Girl In A Rocking Chair.
April 26, 2013

Girl In A Rocking Chair
Curled up tight as a bud,
asleep for the awakening
with dreams of coming to life,
the flickering porch bulb is a siren’s song
into the flame, instead of away.
Its dull glow throws tired circles against
the stone steps, halfway up
and halfway down the climb.
It’s a lovely place to pretend to rest
after tentative promises
life can’t keep
until it does.
I love writing poems, or, what an old (and now deceased) friend dubbed my poEms, because they’re a free-er form of writing for me. Partly it’s because they’re not something competitive, like fiction writing definitely must be, in today’s market.
These little word puzzles of light, as I called them today, make my writing self happy.
Is your writing self happy? My Auntie Em advice for you today is, write what makes you happy.
At the least, write something. It doesn’t have to be great, or even good.
But it’ll be something.
And if you do it often enough, it just may be good.
It just may be great.
Or it just may be for you, and you alone.
As long as the writing makes you happy.
That’s how you know.

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.

Go Home, Again.
January 29, 2009

The Winter Monsoon hearts Rainbows.

 

Go back to the words.

When trusty mountains shake

and lucky stars shudder,

when the compass denounces North

and the Sun forgets to rise,

go back to the Source;

put that crazy-brilliant antenna up

and see what you can catch.

Invite unbridled greatness

to swallow you whole

and spit you out, inspired.

Go back to the child

who dreamt in roy g biv,

who flew with the fairies,

whose dreams came bright and easy,

who can’t wait to see you, again.

 

And this is the *desert*.

 

(Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch)

This Little Piggy Stayed Home.
December 17, 2008

Piglet, an eight-year old Cairn terrier mix. 

it’s the best present I could take.

how do you get me to throw

tennis balls

for hours on end?

 

your eyes may as well be

convincing sentences —

I love you good enough

says your delighted, entitled bark.

I love you more than good enough.

 

012

 

(the end)  

Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch.

Bird Song.
December 10, 2008

016

 

there you are,

re-winged and bossy as ever

a flash of white and black

with that same piercing call,

the only bird that’ll do

(when you really think about it)

for that large a spirit

and that memorable a song.

 

you don’t fool me —

I know how it works.

 

dibs on that cheeky cactus wren

hopping more than flying,

stealing kibbles from stainless steel

every morning and evening,

and beneath the long and starry hush

until we meet again,

going wherever birds go,

maybe back to God.

 

011

(Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch)