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SHEILA
E. MURPHY Sheila E. Murphy
is
a prolific poet whose has published numerous individual and collaborative books
of poetry. Her book Letters to Unfinished J. appeared in 2003, and
received the Gertrude Stein Award from Green Integer Press. Recent titles
include Collected
Chapbooks. Blue
Lion Books, 2008; Permutoria [with K.S. Ernst] Luna Bisonte Prods. 2008; how
to spell the sound of everything [with mIEKAL aND]. Xerox Sutra Editions.
2009; Quaternity [with Scott Glassman]. Otoliths Press. 2009; circumsanct.
Chalkeditions. 2009; Reverse Haibun. Chalkeditions. 2009. Since
1993 Murphy has led a consulting firm, now Sheila Murphy, LLC, that provides
Customized Artistic Designs for public and private spaces; keynote speaking; and
corporate consulting in Strategic Corporate Communication; Individual and Team
Executive Advisement, and Succession Planning.
LULLABY AGAIN
Approach.
The
singsong synonyms for justice waver just as speech inflects too coldly for my
taste. Whose little ringlet of a curl just missed the tiny wrist. Goodness of
fit has been deceased the better fraction of a minuet. Why now? Why try to weld
yourself into protective comas. Soon enough, an outer must repair. The singular requires an outback in its
condescending kismet. Wait. March. Salt the pavement. Carry forward livelong
apparatus. Someone coolingly will sing and it is you. To you. The break is
copasetic. The space between is long as yellow silk. We will be waited on till
breath is motioned to the depths. It has been many years since being rained
along and several seeds of dampness failing to be reached just now.
Appointment to the pale authority one once permitted under circumstances that have failed to balance
LAMBS IN QUAKE
Void’s proviso must prestige. I’m chambered in the rucksack, sensing things just out
of earshot. And the spoken trellis fingered by my younger side grows warm apart
from test tube rankling or undue inspection. Promise me you’ll work until
fibers crystallize this rain. It’s you I’m thinking of when I weigh in for
hopscotch stories. The forty-some-odd yards between our homes makes travel time
a dose beyond loose windows that respond to hints of flight. The more I sideline
what I came for, the higher the intended probability for risk seems slight. Give
your thumbprint to mean word and I will semi-sweet your mid-career. Suspend my
curiosity by giving out an integer as indication that the morrow will retain its
dog-eared shape connoting strenuous intent.
Lip-syncing the obvious, a shallow curtain sprayed with rust, amid familiar faces
I WANT TO TELL YOU HARBOR MOREUPON THE REGENCY OF SPEECH
these to tame each
and on margins in the mid-main-streaming
audioscopy to brand the hillens cautiously as reach
and claimed as insolent new fodder fire the wasp on
skin's arrondisse & the martyr tops to garner reveling
still preach consistent ire
fire the till to
register effete indulgence heartless sharing normal
weekday habitat as if and only if new ways of urging
through the math were diatribunary bundanoon for hire I
see the glow worms stretching forth the necks
a pirate is a hobo
and a nurturance performs predominaria for
lyre tones to be etched into the place a wheel would
tee off and arrive all whereabouts apart from
compassing and foraging and trespass most of gender is
inherited practice makes lure
whose entropy mid-diamond 'glects the full staff and
represses for to fibrillate why not the noose and
wherefore art entire upon the knob approaching entrance
to what's called the space at paces worthy young
as pearls due lorn
from OMNIA
109.
Summa cum Utah, flay your arms
until the atmosphere appears too crowded in, contaminated facts Brave
drip-dry finesse temptation not to cave when pressure plops
into a fascist lap, it is so blemished an ulterior feeling
to depend on anything Barometric tresses, loose aglow,
the singles in a Freeway romp, the Lourdes water
countable for Sweep cement, drifting beyond
block shot and so the Margin call yields frankintight
forays into con- Founding meager ricochets, to
need equals, blah Blah blah withholding the
antipathetic factors of Two tipples half across She singularly, slowly leaves
the place a quiet Place I watch her and the ball
game, seven minutes And seven seconds in the half, a
paint job Any child would skill for,
orange and glorious With purple prideful, look at
how she spills Paint over sun shafts, prelling
water, letting Daylight practice fading
copyright © Sheila E. Murphy |