The Muse’s Fire
September 12, 2009

Sunrise in the Sonoran desert.

Morning:

The simple facts are naked and pink;

a reviving number of sun-lit breaths,

a second helping of morning,

golden opportunities to make time fly  

or scratch the dog’s back in lazy circles.

 

Noon:

Coffee rising. A non-option, really,

those stale afternoons littered with yesterday’s prayers

that smell like old rain and stomp the stairs

going nowhere fast. Waiting for the churlish skies

scrubbed childlike and new, waiting for the newborn worlds

to cry a fateful tune. No need to fret —

the Universal antennae adjusts itself,

the frequency frequent enough,

the bright, cellophane words busting out

of pinata souls written in half.

 

Night:

Rushing Saturday off to endless destinations,

coated in foreign scents chasing dog-eared adventures

while trees typed on windowpanes that weren’t your own,

voyeuristic roots exploring uncharted, fecund soils,

time unbridled and galloping off as time is wont to do,

shadows growing older in the solitude,

crock pot seething on the counter, forgotten,

dogs fogging up the windowglass to see what you’ve begotten

while the evening grows colder as you grow braver,

tossing extra logs upon the Muse’s fire.

Sonoran sunset over the mountains.

 

Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch.

Ouroboros
September 9, 2009

Oleander Sunset 

Knock knock (on the stars).

Who’s there? Some form of God —

The wise old man who paces the sky as his floor.

The merciful mother who etches her face into tortillas

and cries down the cheeks of statues for her true believers —

 

How can you tell it’s real?

How can you say it’s not?

When the moon foreshadows the weeping days

and the sun breaks all night long.

Because the heart quickens when it sees it,

the face of its beloved flickering with hope.

Because where else does love come from, my dearies,

before its sprinkled upon the earth?

 

Calm in the Storm

 

Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch.