Sheila E. Murphy

Singing in the Dead

I far prefer the kinder to be home.
Their masks are wood,
their eyes are blond.
The squawk of paint removes
a threaded vetting of contiguous marchons
until the ladder dries.
Until viaticals vie.
A mother lode is fickle while the thickets phase out vines.
We undermine our caveats
once verisimilitude unlatches.
Fireflies anoint their prey.
Let us divine our way through penitence.
Someone forgive my innocence.
Repay me my control as I forgive the spin of captions.
Limit Lord, my salter.
I convene this group of heretics for purposes unknown.
Myopic referenda stop the QB from advancing.
Ruminative theory blanches the already white lines on the field.
A color code repurposes the fealty of the line coach.
Obfuscation can be fun-
damental obvious.
Whose nest is this anyway?
The curse of reuben sandwich is the cube of salt not there.
I’m going to phone your mother and defer your fate.
I’m going to let the officer retrench.

Bench youth and tumble while
Weeds violate the din of offset prose.
You vintage me. I forewarn.
You rattle your own cage upon
A moment’s notice, shepherds once elected
drive the wrong flock in the wrong direction

Lemon White

Trapeze steams each ‘lope open (chaliced
chemistry of horizontal light (serene
the clutch chemise of silver sleep (demeans
athletic rage (encourages
The entourage we same-sex (lavender
Tends change within (range
Average lines on lanes (panes
Sorry states of grace (apace
To taste a text toward (walled
Or vetted violet (lean

Spitting Image

Magi drift just as
The comforter slips off
Wild Irish davenport
Until the good guys sport
While surrying pre-pondering
Ward-ward thus to volley
Forth and froth the wheels
With suds and wear best duds
To simple toward the only clarity
We hone and boneless breast
Our way through how the mirror
Wore the spyglass and the look
Framed fealty itself
For feeling of the felled tree
And indifference for me
And my best se me olvido
To clear thy name


I wake got no idea of the day the time
The obligations piled upon the desk
I know not what I rue
The crew is chancy and the posse
Riffing on the frets I used to bow
I think we’ll row across
Or we will veer
Then peer over the fence and stifle
Someone something some such
Garden for its grade and palsied weeds
And filler and forensic craft
A raft of solitude on order
Back and forth and fondled between
Chain supplied denied decried among
All nations goading hole in one
Mentalities entwined

Sheila E. Murphy is a prolific poet who has been creating for more than thirty years. In her business practice Dr. Murphy is a keynote speaker and people developer. Her blog can be found at https://blog.worktransformed.com/.

Poetry and visual poetry are summarized at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheila_Murphy
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