Little Echoes spreading 2
From Kentish stones at Lympne's historic keep,
Where cameras roll and modern tensions creep,
The broadcaster delivered, sharp and loud,
A scathing judgment to the listening crowd.
The news of the return, he fiercely claimed,
Had left the royal household deeply blamed;
It landed heavy on the palace floors
Like rotting sacks of spuds behind the doors.
From sources wrapped in strict, protected shade,
He sketched the rift the swift arrival made
A rival camp upon the British soil,
Apart from those who do the daily toil.
He spoke of grifters seeking wealth and fame,
With shifting burdens and a fractured name,
While in the wings, a softer echo sighs
On lucky families under heavier skies.
Art.
A
Release of
Tension
squiggles make me smile, looks like dancing in ink
line sketched zigging or zagging on purpose, leave room left to think
eraser shavings from every Mark drawn. where your mind said,
"no such thing as happy accidents"
having learned a real artist,
makes friends with freshly painted trees.
whispers to the babbling brooks, as the water trickles down.
Relaxing under the shade of the tree that you just drew on your notebook
putting yourself out there with squiggles and zig zags
a
release of
tension
art
Thousand Watt smile
When spring blooms and joy dances in March
I still miss you, bright like a sunflower
Your sparkling eyes, cheery cheeks, rosy smile
Red thread tied tight around my heart
I remember, beloved girl, when you entered class
Your fragrance spread like lilies in crystal glass
You told wonderland tales, sketched us hand in hand
Your courage and hope always planted light in my heart
I wished you’d stand, you’d walk, you’d hug me close
But Spina bifida kept your feet on the ground
You left us last spring, too soon, too soon
Yet grief cannot dim your thousand-watt smile
The cartographer arrived after dusk,
his satchel swollen with unfinished weather.
He unrolled a map upon the kitchen table
where rivers wandered beyond their names,
where mountains drifted nightly in their sleep.
"You have drawn this wrong," said the widow.
He smiled.
"No land is ever where it believes itself to be."
Outside, rain rehearsed its ancient language
upon the roof's attentive skin.
The mapmaker dipped his pen into darkness
and sketched another valley between two heartbeats.
All night he worked.
At dawn, the widow discovered
that the road to her grief had vanished,
replaced by a footpath winding gently
toward a meadow she had forgotten existed.
The cartographer was gone.
Only the map remained,
and on its farthest edge, in careful ink:
There are countries within you
that no empire has measured.
uphill climb,
rigorously relentless
with ambling ambitions
and schematic stratagem,
blueprinted blatantly
on the blank
parchment of marooned mind,
sketched skillfully
with chameleon color shift,
transiently transfixed.
gripping gravity
of transcendental time
of the loaded past
pulls back incessantly
the strings of present,
fastening in retrospect
the incoherent network
of faltering footsteps
at the refurbished root
of existential essence.
intent inertia
of living force
creates proactive
causal momentum
of tumultuous time configured,
permeates the perception
of the fourth dimension.
construed continuum
of elusive eternity
strives to unveil ineffectually
the shrouded acuity
at the summit of actuality,
emotionally evasive,
abortive climb connotes
futile foray
to somewhere intangible.
I saw all my colors in spirit, before my eyes.
Wild, almost crazy lines were sketched in front of me.
~ Wassily Kandinsky
Is it a bird? I ask trying to decipher rational from naught,
And then I weep turquoise imploring a God
I cannot feel, cannot touch ~
But to see sound and hear color is a gift
Of spirit ~
Shall we soar with yellow trumpets
And red violins, blue cellos,
Or stay earthbound
Trying to make sense of a bird
Where only essence exists?
NOTE 1: Kandinsky experienced colors as having distinct sounds; he associated yellow with a high trumpet, blue with cello or organ, and red with a violin.
NOTE 2: Native Americans, particularly in the Southwest, revered turquoise as a sacred, living stone—often called the "Sky Stone"—believed to be a gift from the spirits that bridged heaven, earth, and water.
Upon my guitar thou sketched a heart—
now strangely it hath learned to beat.
It waltzes, foxtrots, funks,
and reels in rock-and-roll.
Yet when I loose the blues for thee,
it bleeds—come, pray thee, have a butcher’s.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ink has bled to spectral blue,
a date erased by morning dew.
