The Rain Never Stops On Deansgate

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

The Rain Never Stops On Deansgate

The rain never stops on Deansgate,
it clears the pavement
faster than the tribal skirmishes

the corrugated shelters
and scaffolded walkways
snagging the flood-water flotsam,
huddled in pockets
of faithless devotions.

The doorways are already taken,
will be for the night,
as we turn blind eyes
behind fogged-over windows,
comfortably dysmorphic 
in this residence of root.

The Church of Scientology 
over the road
has closed up for the day, 
but I feel Tom Cruise calling to me.
Do they have 24-hour call out, I wonder?
Working on Hollywood time.

I don't think these city limits
can hold us,
want to hold us,

they just lay barbed hooks
beneath our skin
reeling us in
every time we glance back.


©AndrewJamesMurray

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Western Rap

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Western Rap

dialect clowns
the portly boys
weave wild words
echoing western rappers
speakin' off the chain

below hilly peaks
demanding degradation
in gas tank lots
firing from the hip



©AndrewJamesMurray

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Salted

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Salted

maybe there are choices
to be made

the cawing crow doesn't seem
conflicted

undisturbed by harbingers
of the future

I will roll down the hill
drift out to sea

taste the salt on my tongue

a seasoning to keep
me for tomorrow


©AndrewJamesMurray

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Immediate Lines On Hearing About The Death Of A Primary School Classmate

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

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Dead Bird

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Dead Bird

The kids are fascinated by the varying states of putrefaction.
Every morning we pause, compare it to yesterday's
studied image.
"Where have it's eyes gone? Have they sunk into its skull?"

Half-covered by an overnight shroud of autumn leaves,
provoking a conflict of opinion.
The girl thinks it should be buried out of decency,
the boy eager to glimpse its surfacing skeleton.

Every day its stomach is drawn in, the ribs rising.
Then this morning, stunned: the bird is gone,
perhaps removed by a conscientious council worker.
The boy thinks that it's been dragged off to be devoured
by a fox, or a cat, but whatever it was
it must have been really down on its luck,
falling on that desiccated morsel
for a feast.



©AndrewJamesMurray

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Hinge Moments

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Hinge Moments

there are hinge moments

that connect

the before and after

beneath the blustering larches

we make them visible

on crowded carriages

the fingers that brushed briefly

in causal static

an eidetic clarity

of toss-a-coin

choice

take off your shoes

this is sacred ground

this is the place where we first met

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Word Jam #13

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

from a restful source

to rushing rapids,

migrating salmon

-Osprey fodder,

snatched on silent

Atlantic missions,

slivers of light

transfiguring elements:

water to sky;

life to death

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