Snow!
December 2, 2010

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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.

Bless The Querying Writer.
March 9, 2009

1000 words.

 

the deed is done

the gauntlet thrown

the friend of yes

the foe of no

and while their fate

in limbo goes,

bless the querying writers

in between

a rock and a hard dream,

wearing their stories

on their sleeves

and just returned

from imaginary lands

still warm to the touch

of their trusty pens.

 

On the middle saguaro -- see the woodpecker making a hole for its nest?

 

Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch.

Thoughts Are Things.
February 15, 2009

005

 

I hold it true that thoughts are things;

They’re endowed with bodies and breath and wings

And that we send them forth to fill

The world with good results, or ill.

That which we call our secret thought

Speeds forth to earth’s remotest spot,

Leaving its blessings or its woes

Like tracks behind it as it goes.

We build our future, thought by thought,

For good or ill, yet know it not.

Yet, so the universe was wrought.

Thought is another name for fate;

Choose, then, thy destiny and wait,

For love brings love and hate brings hate.

– Henry Van Dyke

 

006

Photos by Emily Murdoch

 I stumbled across the poem above, and it stuck to me like gum on my shoe. Wonderful gum. 

I hope everyone had a great writing weekend.

As I chug down Query Road, I read the signs along the way. “Be brave”, “Write hard”, “Choose your words carefully”, “Don’t give up”. Rest areas become writing forums, writer’s blogs, writing friends, and all the people, places and things that encourage, commiserate and make the trip bearable, and even, sometimes, amazing. 

Thank God for the rest stops along the way. 

If you, like me, are clutching a rejection slip (or three) in your hand this weekend, don’t forget that Jack Kerouac couldn’t get any takers for On The Road, at first. How sad it would’ve been if he had given up. Or, how about Madeleine L’Engle, Newbery Award winning author of A Wrinkle in Time

She flouted popular wisdom by writing in a style that editors and critics thought was too difficult for young people to read, too childish for adults — even though the scientific concepts and philosophical ideas actually were not that easy even for grown-ups to grasp. So it took ten years for her unusual stories to be published. The manuscript of A Wrinkle in Time collected rejection slips for two and a half years before a publisher took a chance on it. “You can’t name a major publisher who didn’t reject it. They all did.” But she was never tempted to compromise her vision in order to play it safe.

From Creativity by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi      

So chug on, brave and weary writers, because you never know what tomorrow has in store. (Yup, that’s me in the car next to you, waving wildly and honking the horn and using exclamation points!)