless 'em.

Follow us
on the
fast-track
to Heaven


They swallow it all
- transubstantiation
( literally...)
the whole
omnipotent
omniscient and
omnipresent God
trichotomy

explained
expertly,
excursively...

ethically
morally
mystically


Divine Mystery

Say it often enough, it acquires substance
Two thousand years of repetition
create an article of faith most absolute
for those in fervent need of absolution


We make the world
a better place
as fear of Hellfire
and damnation
( did I mention 'Vengeful?' )
keep them in check -
a docile flock
the Good Shepherd
ensures
the silence
of the lambs

So we will continue
to fire our canon
at the ninety-nine
who suckle on it's
outpourings
perpetuated by this
Papal Bull.

Ah... Men...

~~~~~~~~~~~

This was an entry for an AllPoetry Contest "Take a step back ( Round 2 )" http://allpoetry.com/contest/2374596 and won Gold for 1st place


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Poetry

Thanks

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

Transplanted

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.

What Lies Beneath

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"