Sheila E. Murphy

Four Poems


In memory of romance one finds sycamores to live by tender facing crops. Inside enormous moments, wombs distil remaining trace of solace. Many figurines give gloves their nightly function. Want to hear my first recital amplified? No matter how hard I might radiate my share of mercy, I part with unstained and forgiving grace. All shadows cover window lines while trimming safety from an improvised soft flight. Whose shoes are soft enough for lamp lit moments such as these?

One’s whims less spoken fan out into unlikely splendor on the count of three


Tumult gradually unfazing nautical forensics, science of its own accord

The lumens need their chalk, as indefatigable winter strives with our projections to have detonated to the south. I used to wake up wishing for a life. Encapsulated sour notes spawn a level fever where romance erases plot. Psychology amounts to creases on the window covering. What will you order if not dough that has done time in an environment of 350 degrees F? Imagine being circular under duress. Consider singing a cappella when the wind is tiered in twelve pseudo directions.

Live ivy seconds away from drug busts in the city of a million threads


Peerage stalls amid the brim of injury

Small fact of sky impinges on the cloth of history’s non-transferable experience. Strings of harm become non-sequiturs as if malleable overtones may readily undress. Has anyone seen the men’s room? Every pasture breaks out into lives. Arrest is record when left whole. Perennial diplomacy inclines its ear to what end. Varietals edge out each plot. One nemesis is as good as an adept young surname. Posses lift identities from lures left floating on salt water. Work becomes complex new motives as the dampness needs precision to have occupied pervasive darkness. Cornerstones collapse into cloisters until the dress rehearsals reach conclusions. How are reeds beside the water?

Tuning forks left to our devices, being among seers yet seen



Semantics bide their time in improvised conditions supple as a lariat with an imbued form of assignment. Centered is true north of a vacation. We are often present to our present tense malformed as citrus stirred with sugar. In a plain brown wrapped . . . still held away from time lapse after winter. Mild kabobs make of nourishment redaction. Clipped speech parsed is one way to retract approximate white undersides of shadow. Illumination needs a light to fill the whole. Encomium relaxes into novel sprawl. Are syllables, therefore, susceptible to any version of a season yet deferred?

Venison as keystrokes filling gradually the margins after weather

Sheila E. Murphy's collaboration with Douglas Barbour, Continuations, has just emerged from The University of Alberta Press. Murphy lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where she co-founded and coordinated for 12 years with Bev Carver the Scottsdale Center for the Arts Poetry Series, featuring the showcasing of texts commissioned from poets in response to traveling exhibitions featured in the galleries.

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