"Some places are pitch black"
Deserted by other children
The darkened playroom confronts The Kid
"I must be supervised"
By which he means
Protected from the powers of darkness
The would-be supervisor
In turn is confronted
With tight tunnels and tiny staircases
And an accumulated coating
Of kiddy grime
Which doesn't bother the Kid.
He is unamused by pulling of scary faces
From within the labyrinth's cramped atrium
But instead requires illumination for his explorings
From a torch he has handy.
Disappointed that he must proceed alone
For reasons of size and stature
Exhorting "Try! Try!"
Yet he goes bravely forward.
Crawling through intestinal convolutions
Lit up as much as possible by the torchlight
Up into the high reaches of the system
Sliding finally down a long tube and out
Through a slippery exit passage
This is a prototype
Of a non-living carnivore
With which we can peacefully coexist
Relatively unscathed
He always wore that tattered coat,
always black, not a whiff of white.
Those mischievous eyes wore
such a sinister and obsessive gleam.
Were you that toymaker?
Or is it part of my neurotic imagery?
We know your toys can be perfect,
whether creating light or darkness.
Perhaps you are cunning,
or it is I who am so.
Yes, a so-and-so, with eyes
that have light or darkness.
So am I that toymaker,
with a gleam that I wear and bear?
Do I see you, then it, then myself?
Life can be a playroom, filled with colourful toys.
(8 Sep 2025)
Hot as hell and bloated to burst,
I’m filled with this desire to tame.
You’re wild but I have such a thirst
as your shape fills my doorframe.
Overstimulated and underdressed?
Proceed to the pernicious playroom.
I knew before your whisper confessed
that such intensity was not a costume.
Sweet is more than it seems my dear,
a dash of mouthwatering strawberries.
Mix in the heat of a Carolina Reaper,
I tend to become loud, my voice carries.
Have I raised a bit of interest yet,
do you possess a gambler’s mind?
Are you willing to place a small bet,
put on a scarf and enter my room blind?
Look at where your behavior led,
to the candles in my bedroom;
Close enough to smell my perfume;
Come, tear into this silken thread;
You may use the nickname instead,
I tend to call it a playroom;
Look at where your behavior led,
to the candles in my bedroom;
Wax dripping where it’s intended,
your glow on me turns to a plume;
Ready to give in and assume,
look at where your behavior led.
I think sometimes of the life there once was:
Of a time when birds sang throughout the woods
And insects flitted between the flowers.
But when greedy hands infected the land,
The beauty was ruined; life lost its home—
And the gentle calls of sparrows and swifts
Were quickly replaced with thundering guns
Foxes found their homes within dead bodies,
And owls on the hunt flew above shellfire;
Butterflies drank from the growing poppies,
Tainted by the blood of the innocent,
That grew like a plague sent to cleanse the land.
In some places, only the dead remained,
Strewn about randomly and carelessly—
Lying like dolls on a child’s playroom floor;
Never even given a proper grave.
With patience, they wait to be discovered—
To be welcomed home by beloved arms;
But, within all their rosy dreams of home,
Hides the truth they have known for far too long:
They remained forgotten; their names are dead.
Out of anguish for all those who were killed,
Nature returned to reclaim its power.
Narcissistic little freak –
The world isn’t meant to like you
There’ll be many parties
Where nobody invites you
Dance around with Mommy,
Dance your TikTok video
Hope you’ve got your bubble-wrap
Hope you don’t plan on a girlfriend
Only child syndrome
Only child syndrome
Only child syndrome
Only child syndrome
That’s what we get for sparing the rod –
A coddled little demigod
Alone in his urine, the whole playroom sogged
One day he’ll command a firing squad
(chorus)
Mama loves you dearly
Grandma does, sincerely
We’re takin’ you out yearly
To get lost in the maze of corn
Go ridin’ on that tractor
Where hay fever is a factor
God bless this child actor
And the day that he was born
Poor Little Boy Lost plays a game of peekaboo
Pretending everything in his world is well
Spoiled was his plan for organizing a coup
and now he hopes none of his friends can tell
that he's been evicted as some had predicted
Biding his time, twiddling his thumbs in a cell
The entry door is locked. It's safe and secure
He's a cast away... on the outside, looking in
How much longer can he possibly endure
Is Little Boy Lost maybe missing kith and kin?
No one is listening to his babble and prattle
He wears the sorrowful look of sad chagrin
There was another sighting, just yesterday
when again he knocked on the playroom door
Not being allowed entry is the price to pay
for returning seeking praise with another encore
Bitterness smolders inside the blighted apple
where the wiggling worm is rotting the core
He was dragged off stage by the dreaded hook
No longer can he read his script in the limelight
because of the low road and wrong turns he took
A playground should not be a place meant to fight
Kiddies there have been getting along very well
Apologies, Little Boy Lost should be made to write
It's a place I know,
my feet familiar
with each timber plank
that deck the way,
the smooth ones
and the ones buckled
and raised ready
to trip an old man's foot.
I know the name
of every boat moored
along its length,
the repertoire of sounds
played by the tides
and restless swells,
its intimate whispers.
It could be any place
but for me
it's here in the solemn quiet
of a late evening
on the end of the pier,
when the world
returns to an order,
gathers in the strewn pieces
of itself like scattered toys
on a playroom floor
and puts them back
into a labeled drawer.
