20150715

Sheila E. Murphy



Little Man
X axis is no friend of the y.
The little man believes each
question posed


exists for him
To show his intellect
still worming through


each maze. As evidence
of singularity.
He wants you


to acknowledge and to praise.
Stop yawning,
he says. Honor me.






All of Her
Prose
muscles
limber


to the point
of reach
past fences


turned endpoints
geometric
grace


She pries
open
diagonals


rides home
mantra
after grapheme


where the bedroom
scope turns
sequence


a familiar
tacit
retrograde






Repair
Longing occupies
rescinded
stories


One bulb
mid-sky begins
to show


Father,
somnambulist,
a crow.


Pierced veil
quiet
sadness


A child
fosters
indwelling


Fondness
takes back
instinct


Lets go
specificity
remembered


Love,
the center,
equals selves


This
Morning, peach
print skin






Permission to Relax

Personality outlasts summer. Do I have to be an age, she asks? Strapped in the yard of confluence, the players all wore pinstripe. Did you ever think you'd be the one accused? Trap door, listless in the wind, conforms to brave new moray skin. Play me a nocturne. Cry the night young. You, a funster, work your way down seasonal array. Per usual, you are now free to move about the treasure trove of keepsakes. In perpetuity, declares the oligarch. Go shop. Full stop.

The perfidy of the select few de-perfumes our midst. Just when we thought safety, sacrilege, prevails, the statement, "As you were" had legs. Now integers grow solid as surround-toned weeds. Places to ride and features to brim over western skies.

Wherefore art thou, balderdash, unappetizing rinse? The scullery maid readied definite articles for in-definition. All the views unfit to sprint. Begone, Senator. Earned miles trapeze your learning curve. Too steep for kismet. Parlaying can begin.

Sandy head meets burly rose. Stippled shape of surface as the high road turns to low. I think you may recuse yourself until high priests give way to stickball. If and only if our servitude arrives, Rambo sans Rimbaud, all across the glimmer of a strum.

Permission to relax, Your Eminence? I see thinly through the slats across our windows and their undertones. Pertaining to the maximum security we hasten to protect. Why fear setting the table? Per omnia saecula saeculorum.

Dramatis personae come to grips with error-free entonces. It's raining flower-free immersion. And the litmus test imagined has reshaped the town.



Sheila E. Murphy has been published widely in the United States, Australia, England, and other countries. She received the Gertrude Stein Award from Green Integer Press for Letters to Unfinished J. (2003). Her most recent published books are visual poetry collaborations

Yes It Is (with John M. Bennett). Luna Bisonte Prods. 2014

2 Juries + 2 Storeys = 4 Stories Toujours (with K.S. Ernst). Xerolage 55 from Xexoxial Editions.
 
 
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1 Comments:

Blogger Tom Beckett said...

Wow. I love the counterpoint between the rich minimalist poems and the visual pieces.

5:41 AM  

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