3.00am thoughts run like water
Juggling a few lines before bed.
Smoked and stoked before midday the rain runs down the inside of the day foolin' us into goin' out for shelter run through the jungle; cut through the jungle make a path right back home for all our hollerin' and kickin' and screamin' won't quieten them all down none ©AndrewJamesMurray
From my poetry blog. Soon be Christmas.
At This Time A virginal shroud settles upon our abodes. Fairy lights flicker in the long night. Inside, all manner of songs and odes are offered to acclaim our rite. Those of us not overtly religious indulge themselves out of tradition. Those of us not openly pious offer tacit prayers without petition. But all desire to feel the joy that shines forth from every child's eyes. An augury, in innocence's employ, that lifts the soul amongst the winter skies. Though we partake in the gathered feast, and survive the night imbibing wine, we recognise, when all has ceased, that part of man inherently divine. ©Andrew James Murray
Happy Birthday HN!
My debut poetry collection, Heading North, was published by Nordland Publishing two years ago today. I’m still rather proud of it.
If anybody wants to buy a copy, with Christmas around the corner, there is a link below. Or, if any of you should find yourself near the Middleton public library in Manchester, UK, or the Norway National Library, you could have a read for free.
I’m all for the opportunists among you 😉
From my poetry blog, written fourteen years ago on the death of my father.
This poem appeared in my book, Heading North. Though it doesn't explicitly say so, I wrote it on the death of my father, fourteen years ago today. No More No more. No more bleaching white the nicotine stained flesh of your fingers, picking at the sterile veneer of cordiality amidst the well-thumbed scattered deserts from which ruins strive to rise. No more counting down the markers, elbows jostling territorially, courting, sequential swans rising in toasts, triumphant. Your slow, inexorable withdrawal left behind a vacuum, the equilibrium of a table out of kilter. No longer the trumpeted parading of the heir apparent, the tedious repetition of vine and tongue, reproduced seasoned lines framing the true inheritance and held to likeness. Casual comparity no more. No more. ©Andrew James Murray