The homeless poet sorrow , i---- [ lyric of the homeless poet ]
Since the last ten years I have been befriended
With street life and love I with the cold breath weaved
The darkness of each night has made me lone
was I to be like that opted in the apt life not to be
not to be, not to be, not to be ……??
With that shoddy sky which never sought to be my cove
At least to shelter me from its wet tears in my live
Ache of heart breaks, wounds of hunger made
was I to be like that opted in the apt life not to be
not to be, not to be, not to be ……??
Humiliations of isolation profits
Misery of life surpluses surfeits
Oh street life, cursed to be you or the community
was I to be like that opted in the apt life not to be
not to be, not to be, not to be ……??
Who refused to save lives of us,
who ignored when I be thirsty
who blamed my life as the fault was caused by me
was I to be like that opted in the apt life not to be
not to be, not to be, not to be ……??
She’d show how much she loved me
she said, but I’m not sure of the amount;
forty seven different ways I think
but I really nearly lost count.
She ducked and she dived,
she gyrated and she turned
to show me every trick
I think she’d ever learned.
My heart it was pounding.
I was in a state of shock.
I think I was only saved
by my old alarm clock.
She leapt from the bed
across to the chair
swiftly getting dressed
from her clothes piled there.
She said she was sorry,
she’d much rather stay with me
but she just couldn’t be late
to make her husband’s tea.
She told me she loved me
and just couldn’t wait until when
she’d be back to show
just how much again.
I considered moving houses,
then I thought just why?
I may not survive our next encounter
but what a pleasant a way to die
Suspended with roses, a garter and courage.
Her wispy white costume blows in the breeze.
Silky vibrations as she sways her bodice —
the Rapunzel-princess of the swinging trapeze.
Brunette hair and outfit bound with pearls and lace.
High with Magellanic clouds, marvelous outlander of earth.
Slender fingers wrapped around the seraphic twine.
Daughter of the heavens, from the day a trouper gave birth.
One...two...three, the excitement sounds, the air surfeits
about like maddening faerie dust. The open sky burns
with eccentric flame - crowd applauding like cherry bombs.
The darling of the sky, entices every cent she earns.
This rapturous virgin makes love to the dawn.
Her stupendous feat goes on and on, drawing
in oohs and ahhs...the climax as her knees
hang vaingloriously from the seat, outlawing
the silver and gold wings that flutter about
outside the circus tent, as this beauty shines
upside-down like an albinotic bat, frenetically
stirring the breeze… waving from the vines.
7/29/2019
Brexit Sonnet No.8
‘ ‘Tis Poison’
Our fridge is full of surfeits, sad and left,
Our appetite now sickened, but not yet dead.
The answer for remains, our thoughts bereft.
Perhaps some mustard with a little bread?
Likewise our Brexit dish, now pulled apart,
With prime cuts gone to tables set on high.
Just crumbs beneath and off cuts of jam tart,
Our cherished trickledown theory gone awry.
So clear your fridge of broken Brexit brunch,
Be creative with those Brussel sprouts,
And cook us up a proper roasted lunch,
With nothing gone to waste and no left outs.
‘True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings’,
But Brexit meal, ’tis poison that this brings.
©Keith Murphy
I am a stranger. My reclusiveness
And painful lonesomeness in my exile
Is severe. But yet in my aloofness
I contemplate an unknown charming isle
And this meditation surfeits my dreams
With specters of great and distant lands that
My eyes have never seen. Although it seems
I am a stranger with no welcome mat
To greet me from the crowd, I say within
Myself, what law has joined me with them?
I am a stranger to myself, wherein
I hear my tongue; my ears always condemn
My voice. I hear my inner self impart
Unknown interrogations of my heart.