Some hand once pressed this brittle page~
now just the wind turns down the edge.
No name, no stamp, no whispered word,
just Paris in a script absurd.
The Eiffel Tower, sketched too tall,
leans like a man about to fall.
What love or lie was sent in haste?
What heart lay quiet, undisgraced?
The postcard floats from desk to drawer,
a ship that never found its shore.
In the vast space where deep silence resides,
Beyond the reach of air and fleeting breath,
Lies a realm where stars slowly shed their flame,
A canvas dark, where cosmic echoes fade;
The galaxies, once pulsating, now are husks,
Drifting like whispers in an endless void,
Each collide, a forgotten tale unwound,
And time itself, a river turned to snow.
Here, comets fall, like tears from distant eyes,
Their trails a fleeting memory of life,
While black holes yawning, consuming all light,
Remind us of our fragile, fleeting flame;
What once was known, now shattered by the night,
And worlds untethered spin in endless dance,
Each entity a ghost of what has been,
Their stories sketched in shadows on the dark.
A cosmic death, a stillness so profound,
As nebulae dissolve like dreams at dawn,
And planets turn to dust blown by the breeze,
With every heartbeat, echoes of the past,
Resound within the silence of the dark;
Yet in this end, there sprouts a quiet hope,
As from the ash, new stars may find their birth,
In cycles vast, where windups weave the threads
Of every nascent dawn we long to see.
Doctor Victor Frankenstein
sketched an impressive blueprint design,
but that was just for starts.
He'd need to get some body parts.
Hunger not satisfied, materialism fried
unending search in depths, philosophies sketched
Psyche gardened terrain, sovereignty a sweet cane
ancient cultures in cells, memory can be hell
indigenous wisdoms, all achetypes are prisms
suffering is fresh springs, inner calm it duly brings
knowing that all storms pass, grounding ascension class
when planet leaps the cusp, old souls jump in trust thrust
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
Moonlight, shone upon her collied, weary heart.
scarred by a life of many failures
and dreams unfulfilled
now she is a slave to her own thoughts,
and undying feelings of indifference.
the master of puppets
pulls on her heartstrings.
she lives on the dark side of the moon.
yet her volcanic beauty is like
a rare celestial body Galileo laid eyes on for the first time
through a telescope back in 1610
and sketched into our history books
for future human beings to gaze at and be marveled by.
this is what her beauty is like.
her eyes are like Egyptian Pools
they show a reflection of her eternal soul
which flows like the Nile;
it could give life to entire civilizations.
she doesn’t see the big picture,
she doesn’t see her beauty,
and these are both great tragedies.
still, she lives on the dark side of the moon,
the girl who was afraid to be…
The gods are returning home again
Home again, home again,
Into the waters of these playful streams
Into the cascades of falling stars
Into the foaming glitter over lost dreams.
The gods are returning home again
Into the un-peace of this possible place
Dancing on the doorsteps of a neighbouring universe
Collecting flocks they gather grace
At the scum sketched shore.
The gods are returning home again
The pounding of their feet is heard once more
On the husks of the clouds above the gardens
In these watercoloured hills.
The gods are returning home again
Thumping, thumping, home again
Over the mush fields of mindless country men,
The gods are coming home again, my dear
The gods are coming home again I hear.
dawn swaddles snow tears
melted against a child's tracks
like sketched fingerprints
Borrowed words, Borrowed Time
They used to carry weight,
A point in time they gave me purpose
Now your tongue is sharp as David’s sword
And every syllable now hurts us
Why us, a question you might ask?
Aren’t they directed just for me?
Vulnerability used as ammo
love has me blind I cannot see
“ All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."
Should we hold it dear or let it fly
In previous lives I did without
Both companionship and trust
We must, or I must at least
Work hard if this get better
Broken words, on borrowed time
Fill all the lines that form this letter
The sand it the travels slowly,
Yet it travels with intent
Each pebble as it passes thru
Another moment that’s now spent
Borrowed time or is it?
If tomorrow may not come
The end of us its sketched in stone
This isn’t something to make me run
I’ll embrace your quirky smile
Hold back tears that nearly burst
Borrowed words, on borrowed time
Perhaps the lies are what hurt worst
So first, before we carry on
Know I know, your words aren’t true
Borrowed words, on borrowed time
And I’m all done with loving you.
Joshua E.Murphy
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