Word Jam #10

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

The young and the well hung 
quartered and drawn
striding through chapters 
toothless raptors
wireless adaptors
aborted newborn

The herd and the blackbird
song feathered dawn 
erasing through channels
annulled annals
amphibious mammals
bucketed spawn

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Crows

Crows

A disheartening of crows
gathered in winter fields.

Naked trees 
from disused rail road tracks,

dark stains
on white linen.

In trust we are led
through this stark terrain,

senses soaked
in sparse liquor,

a hungry air tasting our flesh,

a murmuring 
of hardened, thirsting 
soil.

They rise, wheeling,
across the sky,

black flecks of mortality
in widening whites of eyes.





©AndrewJamesMurray

Raw Mojo

From my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Raw Mojo

The bleak, blushes of dusk. A Highland wind 
licks at a heart, wrapped in leaves.
Buried beneath a pine cone, needles.

Drink 'til I can drink no more;
just watch the dead
impose in plagues.

A girl, dark, unfamiliar,
dares to draw the focus
of these phantom scarred eyes,
blood rushing in her alluring anonymity.

A taste of ash, I eat my father.
I am an amalgamation 
of anecdote and mannerism.
Assimilated slow and left to boil.

Magisterial day. Insouciant night.
Sin suggests an arbitrator. 
I need a new translation,
from the prophet's native tongue.





©AndrewJamesMurray

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Dog Days

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Dog Days



pockets of dereliction
the dog days of July

hanks of grass
and shaggy-maned
stalks

who can deny
the sapping sun

at its highest point
lording over
our genuflecting
straw gods

in the square
in the shade 
of a spreading elm
the fatigue of noon-day
workers





©AndrewJamesMurray

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Word Jam #7

Quote

From my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Drum snare rainfall

an electric wildfire 
swept over insane asylums

scattering survivors
of cold reason
to hinterlands of smoulder

If my numbers come up tonight
she will declare undying love

and I shall stake claims
in the sand
sentimental fool that I am






©AndrewJamesMurray

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Low River

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Low River

Listless and limp;
unmoving bowers,

no rain to wash
her barren banks

or call to arms
redundant
birds,

incumbent on
unforgiving 
scree.

A hiker
slides
an angled 
drop,

picks a route
along
the exposed spine,

leaves behind
dislodged stones.




©AndrewJamesMurray

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A Time To Create Or, If You Prefer, Put Those Winter Woolies Away

We are not out of the woods yet. Though we are in the tail end of March there is still talk of cold weather to come, with possible snow for Easter being mooted.

But still, there’s always signs, hints of the season to follow. Winter is fighting it’s last rearguard action, and the end will be merciful. Easter does indeed bring a resurrection.

The longer days, the warmer weather and emerging wildlife always seem to bring a creative boon, and now is no different. I am tweaking the manuscript for a second poetry collection: In Brigantia, before returning to the second draft of the novel Seasons On The Hill that I’m writing. Beyond this I have ideas for a semi-fictional take on family stories handed down to me, provisionsally entitled In Times Of War, and also a collection of short stories called The Night Spills In.

I’ve also agreed this week to proofread a translated work for a fellow poet, so things are starting to move.I’ve got a tentative plan about the order of things.

But first a coffee, I think, and see what tomorrow’s weather brings.