from my poetry blog
Berlin
Hanging on the telephone
in a hazy funk.
Ice in a glass.
The words
shape-shifting silver bream,
occasionally
catching the light.
The ice shifts,
tying me down,
caught on a line
encumbered, turbid.
Tasting Berlin: Berlin,
diluted,
hanging on the telephone
in a hazy funk.
©AndrewJamesMurray
one of those days,
as the light fades
and the sky becomes a charcoal smudge
and the train rolls on, to familiar territory
it’s the people you share the journey with
the quiet ones; the rowdy ones,
like that guy staring out of the window, lost in thought,
those girls giggling over a censored photo
held close to the chest like a card hand,
we will spill from the carriage and disperse,
like on the wind,
where will the gusts take them all, I wonder?
from my poetry blog
News On A Stairwell Sated on the stories of others, fed in passing on casual affairs. On stairwells, glancing, their legible wares are traded second hand for faltering steps, and behind hand murmurs of shallow cares, where dead unions play on, play on, laughing. In salacious nooks their small town shagging goes on, on walls, spread everywhere. ©AndrewJamesMurray
from my poetry blog
Hanging
cloth strips on a barbed wire fence
red and white torn
cootie rags
Buddhist prayer flags
clothes on a washing line
someone loitering at the gate
waiting for a glimpse
of an old love
a gull hanging on the wind
©AndrewJamesMurray
from my poetry blog
Slattocks Canal
The sedentary
figure of a fisherman
by the redundant waterway.
Still nothing has he caught.
Could it be he’s been out-thought
by such a tiny brained foe?
— He doesn’t think so.
Beneath the carpet
of conquering weeds,
between the barbs
of needle-reeds,
their number is smaller;
the water shallower,
and strategically placed
shopping trolleys,
half-submerged,
contribute to the clogging
of this coagulated artery.
A train thunders past,
the fisherman shifts,
night drifts in, reluctant.
©AndrewJamesMurray
from my poetry blog.
Romeo Of Lever StreetHe's a trier, you must give him that,trooping the street in his inglorious charade,a hinterland for elegiac fails.Here, beneath a canopy of twine and rouge red moons,the day falls by degrees to that sultry shadewhere he can intimate possibilities that would blush in broad daylight.It is age that makes me a cynical observer,— that or diminishing returns.There is a law for it, I think, an equation of sorts,that pushes me to the margins while the parade continues eternal,a mathematics of growth and entropy,peak and decline. ©AndrewJamesMurray
From my poetry blog
However Slight
however slight
the unconvincing smile;
frozen lilt of a tongue
and an Irish grave
turn away
tomorrow’s spoilers
for today’s surprises
I wake; you sleep,
there is a bite
to the breeze
stirring broken glass,
however slight
©AndrewJamesMurray
