Sheila E. Murphy
The Smell of Rain
Rest stop loses breeze. We are just here, just suddenly slovenly thinking pancakes at our destination. Crops on both sides of the highway tantalize with green, unfinished sprawl. Who's hungry? I have learned to watch, absorb, and forget in quick succession. Count the times a shocker just evaporated after thinking I had stepped into the breach nicknamed eternity. So much fossil fuel in sermons gone to seed. The charmer with a voice thought himself some version of Father Brown. Sign of the cross made in mimicry by people who habitually nod and answer, "Yes, Father" at each intonation. Give me mercy, give me breath. Don't anyone proffer the term "journey," always an exaggeration.
Frost, fires, fervent freedom breathed in like the smell of rain
Rupture, Rafters
Blurt it out, Hilda! You've zilch to lose. Your silence speaks you fluently in tiny, tidy decibels. A ghost mime spawns the scatter gram of anger tamped. That lead to badass deeds. Your mood fills empty hallways with new breeze and fireflies. Hold on: give us a compliment, a grain of kiss, be wild where you once bewildered others with your quiet pose. I'll give you an inch of icing if you'll cease to wilt and scramble to attention when the specific prances right where generals feared to tread.
Sweet tooth, swift kick, swirling adages, come on down
Early Morning
I look for someone to please and obey and find the mirror clouded. In need of a wash, the branches of once limber trees lean down. Is it a curtsy or some derivative of blush? I render unto Caesar out of habit. I rinse my hands of grief. There is no sundown, only moon vividity to consider a gallop toward this world I name and do not know. I heard talk of someone's having trouble with impulse control. Imagine having any impulse at all. Woodwinds unpracticed may squeak and then be blamed for reeds cut imprecisely. I chose the flute for silver that left a smudge along the lower lip. Ash Wednesday, never far from who I am.
Mea maxima culpa, for what, a license unexpired
Bare Minimum Monday
She looks a little sheepish. Nudges one beside her who also may be hiding something. Meanwhile, air conditioning recites itself to the ceiling. Heat also rises. Tension plates itself where vibrato used to be. I wonder who's behind the quiet that mimics contemplation. Saucy saints look down or straight ahead. Few aspire. Outside, the spires of empty churches tease the sky. Doorways open to traffic seen not heard through sealed windows. Once windblown hair becomes itself now still again. Faces in rows prepare to appear obedient. Steady their imaginations toward some fixed point.
Leniency, leverage, unspoken lamentations
The Smell of Rain
Rest stop loses breeze. We are just here, just suddenly slovenly thinking pancakes at our destination. Crops on both sides of the highway tantalize with green, unfinished sprawl. Who's hungry? I have learned to watch, absorb, and forget in quick succession. Count the times a shocker just evaporated after thinking I had stepped into the breach nicknamed eternity. So much fossil fuel in sermons gone to seed. The charmer with a voice thought himself some version of Father Brown. Sign of the cross made in mimicry by people who habitually nod and answer, "Yes, Father" at each intonation. Give me mercy, give me breath. Don't anyone proffer the term "journey," always an exaggeration.
Frost, fires, fervent freedom breathed in like the smell of rain
Rupture, Rafters
Blurt it out, Hilda! You've zilch to lose. Your silence speaks you fluently in tiny, tidy decibels. A ghost mime spawns the scatter gram of anger tamped. That lead to badass deeds. Your mood fills empty hallways with new breeze and fireflies. Hold on: give us a compliment, a grain of kiss, be wild where you once bewildered others with your quiet pose. I'll give you an inch of icing if you'll cease to wilt and scramble to attention when the specific prances right where generals feared to tread.
Sweet tooth, swift kick, swirling adages, come on down
Early Morning
I look for someone to please and obey and find the mirror clouded. In need of a wash, the branches of once limber trees lean down. Is it a curtsy or some derivative of blush? I render unto Caesar out of habit. I rinse my hands of grief. There is no sundown, only moon vividity to consider a gallop toward this world I name and do not know. I heard talk of someone's having trouble with impulse control. Imagine having any impulse at all. Woodwinds unpracticed may squeak and then be blamed for reeds cut imprecisely. I chose the flute for silver that left a smudge along the lower lip. Ash Wednesday, never far from who I am.
Mea maxima culpa, for what, a license unexpired
Bare Minimum Monday
She looks a little sheepish. Nudges one beside her who also may be hiding something. Meanwhile, air conditioning recites itself to the ceiling. Heat also rises. Tension plates itself where vibrato used to be. I wonder who's behind the quiet that mimics contemplation. Saucy saints look down or straight ahead. Few aspire. Outside, the spires of empty churches tease the sky. Doorways open to traffic seen not heard through sealed windows. Once windblown hair becomes itself now still again. Faces in rows prepare to appear obedient. Steady their imaginations toward some fixed point.
Leniency, leverage, unspoken lamentations
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posted by mark young at 9:09 AM
1 Comments:
Wonderful and abundantly evocative wide-ranging group!
John Levy
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