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Cheryl Murray Poem
Between two oceans I do roam,
unsure which to call my home.
Raised on the west coast, transformed on the east: I know enjoy a lobster feast.
Two seasons: three wet one dry, or four with a summer so short I could cry.
Which do I love more I cannot say, for I love them both in their own way.
Its family and friends that really call. Dividing my time between them all.
A birthday here, a zoom call there; I can't be expected to be everywhere.
Truly, what decides, is what's in my heart and in my mind.
Through memories fond and a bond that is strong I am always at home, wherever I roam, between the two oceans I call my home.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
I am Alice, trapped and trying to find my way home.
The world is topsy turvy. I yearn to be back amongst comfort and safety from whence I came. Where cats are cats and rabbits cannot tell time. I long for the warm glow of my parents' hearth.
I am learning more the workings of this place and trying to act accordingly but when what was big becomes small, and one-dimensional figure heads make the calls how can I but fall, fall, fall.
I fear if I ever make it back home my family may not recognize me… I barely recognize myself.
For it is I who has changed. The house may look the same but my reaction to it will be different. My perspective indefinitely altered from my time on the other side of the looking glass.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
So many lights, like eyes in the night. I know they're not there, but it's a jungle in here.
The microwave stares at me, the refrigerator glares at me, the dishwasher gives me a fright.
Watching me, stalking me, the eyes follow me in the dark.
I try to sleep, but I daren’t count Sheep, fearing the beast may want to eat.
I lay in bed, hiding my head, swearing tomorrow I will cover them in black electrical tape.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
Men are security, I feel that they can protect me and keep me safe: keep me grounded in what is real; or what the patriarch presents as reality.
Women represent the abyss. They cannot protect me.
I feel myself being drawn towards the edge of the unknown. I stand, palms sweating, knees shaking, heart pounding, resisting the temptation to step over; fettered by desire and fear.
To release myself of these is to open myself up to the beauty of life, to the ecstasy of existence, to the truth that humans were not meant to suffer but rejoice in the knowledge of the unknown.
cm 1991
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
The eagle circles high in the air, watching a mouse just leaving its lair.
With wide sloping turns he comes ever near hoping his prey won't know that he's there.
Blinded by the sun and driven by hunger the little mouse bewildered from its winter slumber, senses no fear.
But death is there, circling, watching, it waits.
The little mouse freezes sensing its fate. Can it make it to safety before it's too late?
The eagles' eyes narrow, its talons extend, the time for waiting has come to its end.
He dives, the mouse runs: zig zagging through the grass.
The play of life plays on, who of them will win?
If not this mouse, then another for the eagle on the wind.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
I sink into the mossy coolness underneath the large willow tree. The shade the tree provides is a stark contrast to the summer heat just a few feet away. It’s noon and I’m on my lunch break. Works been crazy. But here, just around the block from my office, I found this tree about a week ago. It’s off the sidewalk just on the edge of a gentle slope leading down to a creek below. It seemed so out of place. A little oasis amidst the noise and haste of the city. I’ve come here for lunch every day since. I leave my desk, nod to my co-worker and head out the door. We used to eat lunch together quite often she and I. I’m sure she thinks I’m mad at her for some reason, or am having an affair, which I suppose I am in a way. I’m just not ready to share. This is our time: the tree’s and mine. I lie in the shade enveloped in its coolness. The branches gentle sway fan and smooth me. The sound from the brook trickles up to my ears and drowns out the roar of the city around me. We stay like this the tree and me, suspended in time and space, until it’s time for me to go. Reluctantly returning to earth, I open my eyes, gather my thoughts and then just as I’m leaving, I lay my hand on the trunk of the tree, feeling the cool roughness of its bark on my palm. I say a silent thank you, then walk back into the world.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
I and you, us and them, from one soul we grow independently.
United but apart, alone but together, I am you, and you are me.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
The tip of my pen shines with the brightness of potential.
Glints of hope and promise.
Subtle and small.
My fingers caress its surface, the coolness grounds me.
Hope transforms into action.
I put pen to paper and begin.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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Cheryl Murray Poem
Hurrah, hurrah, it's the last hurrah,
before the return of a once dead Son.
What once was will cease to be.
We will have to face our mortality.
Alone we’ll stand to be judged.
We can only hope we've done enough.
The Word was given. Did we listen?
Judge not of others, their fate their own.
It is yours who's endangered when you walk alone
When our time has come, there's nothing to be done for by then it will be too late.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2025
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Cheryl Murray Poem
What would the moon do if it were not caught irrevocably in your orbit?
Resigned to exist ever in your periphery, circling and supporting yet unable to touch.
If it were not both illuminated by your light, and obliterated by it?
What would the moon do if it could break free from your grasp and go off carving its own path?
It’s influence gone you would be lost; yet its love goes unrequited.
What would the moon do?
Stay forever forlorn or let you wobble and fall while it made like a star shooting off to some new place.
Copyright © Cheryl Murray | Year Posted 2024
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