The time when hurry settles
and strung nerves
are loosened
and soothed by sleep.
For a moment
the world fits neatly here,
snug in this small pocket
of calm on the end
of Ferguson Pier.
In the distance, city lights
float on a dreaming bay
as the tide silently ticks
the evening and me
away.
She’s a paper shower in the playroom;
Her reckless celebration leaves confetti everywhere.
She’s an alibi without a witness,
A breathless explanation laced with giggles here and there.
She’s a wildflower in a sundress,
The mistress of the garden, just as willful as you please.
She’s a graceful angel making mischief,
A laughing ballerina dancing off with daddy’s keys.
She’s a blue doodle done in crayon,
More artistry than science, more rebellion than repose.
She’s a proud distraction walking Pooh-foot,*
The center of attention, Queen of everything she knows.
(*Pooh is a bear, after all. She told me that herself.)
Starting from scratch, can we imply
Was there a time when pigs could fly?
There's Mary Poppins, Peter Pan
the Flying Nun and Superman.
Starting off in different ways,
all of these flew without delays.
But tales of Wilbur and Arnold,
Porky or Piglet, none were told
from the vantage point of flying.
Imagine that you were lying,
telling stories that were untrue
about a Pegasus that flew.
Scratch that horse and make it a pig,
a Pigasus with wings so big
he'd fly straight to Pinocchio
whose tales could make a playroom glow.
This Pigasus sets up a test
to see whose ballyhoos are best.
When pigs fly you've unlocked the latch -
stretching the truth, starting from scratch.
January 23, 2020
Brian Strand's Strand's Choice 4 contest
Brexit Sonnet No. 45
‘A Plan of A’
So trade has taken an unaccustomed twist,
A union of the many with the few.
A Plan of A our table now doth kiss,
Not penned by her of fancy leopard shoe.
The carpet edge has not been raised to sweep
A broader, border issue out of sight.
So tariff free on pavements grey we keep,
My deep heart’s core no border hard doth blight.
So rising off the Brexit playroom floor,
This crawling babe to walk has now been taught.
That aimless, planless crawl of woe no more,
Our common house to rightful senses brought?
So plan hath not perfection writ large within,
Just first small step on path to Brexit’s bin.
©Keith Murphy
High in the sky
A dove in my dreams
Circles my head,
What does this mean?
I'm now in a garden
Full of bright flowers,
But I've lost my dog
And I'm hunting for hours.
Another has staircases
And loads of wood doors,
Up and down I go
On so many floors.
I keep coming back
To the same place,
Can't find a way out
Of this roomy space.
There's a ladder that goes
From ground to the sky,
I climb and I climb
But don't get very high.
I'm running on a beach,
Feet in the sea,
I'm not puffing or achy,
It's very easy.
I'm building with Lego
It's for an exam,
I keep getting it wrong
With no diagram.
There's been a car crash,
My daughter's inside,
I can't get to her
Though I've tried and I've tried.
I'm cleaning a house,
One that I know,
But there's more and more rooms
That grow and grow.
A beautiful playroom,
With wonderful toys,
Warm and inviting,
For girls and for boys.
Now I'm cycling
On top of the sea,
I'm looking for Zeus
Am I crazy???
Beyond the breakers, dreamers hoist their sails
Lost in the clouds, on ships of make believe
A stowaway, escaping life's travails
Adventurer, Inventing hearts to thieve
Imagination wakes the inner child
A problem, is an island to explore
An argument, a king to be exiled
Where grown ups, for a moment are ignored
And yet we rarely ever take the time
To let the inner child come out to play
Or watch the clouds in silent pantomime
Act out our fantasies of childhood days
Beyond the breakers new horizons loom
Imagination is your child's playroom
Daniel Turner
Finding new courage many years ago,
I sang a love song in my quiet room.
I never sang dancing wearing a plume.
Nor did I sing live in a bar’s playroom.
I could not, would not, in the public croon.
I did sing it once in a studio.
Musicians there arranged a background tune.
My song went well; and it was good to go!
The records came; yes, it was way back then.
With my plan in place, I soon hit the road.
I traveled on mountain, on hill and glen.
Promotions on windshields, my dream echoed.
Radio interviews … there were a few.
“Make My Dream Come True” flyers passed along.
Air play came quickly and out of the blue!
From state to state I promoted my song.
Security was in one parking lot.
Flyers on the cars; they said were No! NO!
The hundreds I put out were all for naught.
They made me pick them ALL up … BAD; you know!
There were great days and many things to see.
I thought of fame, and where my life would go.
It was one outrageous dream for shy me.
So, I chose to give married life a go!
1/15/2017
Easy are the paths to follow
when I'm young and fancy free,
home is comfort, joy, a blessing,
caring folks and constancy.
My borders are the playroom, garden,
narrow spaces, fledgling child,
questions answered with a bear hug,
nothing crazy, nothing wild.
Later, as my frontiers widen,
gone the band aid to placate,
in the cauldron of confusion,
far beyond the garden gate.
Childhood greeting, pale and fleeting,
life no longer black and white,
paths collide and intermingle,
as I ponder dark and light.
Walking through the forest blindly,
Hansel with no Gretel near,
breadcrumbs are a cruel delusion,
still my courage, stoke my fear.
Faith and pride and resolution
drive my journey on, because,
though I've traveled many pathways,
home is where it always was.
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