Word Jam #4

Coronets For Ghosts

and that is why we laugh
she said, this sorority of sorts

and I wilted beneath that scornful gaze
colouring my stained glass face
and a bell rang out for the passing parade
and flowers flung before its path 
were trampled in the dirt




©AndrewJamesMurray

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Word Jam #3

3.00am thoughts run like water

Coronets For Ghosts

radio tales
white heat desert Americana

the water
recalls every rock
it has washed over

even now with the rivers run dry
somewhere it dreams

in dark chambered veins
away from the sun
and the music

keeping me awake at 3.00am




©AndrewJamesMurray

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New Year

Happy New Year X

Coronets For Ghosts

New Year

Half the world is hurting,
turning its face to shadow.
Moldering moments,
kindle to flame,
are undefined images,
lost to a cold,
northwesterly wind,
licking at the edges
where the numbness fades.

Firs stand conspicuous 
among their naked cousins,
all tendenous needles
and cadaverous cones.

The sky is leaden.
The streets are all 
unchartered lanes.

An unknown bird calls out
this new day; this new year.

Everything is redeemable.




©AndrewJamesMurray

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Word Jam #1

Juggling a few lines before bed.

Coronets For Ghosts

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

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At This Time

From my poetry blog. Soon be Christmas.

Coronets For Ghosts

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

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No More

From my poetry blog, written fourteen years ago on the death of my father.

Coronets For Ghosts

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

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